The Origins of the Blue Ting
[story and art by Fin]
Deep in the shifting heart of the Labyrinth of Rho’vak, where walls rearranged themselves with the moods of ancient forgotten gods, a chamber pulsed with violet light. Geometric runes crawled across the bricks like ants of light, forming a grid that shimmered with sentient intent. Inside this chamber stood Grovomil, gnomish necromancer, and frequent subject of furious letters to the Arcane Ethics Board.
His beard bristled with the stink of old paper and candle wax, and his gnarled hands curled around a spear wrapped in cursed wedding ribbon from a banshee’s failed betrothal. The spear hummed—no, seethed—with sullen violet energy.
Before him sat a long oaken worktable. The glow of a crystal orb cast an eerie light on the twisted sandstone face of the gargoyle golem beside it. Inside the orb spun the image of a looming fortress with an airship circling like a vulture. The fortress was real. He knew it. His enemies lived there.
And soon, they would not.
He sneered with satisfaction as three goblins—his lesser minions, each only slightly more intelligent than a box of damp cinnamon rolls—twerked in fervent worship around the orb. They were pink and alarmingly enthusiastic. Their wiggling synchronized with the pulse of the labyrinth’s ambient magic.
His true focus, however, was the coiled length of thick blue yarn on the table.
No ordinary fiber, this. No, this was The Strand of Varnax, stolen from the enchanted knitting basket of the One-Eyed Crone of Threadmoor after a four-day duel involving three decoy cats and a bowl of spectral soup.
This yarn—it pulsed.
It knew.
It waited.
With his free hand, Grovomil adjusted his glasses, then lifted the crystal orb and placed it beside the yarn. The sandstone gargoyle, motionless until now, shifted and flexed its fingers. The orb flared, revealing lightning above the fortress. A storm was coming. Excellent.
The necromancer drew a circle around the yarn with his spear, the tip dragging a dark, steaming trail of corrupted chalk into the wooden surface of the table. “Azuroth… Ribbontongue… Nihilax… come forth and bind this thread to the Will of Chaos!”
The goblins moaned. The walls vibrated. The runes on the labyrinth bricks began to pulse, one after another, like a slowly beating heart.
Grovomil raised the spear and plunged its point into the center of the circle.
Nothing happened.
He blinked.
The goblins paused, confused. One began to twerk off-beat.
The orb dimmed.
Then… the yarn twitched.
Grovomil stepped back.
The yarn uncoiled, undulating like a serpent waking from centuries of sleep. One end slithered toward the gargoyle. The sandstone beast growled—actually growled—and recoiled, as though it recognized the power in the fiber.
“I—I didn't expect that to work on the first try,” Grovomil whispered, blinking rapidly. “And I’m not… entirely sure what I summoned.”
The yarn stood up.
Not metaphorically.
It rose from the table, growing taller, thicker, its body stretching, warping, sprouting tendrils of raw energy from its fibers. Blue, yes, still blue—but its hue deepened into something unnamable. Something forbidden by most color theorists. It gleamed wetly in places, shimmered like an oil slick in others. The eldritch halo around it pulsed with warped melodies.
The three goblins fell to their knees. One wept. One applauded. One began to scream but could only gurgle.
The thing pulsed.
A face began to form in the yarn. Not a face like a person’s face. A face like what a god’s fever dream might imagine if it had read only half a pamphlet on anatomy. Eyes—not two, not three, but one—opened in the middle of its coil.
Grovomil dropped his spear.
The stone gargoyle roared to life and leapt from the table, slamming itself against the nearest wall and shattering into gravel. It preferred death to whatever had just been born.
The orb—still glowing—now showed not a fortress, but the same chamber they stood in, with the yarn-beast peering into it, as though the orb itself were watching from a safe distance.
“Oh,” Grovomil said. “Oh dear.”
The creature wriggled toward the orb, touching it with a single fiber.
A ripple echoed outward. A psychic tremor shook the labyrinth.
Then it giggled. A high-pitched, glitched-out sound, like a chorus of corrupted children’s toys melting in a microwave.
The twerking goblins exploded into glitter.
Their hats remained.
Grovomil took a step back. The labyrinth behind him shifted, opening paths that had not existed seconds ago. The creature hadn’t moved toward them, but the walls bent away from it.
“By the Nostrils of Noznar…”
The creature twisted itself into the shape of a Möbius pretzel and winked its singular eye.
“I have created a servant of unraveling,” Grovomil whispered. “Not just a monster, but… a meme. A being of pure glitch. A joke that writes itself into the bones of the world.”
The blue thing intoned, "I AM TING."
Ting surged forward suddenly, now moving faster than thought. It swirled around Grovomil’s legs, spiraling up his body.
Grovomil clutched at his robes, his beard flowing upward like a man being raptured by a particularly snarky divinity.
But the Ting did not kill him.
It hugged him.
“Oh—oh gods,” Grovomil gasped. “I’ve been… chosen.”
It dropped him unceremoniously.
Then it slithered through the shattered gargoyle’s remains and into the labyrinth.
The violet gridlines pulsed. Runes cracked. The entire structure groaned.
Grovomil lay sprawled, staring at the ceiling, one hand reaching for his discarded spear.
He began to laugh.
First softly.
Then louder.
Then wildly.
“They’ll never be ready,” he howled into the void. “The Arcane Board! The Fortress! The World!”
The labyrinth began to tilt.
Somewhere, very far away, a bell rang—a church bell, a school bell, or perhaps a final tolling of sense and reason.
The Blue Ting™ had been born.
And now?
Now it would dance.
His beard bristled with the stink of old paper and candle wax, and his gnarled hands curled around a spear wrapped in cursed wedding ribbon from a banshee’s failed betrothal. The spear hummed—no, seethed—with sullen violet energy.
Before him sat a long oaken worktable. The glow of a crystal orb cast an eerie light on the twisted sandstone face of the gargoyle golem beside it. Inside the orb spun the image of a looming fortress with an airship circling like a vulture. The fortress was real. He knew it. His enemies lived there.
And soon, they would not.
He sneered with satisfaction as three goblins—his lesser minions, each only slightly more intelligent than a box of damp cinnamon rolls—twerked in fervent worship around the orb. They were pink and alarmingly enthusiastic. Their wiggling synchronized with the pulse of the labyrinth’s ambient magic.
His true focus, however, was the coiled length of thick blue yarn on the table.
No ordinary fiber, this. No, this was The Strand of Varnax, stolen from the enchanted knitting basket of the One-Eyed Crone of Threadmoor after a four-day duel involving three decoy cats and a bowl of spectral soup.
This yarn—it pulsed.
It knew.
It waited.
With his free hand, Grovomil adjusted his glasses, then lifted the crystal orb and placed it beside the yarn. The sandstone gargoyle, motionless until now, shifted and flexed its fingers. The orb flared, revealing lightning above the fortress. A storm was coming. Excellent.
The necromancer drew a circle around the yarn with his spear, the tip dragging a dark, steaming trail of corrupted chalk into the wooden surface of the table. “Azuroth… Ribbontongue… Nihilax… come forth and bind this thread to the Will of Chaos!”
The goblins moaned. The walls vibrated. The runes on the labyrinth bricks began to pulse, one after another, like a slowly beating heart.
Grovomil raised the spear and plunged its point into the center of the circle.
Nothing happened.
He blinked.
The goblins paused, confused. One began to twerk off-beat.
The orb dimmed.
Then… the yarn twitched.
Grovomil stepped back.
The yarn uncoiled, undulating like a serpent waking from centuries of sleep. One end slithered toward the gargoyle. The sandstone beast growled—actually growled—and recoiled, as though it recognized the power in the fiber.
“I—I didn't expect that to work on the first try,” Grovomil whispered, blinking rapidly. “And I’m not… entirely sure what I summoned.”
The yarn stood up.
Not metaphorically.
It rose from the table, growing taller, thicker, its body stretching, warping, sprouting tendrils of raw energy from its fibers. Blue, yes, still blue—but its hue deepened into something unnamable. Something forbidden by most color theorists. It gleamed wetly in places, shimmered like an oil slick in others. The eldritch halo around it pulsed with warped melodies.
The three goblins fell to their knees. One wept. One applauded. One began to scream but could only gurgle.
The thing pulsed.
A face began to form in the yarn. Not a face like a person’s face. A face like what a god’s fever dream might imagine if it had read only half a pamphlet on anatomy. Eyes—not two, not three, but one—opened in the middle of its coil.
Grovomil dropped his spear.
The stone gargoyle roared to life and leapt from the table, slamming itself against the nearest wall and shattering into gravel. It preferred death to whatever had just been born.
The orb—still glowing—now showed not a fortress, but the same chamber they stood in, with the yarn-beast peering into it, as though the orb itself were watching from a safe distance.
“Oh,” Grovomil said. “Oh dear.”
The creature wriggled toward the orb, touching it with a single fiber.
A ripple echoed outward. A psychic tremor shook the labyrinth.
Then it giggled. A high-pitched, glitched-out sound, like a chorus of corrupted children’s toys melting in a microwave.
The twerking goblins exploded into glitter.
Their hats remained.
Grovomil took a step back. The labyrinth behind him shifted, opening paths that had not existed seconds ago. The creature hadn’t moved toward them, but the walls bent away from it.
“By the Nostrils of Noznar…”
The creature twisted itself into the shape of a Möbius pretzel and winked its singular eye.
“I have created a servant of unraveling,” Grovomil whispered. “Not just a monster, but… a meme. A being of pure glitch. A joke that writes itself into the bones of the world.”
The blue thing intoned, "I AM TING."
Ting surged forward suddenly, now moving faster than thought. It swirled around Grovomil’s legs, spiraling up his body.
Grovomil clutched at his robes, his beard flowing upward like a man being raptured by a particularly snarky divinity.
But the Ting did not kill him.
It hugged him.
“Oh—oh gods,” Grovomil gasped. “I’ve been… chosen.”
It dropped him unceremoniously.
Then it slithered through the shattered gargoyle’s remains and into the labyrinth.
The violet gridlines pulsed. Runes cracked. The entire structure groaned.
Grovomil lay sprawled, staring at the ceiling, one hand reaching for his discarded spear.
He began to laugh.
First softly.
Then louder.
Then wildly.
“They’ll never be ready,” he howled into the void. “The Arcane Board! The Fortress! The World!”
The labyrinth began to tilt.
Somewhere, very far away, a bell rang—a church bell, a school bell, or perhaps a final tolling of sense and reason.
The Blue Ting™ had been born.
And now?
Now it would dance.
