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Boreal Fortress


Des oeufs de dragon aux couleurs des aurores boréales, disposés parmi des cartes et des parchemins.

In certain alchemical circles, there exists a substance whose existence is at least as intriguing as the mythical Philosopher's Stone, an essence that defies the laws of physics and tangible reality. Commonly known as dust, it has nothing to do with the kind we find on the shelves or under the furniture in our humble homes, clumping together in the form of sheep. No, the dust in question here is unlikely to have any texture or stable form. It seems to escape conventional perception and manifests itself more like a tenuous veil, invisible to the eye most of the time. Its presence is subtle and elusive, and it is in the observation of certain constellations that its mysteries really take on meaning.


And so, after weeks of assiduous study of an ancient treaty describing the essence of this enigmatic substance, I decided to embark on a more concrete experiment. The document, although a little evasive at times, mentioned celestial observations made beyond known territory, in the Far North, where the dust revealed itself in a singular way. Fittingly, I had a number of star charts at my disposal, and I decided to compare them with the reality of the night sky in order to carry out my own study of this phenomenon.


Although my natural tendency for this type of expedition is to use the astonishing keys that Delkinn the Calligrapher had given me, this time my instinct was to travel in a more conventional way. I know now, with hindsight, that I feared the dust would interfere with its operation and cause me some undesirable mishaps. So I set off on a long journey by more traditional means. I won't insult you by recounting this journey, which was of no particular interest, being a succession of rides, carriage rides and other periods of navigation or forced walking, leaving me little leisure to observe the landscape, except on rare occasions. It wasn't until I reached my destination that the landscape revealed itself fully and I was finally able to enjoy it.


The night was already well advanced and the crisp biting air sent a shiver down my spine as I stepped off the ship, that had just docked, onto the frozen ground. The snow, thick and compact, covered the expanse with a silent mantle. Nothing seemed to disturb this immaculate immensity, apart from the breath of the wind, which carved icy waves on the surface of the powder. I was greeted on the spot by a jovial man, warmly bundled up, whom I had contacted before my departure and with whom I had corresponded. His mission was to find me a shack ideally situated for stargazing, where I could settle in. He gave me the necessary directions, handed me a lantern and, after a brief exchange, let me set off through the dark night. The sky was cloudless, so much so that I was already able to admire the countless stars that I would be able to examine in greater detail later on. Among them, the quarter-moon cast a faint but insufficient light to illuminate my path. As my footsteps sank into the crunching snow, I had to help myself to the torch I was carrying at arm's length, while each breath seemed to cut through the dense atmosphere around me, so pure was the air.


After a while progressing like this, freezing cold, I finally saw the outline of the building looming in the distance. A solitary silhouette against the icy immensity, it looked austere. When I reached the threshold, I pushed open the door, which gave way under my hand with a sinister creak. The inside contrasted sharply with the outside appearance of the cabin: well laid out and warm, it offered all the comfort I needed to continue my research. I quickly settled in, putting down my pack and taking out maps, various books and precious vials. For the occasion, I had brought along some optical instruments to study the skies from a more precise angle. It only took me a moment to light a fire in the fireplace and chase away the cold, savouring the strangeness of this place, lost in the heart of the Far North, out of time.


Those first few nights were characterised by a disturbing serenity. The icy atmosphere gave way only to the sound of my footsteps or the crackling of the wood in the hearth, punctuated by the gentle oscillations of the light from my lantern. Every evening, armed with my instruments, I scanned the celestial vault with a new, almost meditative, patience marvelling at details that had previously escaped me: the bluish glow of an unknown star, the slightest variations in the texture of the darkness between two constellations. This waiting, far from being in vain, sharpened my gaze and anchored me more firmly in this suspended moment. The days passed, punctuated by meticulous examination of the maps and prolonged observation of the astral configurations, until at last I saw one of the phenomena described in the alchemy work that had brought me to this place. The sky was ablaze with dancing lights: the northern lights had appeared, decorating the vault with ripples of colour. Sometimes pale green, almost phosphorescent, they seemed to meander between the stars. At other times, of a deep, almost unreal violet, they unfurled in moving arabesques. In places, flashes of red and azure intertwined, painting a picture in perpetual metamorphosis, as if the entire firmament had become a fresco of indescribable hues.




It was during these observations that I had the intuition that dust was more than just matter. Unlike the stars, it did not reveal itself spontaneously. Sometimes, in the immensity of the sky, I thought I saw tiny sparkles, particles of extreme finesse that appeared only to vanish into thin air. Yet each fleeting vision seemed to be charged with an unsuspected power, and this ephemeral dance became a language to be deciphered. This is what drove me to persevere in my research.


One night, as I watched the sky through a lens, a singular vision came to me. An immense, ethereal fortress loomed up in the sky, its almost translucent outline floating amidst a myriad of particles. It remained visible for only a brief moment before dissipating. This brief appearance nevertheless brought me a revelation: the dust was made up of fragments of other realities. It was linked to a particular kind of magic, similar to that which permeated the keys Delkinn had given me.


Having finally understood the nature of this elusive material, I could now try to take a few fragments, although their instability meant that I had to stay on site, far from my usual studio. I immediately documented my discoveries and thought about how to exploit this fleeting essence. Inspired by visions of the celestial fortress and the shimmering aurora, I decided to shape new dragon eggs, whose guardians would have the task of watching over the invisible passages between worlds, thus preserving the fragile balance of these intertwined realities. In this way, these guardians would not only carry with them the memory of the places where they were created, but would also, I hoped, ensure that an order would remain at the heart of this infinite chaos.

 

This collection includes 4 medium-sized eggs and one larger egg.

The shop will be updated on 12 February at 8.30pm.


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