Upon reflection, it becomes increasingly evident that the motes observed during trance-like states—the tiny, flickering specks that seem to hover at the edge of perception—are most likely the same entities referred to as "bacteria" in early records. Their behaviour, however, suggests they are far more complex than mere microorganisms. They gather with an unsettling purpose, clustering around the newly dead as if drawn by some unseen force. The air surrounding these moments feels charged, thick with an electric tension that prickles against the skin. Witnesses have described watching the motes swirl in deliberate patterns, almost ritualistic in their movements, before vanishing into the lifeless body as though absorbed into its very essence.
Lord Jackson once recounted his own observations with a grim fascination. “I saw it myself,” he had said, his voice low and edged with unease. His fingers drummed on the wooden armrest of his chair, a nervous rhythm belying his usually calm demeanour. “The moment the poor soul breathed their last, those... things descended upon him. It wasn’t random, they moved as if directed by intent. And then they were gone, just like that. Into him.” He paused, his gaze distant as if replaying the scene in his mind. “It’s wasn’t natural.”
Further studies reveal another peculiar phenomenon: areas where transformation magic is actively cast display a conspicuous absence of motes. It’s as though the magic itself repels them or perhaps consumes them entirely. These regions feel hollow, devoid of the subtle vibrancy that the motes seem to bring to an environment. The transformations themselves are unsettling, beasts with mismatched limbs, plants that breathe like animals, creatures caught in some grotesque liminal state between what they were and what they’ve become. The connection seems undeniable: the motes are somehow integral to existence, and without them, nature falters.
A curious theory has emerged among scholars: the transformations involve forcibly injecting these motes into a host creature, altering its very being on a fundamental level. This forced infusion appears to grant a heightened degree of sentience or awareness, an unnatural clarity of mind that doesn’t align with the creature’s original nature. One can imagine how this might manifest: a predator suddenly pausing mid-hunt to observe its surroundings with an eerie intelligence, or a plant turning its leaves deliberately to follow not just sunlight but movement as if aware of its observers.
Lord Jackson himself spearheaded an experiment that sought to concentrate motes within a controlled area. The apparatus was intricate, a labyrinth of glass tubes and mirrored surfaces designed to attract and trap the elusive entities. When he described the results during our last meeting, his tone was one of both awe and trepidation.
“We managed to gather them,” he said, leaning forward with an intensity that made his words feel heavier somehow. The firelight from the hearth danced across his face, highlighting every line etched there by years of study and worry. “And when we did… they reacted.”
“Reacted how?” I prompted, unable to keep the edge of curiosity from creeping into my voice.
“They… communicated,” he said after a pause, as though even saying it aloud made him uncomfortable. His hands gestured vaguely in front of him as he searched for the right words. “Not in any language we’d recognise, it was more like... impressions? Pulses of thought? They were aware of us.”
The room fell silent as his words lingered in the air. I realised I had been holding my breath and exhaled slowly.
“You mean they’re intelligent?” I asked finally.
He nodded gravely. “Intelligent enough. They seemed... curious about us at first. But then ...” He broke off, his expression darkening.
“What happened?”
“They grew agitated,” he admitted reluctantly. “The longer we kept them contained, the more... hostile they became. We had to release them before something worse happened.”
The implications were chilling. If these motes were truly intelligent, or worse, capable of malice, what role did they play in the grander scheme of life and death? Were they merely observers, drawn to moments of transition like moths to flame? Or were they architects behind the veil, shaping reality in ways we could barely comprehend?
The room seemed colder now despite the crackling fire. I glanced at Lord Jackson, whose thoughtful silence spoke volumes about the weight of what we had discussed.
“What do we do next?” I asked softly.
His answer came after a long pause, each word deliberate and heavy with meaning.
“We learn,” he said finally. “We study them, not just what they are but what they want. Only then will we know whether they’re friend or foe.”