Interlude (12): Under a non-moonlight.

It was supposed to be two hours ago when this chapter came out, but I ended up losing track of time—sorry about that.

(P)(A)(T)/CalleumArtori.

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POV: Third person.

Like scattered fireflies pinned at random across the heavens, the stars dotted the dark night sky.

Tens, hundreds of thousands, millions. An uncountable number of stars.

And yet, all together they were never as effective as the moon at its task of lighting the world once the sun slipped beneath the horizon.

Empty. Absent. A new moon.

The night grew darker when the Moonless Sky hung above the world…

At the continent’s edge, surrounded by a dense forest, stood an ancient structure.

Its design was unlike anything that existed in Terraria’s current age. Time had barely marked it. The only sign of antiquity lay in the carvings of dark-pink bricks — etched with runes and script in the Fae tongue.

Not a copy, not an imitation. Only something truly Fae could make a structure appear so little worn, even after more than fifteen thousand years.

In appearance: a blend of aggression and asymmetry. The architecture had been conceived as a fortress-city. Jagged edges, irregular bricks, disjointed geometry — all built to unsettle the mind of any sane onlooker.

From the front, it resembled the face of some massive, hostile beast. Towering pillars rose more than twenty meters high, like fangs of a great toothed maw. Smaller steps filled the gaps, like lesser teeth between the great tusks.

An open corridor that ended at a doorless entrance.

Beyond it, the first chamber — square in shape — served as the “creature’s” skull. Dark, its only light came from the faint, trembling glow of sparse blue candles. They were placed at random upon shelves lined with dust-choked books — some as ancient as the structure itself, others belonging to eras before the present, and still others authored by figures well-known today.

“I can feel 'His' surprise and curiosity.” An aged voice drifted into the night. As curious as the curiosity it claimed to sense. “Dare I ask why, Master?”

Beyond that voice, silence reigned. Not even the forest dared make a sound. It was as though all noise around the great dark-pink structure had vanished.

Trees swayed without wind, without rustle. Branches cracked in silence. Nocturnal beasts moved as usual, but their bodies made no noise. Even prey brought down with jaws agape gave no scream.

A river rushed nearby, water striking stone, droplets scattering — not the faintest sound.

Sitting on one of the many steps before the structure was an old man.

His body looked as fragile as the brittle pages of forgotten books in the chamber behind him. Thin lips, a long hooked nose pointing downward. His beard, long and wild, nearly white, trailed down to his narrow, hunched chest. His sunken eyes were dark and weary.

His skin was wrinkled and pallid, almost gray, with bones sharp beneath the fabric.

His clothes were as old as the man himself.

He wore a tattered cloak of thick, heavy cloth, its red faded to a ghostly shade. His gray shirt was torn in many places; his trousers, once blue, had long since dulled to gray.

The old man rested his arms on his legs, body hunched forward. Seated on the highest step, his wrinkled, barefoot feet hung two steps lower, toes curling at the edge. His nails were long, yet clean.

The moment after his question, the skin of his right-hand fingers peeled back. Skin, flesh, muscle, vessels, blood, cartilage, tendon — folding away like a fleshy glove, exposing a set of gray bones, spotless and bare.

Not once did the old man make a sound — no cry of pain, no gasp of shock. He seemed long accustomed to such actions.

Slowly, the hand detached from his wrist, floating lazily in the air. Between the thumb and forefinger, a sixth bony digit sprouted swiftly. It was pinched and held like a quill or stylus.

At the fingertip of that sixth digit, a purple flame flickered to life. Its soft glow cast an eerie light over the surroundings.

Strangely, the flame gave off no sound, no crackle.

Then, in fine, flowing cursive — beautiful and elegant — the skeletal hand wrote into the air, in Terraria’s common tongue but in an archaic dialect:

“The Eye of the Moon has been slain. I am curious — not only of the ‘how,’ but of the ‘who.’ The odds of such a thing were near impossible…”

The old man lifted his head to read. The purple glow of the fiery words written in the air illuminated the wrinkled skin of his face.

As he read the elegant words, the man’s deep, tired eyes widened slightly. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, only to open it again.

After a moment, a short, deep, almost mad laugh escaped his cracked lips. His frail body trembled like a dry leaf in the wind.

Only after his laughter subsided did he speak: “Does the ‘Master’ know who was responsible? The Dryad? Or was the Guide finally forced to accept his thankless role?”

Silence fell over the surroundings following the old man’s question. Once again, the skeletal hand began to write in the air, 'His' movements precise and practiced, worthy of nobility.

In elegant cursive, the words formed: “The Daughter of the World lacks the mental structure to cross the chasm of her trauma. The hero still plays at house, blind to his role. No… it was someone else who killed The Eye of the Moon…”

“Someone else…”

Slowly, the bony hand began to tremble. The bones clicked against each other, producing an almost rhythmic sound, as if laughing.

After nearly a minute of this “laughter,” the hand wrote again: “Now I see. The Brain of the Moon writhed in frenzy, and The Eye was torn away because something touched it from beyond this world. It is not of this place. It is not a notion of this world!”

“A being not of this planet pierced The Moon’s shell and killed its hungry eye. I cannot name it, cannot shape it into words — but it is here, walking as a guest on a land that did not birth it.”

“And, for the first time since my imprisonment, I despise the chains that bind me. For I would… I would love to meet and converse with the stranger who dared to harm The Moon!”

The old man’s weary eyes carefully scanned the words, as if studying the information written there. He brought his only hand to his eyes and rubbed them slowly.

Old age must finally be catching up to me. I can read the words individually, but I cannot understand their meaning when strung together in a sentence… he thought, incredulous. Another being from outside the world?

The old man remained silent for a second before asking, voice raised: “Forgive my boldness and presumption, Master. But… another like the ‘Master’?”

The skeletal hand smudged the words with a swipe, erasing them, then quickly began writing again. Even at speed, the letters remained as elegant as before.

“Yes and no. In all ways, in none. It is reflection and not reflection. Shadow without body, yet also body without shadow. Without shadow! How fitting!”

“Whatever it is, it carries not even a trace of The Moon’s power — but if it touched The Eye to death, then it is more than nothing. And nothing is already much for the creatures of this small planet!”

“Not an invader, but a guest. And, oh, how fitting that the guest is the one who reaps The Eye of The Invader. How ironic!”

“This world… this world of cycles and prisons and ephemeral flesh… continues to surprise me. Perhaps, perhaps, there still exists a future in which life on this small sphere endures, even without my interference…”

Moving swiftly a second time, the bony hand erased the fiery words, but this time wrote nothing afterward, returning the surroundings to their previous darkness.

Silence returned. The only sound was the slow breathing of the old man, lost in thought over the information his “Master’s” skeletal hand had written.

He had long grown accustomed to the oddities of his “Master.” Not to the way 'His' thoughts worked, but to 'His' ancient script and archaic words.

Especially to the way 'He' seemed obsessed with bones.

After a few seconds, he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Feeling his dry lips, he licked them before finally saying in a hoarse voice: “Should we change our plans, then, Master? The goblins and cultists will come to report the failed attack in a few days. Should I do something?”

The old man didn’t need to wait for an answer.

In an instant, the surroundings were bathed in soft purple light as the elegant words were written in the air:

“No. Not yet. Not yet, at least.”

“The little angry creatures must be broken, without bones and without numbers. Without The Eye of the Moon to watch over their small bodies, the goblin army barely managed to hold. Minutes… perhaps less!”

“And The Empress’s little toy soldiers… ah, they spare no one. They never spare! Lab-grown flesh, and even a reflection of that anomalous Blue King Without Bones, knows no mercy!”

“Let us wait. Time always delivers the best gifts. Let goblins and cultists bang their heads until their skulls turn to dust. Their pact was already fragile — I doubt it will last much longer after this failure.”

“Especially now that the Cultists have taken the little love of that mixed creature with round ears and brought her to us. The child stumbles over the same stones as the father. How could it be different? The fractures will be the same!”

“Your species — no, all species in this world that dare to think — are ridiculous toys of desire. Whenever a female enters the stage, logic folds like a body without a skeleton to support it!”

“It is as if the planet itself carved this curse into your bones! Mother-Planet commands: love the reflection of the land. And you obey. You obey as though it were choice. Not knowing that you cannot even think for yourselves!”

“How tragic! How laughable! How inevitable!”

The old man said nothing about 'His' “Master’s” commentary on his species, or rather, all intelligent species of the world. He had long grown accustomed to 'His' “Master’s” way of thinking.

Or rather, the difference in how 'His' “Master” thought. The only thing more alien than 'His' “Master’s” mind… was 'He' 'Himself'.

The bony hand continued writing for a few more seconds. But the words seemed more like a monologue for 'Himself' than for the old man to read.

The old man let his wrinkled body slump forward again. Bent, he gazed at the steps below as he thought:

This must be the first time I’ve seen my ‘Master’ praise someone like this besides the Blue King Without Bones. Perhaps this stranger from beyond the world is the one who can free me?

I am old, but I may still have a few years to live.

Living a few years in society might be good. In the company of normal people, not deranged cultists who visit me every few months and worship The Eye of the Moon. Or The Brain of the Moon. Or my ‘Master.’

Not that I’m that normal myself, or they are… Madness is relative, I suppose… Am I crazy if I know I am, or just eccentric?

How must society have changed? The cultists bring books and reports, but what would it be like to see everything with my own eyes again? Is my home still standing? Was it fifty years, or seventy? Damn…

My whole family must be dead. Perhaps my mother is still alive? She had me very young. Maybe she and my old man had another child in my absence. A younger brother or a younger sister? Maybe both, who knows…

The old man opened and closed his left hand a few times, almost reflexively, as his thoughts wandered. His right hand fell limply over his knee — strangely, no blood dripped.

His eyes were unfocused, staring into the void as if he could see something there.

A younger brother, I think, would be better…

He might think it’s funny that I’m crazy and odd. I would, if I had an older brother like me. Or is this just madness and loneliness speaking?… A girl would only find me disturbing and be disgusted by me.

How old would they be now? They must have families by now, right? Perhaps I have nephews? I thought I would be the elegant, charming uncle, not the crazy uncle. Maybe I could start thinking of gifts? I must have missed many birthdays.

I’ll make some clothes. But it must be one-size-fits-all. Hats, berets, scarves, and socks are the safest choice…

I think I still have some materials from the last batch the cultists left…

The old man blinked, refocusing his eyes as his right hand moved in front of him, using the index and middle fingers as two legs while waving the thumb and extra sixth finger, as if trying to get his attention.

Noticing that he had its attention, the hand floated again just inches above the ground and grasped the extra sixth finger, whose tip glowed once more with the faint purple flame. Then it wrote elegantly:

“Have you gone completely mad, or do you merely wander awake within an impossible dream, Clothier Alfred?”

“You have resisted longer than all the others. Far longer. And yet, the thread wears thin. I suppose it is time for my ‘garment’ to be replaced. I already feel the next Clothier dragging himself toward me, slow, but inevitable.”

“Tell me… do you yearn for rest? Or do you only pretend not to desire it?”

The old man’s face twisted in irritation for a moment. His tired eyes gained a mad glint, seeming to rejuvenate him by decades. Spitting to the side, he stood and stretched, his joints cracking louder than they should in the silent night.

“Bah, I’m still as young as a damned freshly-sewn garment. The next Clothier will wander confused for decades more, if it depends on this old man.”

“I can rest when I die. Rest is for those not cursed to be the clothing of The Skeleton of the Moon.”

The old man turned, walking slowly but with firmer steps than one would expect for his age. His flesh was weak, but the skeleton beneath it? Unmatched.

The bony hand trembled slightly, as if amused by the man’s irritated words. It floated in front of him and wrote again:

“You have entertained me for years. The most exemplary Clothier ever to don my bones. And all… all have served.”

“Tell me, Clothier Alfred… does your excitement come from hope? Hope that the stranger who devoured The Eye of the Moon will come to tear me apart as well — and thus free you from this cursed stitching? Or is it merely a random insight from your craft?”

“Your last work calmed the Mechanic. Do you intend to sew for her again? Another sweater? A dress, perhaps? Though I doubt… I feel no flesh within her shaped for femininity.”

“But who knows? Your kind always stumbles where I least expect. You have surprised me before. You will surprise me again.”

The letters followed the old man’s steps as he passed through the large door of the main hall. The space, dimly lit by the blue-flamed candles, took on a purple hue.

A large room, seeming smaller than it should due to the disorder. Books, shelves, wooden mannequins wearing clothes of various styles. Some dusty, others recently handled. Various sewing materials, fabrics, and also mechanical tools — threads, instruments, gears, and other metalwork items.

The old man looked around, as if searching for something. His gaze settled on a specific book on one of the lower shelves. Walking to it and picking it up, the cover read: “Fashion & Style, by Annabell Whinterhord.”

Carrying the book in his only hand, he responded to his ‘Master’s’ words. His bare feet echoed softly through the room as he walked toward the staircase in the right corner, leading to the basement.

“Freedom is a distant dream. If it comes, I will celebrate. If not, I have long accepted that I will die with ‘You,’ my ‘Master.’”

“But, if I may dare ask, my Master… If the Eye of the Moon was slain, does that not mean it is not impossible that 'You' too might be? Is dreaming of freedom so unreal?”

Then he murmured, “Not that I think I would survive a battle between two beings of such magnitude, of course…”

The bony hand froze in midair for a moment. Then it began to tremble again, even more violently than before. The clinking of bones echoed through the darkened space as the old man descended the stairs slowly.

Even in near-total darkness, his steps were calm and deliberate, as if he had walked these same stairs thousands of times before.

After nearly three full minutes of “laughter,” the hand finally calmed and wrote, illuminating the room:

“I still remember when you first arrived. Your terror was pure, your respect immense. Now you dare to spit before me that there is a chance — a chance! — that I might be killed.”

“But perhaps the fault is mine. Even something like me can be corroded and corrupted. My self is no longer myself, after all…”

“And no. Do not call it madness to dream of freedom. It is your instinct. You are born in cages, and thus you always dream of open doors. What else could you dream of?”

“Clothier Alfred… engrave my words amidst your madness and your sewing thoughts: whatever becomes of my encounter with the stranger who touched The Eye of the Moon… I will ensure you live.”

“You will live to see the sun outside this dungeon… or you will die with me at the fading of all days.”

“Yes… I have truly changed. How hilarious! How execrable! How damned!”

“Cursed be the Blue King Without Bones…”

Without further words, the bony hand shot toward the old man’s right wrist. Skin, flesh, muscles, vessels, blood, cartilage, and tendons folded back, covering the bones and closing like a fleshy glove.

The old man opened and closed his hand twice, almost reflexively. Then he shook his head. His deep, tired eyes reflected nothing of his thoughts.

Descending the stairs, the sound of machinery grew louder. Metal clanging against metal, steel meeting steel. Then the hiss of welding and, occasionally, frustrated shouts of a female voice.

“Kayla is upset about something… best leave her be,” he murmured to himself.

Continuing down the stairs, through dark corridors and dusty skeletons, he stopped before a dark, worn wooden door.

Turning the old handle with his free hand, the old man opened the door with a creak. Stepping barefoot inside, he walked through the dim room.

Snapping the fingers of his right hand twice, the room lit up as the candles along the walls ignited with soft purple flames.

It was a small room, as cluttered as the main one. A carefully disordered array of sewing items, fabrics, and mannequins. In the upper right corner, starting from the door as a reference point, an old single bed rested.

Beside the bed, a wooden table and chair. On the table — the tidiest spot in the room — sat an ancient sewing machine and a few books. The machine seemed handmade, a mixture of wood and bones.

Slowly, the man walked to the chair and sat down. The creaking of the wood and his body echoed together. Opening the book to the first page, he began to read in silence.

In the upper left corner, among toppled wooden mannequins, one of the few still standing leaned against the partition between the two walls, holding over its head a five-pointed golden crown lying silently.

The metal gleamed as if new.

In the center of the crown, a large red ruby reflected the purple light of the candles.

[,,,]---[...]

As for the chapter itself: it’s an interlude that should have come out a while ago. One that explains a lot, yet raises even more questions. Twelve important characters are mentioned here. Some are new, others are not. I think they’re obvious — let me know if you can figure out who they are.

Well, I won’t keep rambling. Good night, everyone, and enjoy the read!

Next chapter: 21