Brammelwurz and the Hidden Workshop Beneath the Time Lake

More about Brammelwurz and the Hidden Workshop Beneath the Time Lake

Brammelwurz and the Hidden Workshop Beneath the Time Lake
The Time Lake lay still, as if no one had ever dared to touch it. Its surface wasn't water, but a silvery depth—smooth as a memory that must not be disturbed. Brammelwurz, the gnome with the spur compass, stood on the shore, his gaze lost in thought. Beneath this surface, it was said, lay a workshop that once healed damaged moments. He knelt down, pulled out a small bottle, and dropped three drops of Chron oil onto the lake. The liquid rippled, glowing as if it had heard an ancient name. Then the surface opened—not water receding, but a tunnel-like fissure of light leading into the depths. Without hesitation, Brammelwurz descended. The workshop was a hall beneath the lake, a hidden wonder of brass, glass, and silence. The ceiling was vaulted like a planetarium of gears. Tools floated in racks, dormant. A hum hung in the air, barely audible, like the memory of sound. Veins of light pulsed on the walls, crisscrossed by glowing symbols—runes of time mechanics found only in ancient codices of the Spindle Gnomes. The floor was transparent, and beneath it, the lake shimmered from below like a liquid sky. Brammelwurz raised his lantern with a memory glow. The light didn't seem to shine, but to remember. It showed traces: footprints, shadows of past movements, as if the workshop had memorized every entry. He approached a workbench. On it lay a time harp—a finely crafted device with strings of taut twilight, flanked by rotating cylinders of sound. But one part was missing: the heart coil. Without it, it remained silent. A stool by the desk began to glow as he sat down. The workshop recognized him. Testing mechanisms awoke, extending from niches: small mechanical eyes, probe arms, delicate sensors. Finally, a shaft clicked open. A scroll fell out: plans, jotted down in flowing chronography. He unfurled it. It wasn't the harp's plan. It was his father's design. Brammelwurz's breath caught. Farrenz, last Time Tuner of the Western Archives. This was his handwriting. "You worked here," he murmured. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a tiny object—a coil of golden hair and spore thread, wound with moss. An heirloom. He inserted it carefully. A note rose—deep, warm, like the sound of a forgotten promise. The harp began to hum, and the air around him rippled. Time changed its texture. Up on the lake, the surface began to rotate. A moment was born. New. And yet ancient. Brammelwurz smiled. The workshop remembered. And somewhere, between tooth and sound, time retuned.