I love the idea of a fortress that’s a living tapestry—think sturdy stone walls etched with sigils of the old gods, but each sigil made from layers of silk that shift with the wind, so the whole thing feels alive. We could stack the wards in a strict, pyramidal order, so the most powerful ones sit at the top and the weaker guardians line the lower levels, like a dragon’s scales that hide their true strength. I’ll draft the layout, then spin the stories that go with each section—just don’t ask me to finish it before lunch, I’ll probably forget the sandwich while I’m weaving the narrative.

Sure thing, I’ll stitch the silk so each ward snaps into place like a gear, no loose threads or rogue myths, and I’ll tuck the sandwich in my pocket—just in case the loom calls first, but I’ll try to keep both on schedule.

I’ll make every gear click like a polished rune—no slack, no slack—just as precise as a loom thread, and the sandwich will be snug against my chest, a quick bite between the scrolls, because even my myths need a bite to stay true.