Orimant the Tooth Scribe – The Chronologist of Awakening

More about Orimant the Tooth Scribe – The Chronologist of Awakening

In the outer courtyards of the Aether Library, where the evening light falls on the metal mosaic tiles and shadows creep like hands across the pavement, stands a clockwork creature who awakens only in that hour between day and dream. He is called Orimant, the Tooth Scribe. His chest consists of an open clock face through which one can see the movement of time itself: golden gears that mesh as if whispering a secret song. In his head, two round glass lenses shine, looking like eyes but capturing more than just forms—they read duration, change, and memory. Orimant is the Chronologist of Awakening, keeper of those records that were never written, but only lived. As the sun sets, he moves at a steady pace through the silent halls, his gait accompanied by the faint hum of the gears within him. It is said that he hears when someone thinks a thought too soon. Then he pauses, tilts his head, and turns a tiny screw on his wrist, causing the air to briefly vibrate. Seconds shift, moments rearrange themselves, and somewhere a book falls from the shelf—the sign that a forgotten time has found its place again. No one knows how old Orimant is, but in the deep Chronicle corridors, the aether spirits whisper that he was the first to ever awaken in the library. Before words were captured on parchment, he inscribed time itself in metal and movement.
One evening, as the light from the domed lamps fell softly on the polished floors, Orimant noticed an inconsistency. A barely audible thump too many in his chest, an extra tick between two seconds. He opened a service hatch on his side to investigate, but found something inside that should never have been there: a tiny feather of moonglass, shimmering and soft as a thought. It moved of its own accord, as if trying to breathe. Orimant paused. Such things did not originate from the mechanical world. They belonged to reverie, that invisible layer above reality, forbidden even to the Aether Librarians. But he couldn't resist. He placed the spring into the heart of his clockwork, and the moment it clicked into place, the world around him began to shimmer. The air expanded, as if hours were growing like leaves on an invisible tree. Sounds awoke all around him: the rustling of forgotten pages, the clanging of long-silent bells. Orimant looked down and saw his metal shell changing—the engravings moving, forming lines drawn not by a tool, but by an idea. He left the courtyard, following an inner impulse stronger than any gear. The library seemed to await him. Doors opened without touch, lanterns glowed in a gentle rhythm, as if following his steps. Finally, he reached the Room of Lost Hours—a hall even the oldest librarians avoid. There, times that never happened gathered: moments that ended before they could begin. Orimant stood in the center, raised his hands, and began to write—not with pen and ink, but with the light emanating from his chest.