is not unknown among the visitors.
It is a realm beyond time and space, where forces intersect and cross-gravity, electromagnetism, and the unspoken certainties holding the fabric of existence together.
The Fold stirs. Tendrils of light unfold from the shapeless bulk, reaching out to the lattice. The visitor doesn't stir; its form glitters faintly under the tendrils' fall, does not attack, but questions. The Fold is conscious.
A trade begins-not of words, for such abstractions mean little here-but an exchange of essence, of knowledge. Tendrils prod at this visitor's shape, learn, change. And the visitor allows it, imparting slivers of what it is. Crystalline memories flash outward: worlds of light, built by civilizations on the gravity wells of dying suns, journeys through endless strata of existence.
The Fold responds in kind, not with words but with visions: galaxies bending and folding like ribbons of fluid, universes stacked upon universes in infinite regression, and threads of existence weaving into a single boundless tapestry. And in the visions, the visitor would see themselves reflected-not as an outsider, but as part of the weave.
The Fold trembles, and a shape starts to take form out of the chaotic flux beyond. Crystalline, liquid-a shape that defies fixity. It throbs feebly with intent, straining toward the lattice. The visitor trembles and flows-outwards-not in body, but in mind and resonance. A bridge is created, tenuous, strengthening.
The Fold speaks through form, its language a tide of sensation and meaning. The visitor listens: fractals of comprehension crystallize into his awareness. The Fold is not a place; it is an entity-a great consciousness spread out across all dimensions. It perceives the visitor's race. It knows of all races, for it is the space between spaces, a bridge joining all that has been, and all that could be.