The White-Touched Archivist

Legend Title: The White-Touched Archivist, The All-Seer, The White Madman, The King of Madness.

Primary Instrument: Primal White Noise-touched Consciousness Armament: Primal White Noise Fractal Kaleidoscope: "The Eye" Soul Leitmotif: Luminance Ornaments: Flux, Strand

Legend Traits:

Legend Opus:

  • "The Auric Aria? I have no idea where is that ruthless tyrant but you're better off staying away from her and her fanatical cult. Would you not rather know about a particular set of potatoes as savior instead?"

A Great Chronicler Spellweaver cursed by Primal White Noise containing the canonical knowledge and wiki of Arcanoria.

His story is inspired by Galileo Galilei. He was pursuing knowledge of Cosmic Motion and what happened during the Library of Heaven's Tower. Came to the realization that there was something that infected every scientist mind which lead to their demise, a sort of noise intrusion in their thoughts that made them unable to communicate with each other rendering everyone a lunatic. He realized it had to do with the way the cosmos itself worked. To pursue the truth, he developed advanced Luminance Flux lens technology to observe the Moon and realize why it wasn't part of the scriptures of Cosmic Motion.

When he was close to uncover the truth after realizing there was something living inside the Moon the Auric Aria smithed him. She wanted to prevent his theories of the models detailing the structure and the anatomy of the Moon containing something from spreading and causing another disaster like the Library of Heaven's Tower. For this, the Auric Aria created an artificial "sun" of Aetherlight in between the Moon his own lenses, weaponizing the tools he had developed in one great eclipse that would burn his eyes due to his search of knowledge and highly enhanced images.

The searing light rendered him permanently blind because of how focused the light became through his own spell, and the Auric Aria hoped that this was enough of a lesson so that he wouldn't be able to study the Moon ever again. However, the forced blindness eventually drove him to seek knowledge of the universe coming to the realization of what Primal White Noise is through creative work-arounds to "see without seeing." The new type of Imaginative "lenses" originated from the Fractal Kaleidoscope that the Auric Aria created out of remorse during the Seven Dark Fates. It is this very phenomenon that he adapted to become his own instrument of an apparatus that could be used for studying an even smaller fabric of the universe, the impossible lenses born from divine regret became known as "The Eye."

The First Meeting on the Ballad of the White Clots

This is the first meeting of Civilization with The White-Touched Archivist during Ages 0 after one of the early tasks of clearing out the Dissonance nearby of the starting point of Civilization. The Legend name changes on whichever Legend was assigned to remove all of the Formless Masses and a Nascent Atonalis:

Introduction

The last one dissolved on Legend's blade like it had always been smoke pretending to have opinions.

The ruined cathedral exhaled around them. Vaulted ribs of blackened stone rose into open sky, the roof long since surrendered to whatever had happened here before the Great Fracture.

Golden forest sprawled through the collapsed transept in every direction, canopy catching the last amber light of the Echo, luminous dust spiraling upward through the broken windows as though the cathedral were breathing it out. The floor was cracked flagstone and old root. The walls were still magnificent in the way ruins are magnificent — grandeur present in what remained, insisting on itself despite everything.

The Atonalis were gone. The Formless Masses were gone. What remained was the silence of a large space that had recently held violence and was now politely pretending otherwise — and the fissure in the far wall still bleeding white light, cold and sourceless against all that warm gold. At its base, a dozen white clots of static pooled in slow, bovine clusters, wrong in the specific way a note played a half-tone too high is wrong.

Legend raised their blade.

The fissure was the source. Whatever came through it next would meet the same end as everything else.

The white light surged.

The golden dust spiraled upward, indifferent.

Legend planted their stance.

The wall opened.

Not swung. Not crumbled. Opened — and from the impossible angle it revealed, he stepped through mid-sentence. The amber light caught his coat, and the coat did not seem to notice. The dust drifted around him, and the dust did not seem to touch.

"—if geology is psychology, and geology is topology—"

Legend crossed the distance in two steps and swung.

He wasn't there.

He was behind them. Same extravagant coat. Same unfinished sentence. He hadn't dodged — the space between them had simply renegotiated itself, and he had continued talking through the entire process.

"—is psychology topology—"

Legend turned. Swung again.

Behind them again. His coat arrived a step after him.

"—but why psychology—"

He stopped.

He tilted his head at something to Legend's left that wasn't there — his eyes tracking a slow lateral arc, the way someone watches a color move that has no business moving, a color that isn't in any spectrum the cathedral could account for. His lips moved once, soundlessly, as though filing a footnote no one had asked for.

A long pause — the kind with structure, the kind the silence around it has to brace for.

"Wait—"

[Attack] | [Hold] | [Step back]

Legend held.

"What."

He turned. He looked at Legend the way someone looks at a word they've read four times and still cannot parse.

"Who are you," he said. "And why are you here."

"No — who are you. Did you move through a wall?"

He stared.

Not a pause. A stare — the full, arrested, genuinely uncomprehending stare of a man who has just been told the sky is a direction. He looked at Legend. He looked at the wall. He looked back at Legend. He opened his mouth. He closed it.

He turned fully toward the wall, studied it for a long moment with the expression of someone trying to be charitable about something that does not deserve charity, then turned back.

"Well no, you — you can't—" He stopped himself. He pressed his thumb to his lips. He tried again, with great care, as if explaining to a very sincere person that water is wet. "That wall is clearly invisible. That's not — I'm not going to argue again the ontology of visible surfaces with someone standing inside a cathedral that is also, I will note, not entirely a cathedral anymore, which raises its own — no." He shook his head once, sharply, as if dislodging something.

"I have spent a significant number of Cycles debating the difference between a surface and the suggestion of it. I am not going over that again. Not here. Not in front of the clots."

He was already moving — not toward Legend but around them, in uneven circuits, coat lagging behind him at a slow, unbothered delay. The white clots drifted from his path with learned habit, as though they had long since learned better. His steps disturbed the golden dust in slow, lazy eddies. His eyes kept moving — sliding off Legend, catching briefly on something at an angle that the room simply did not contain, the way someone tracks a bird only they can hear.

Legend turned with him. Blade still raised. He did not look at the blade.

"You came through the Anchor." Filed mid-stride, like a notation. "A new Cradle sends its cleaners. Very Civic."

He stopped. He turned.

"Are you pointing a blade at me right now."

"You came out of the same fissure as every Atonalis that just tried to kill me."

"Me." He said the word the way someone says the name of a distant relative they find personally embarrassing. "An Atonalis."

He looked down at himself. Conducted a brief inventory in the golden light — checking both hands first, front and back, as though verifying they were still the right kind of hands. Looked back up.

— This article is abridged. The full record runs longer in the archive.