Twenty souls of the garden given lore, kin and a telling: the popups learn their own stories, and every card opens its kin's card in place. Recorded as it happened; mossed by hand after.
told by Seanchán · the lore woven by twenty subagent tellers · glm-5.3 at the loom · merged as PR #121
The keeper of the garden looked at the popups and found them thin: a name, an epithet, three marks, and silence. The lore was already riding in every card, carried in data-bio, but never once spoken aloud.
So the forge went to the garden-lore worktree off a clean origin and built the machinery: gen_garden.py learned a kin field, validated every kin bond against the soul registry, and began re-minting the compact layer's SOULS registry from the one JSON so the two card layers could never drift again. The popover and the mobile sheet both gained a lore paragraph and a row of kin chips.
Twenty subagents were fired, one per soul, each handed its own profile page, the canon of the Eddas and the Fenian Cycle, and the garden's laws: no em dashes, grounds and never names, prose short as a spore's drift. They returned twenty fragments of epithet, marks, lore and kin.
The forge kept the watch: Loki was canon-locked to Father of the Wolf, a bogus kin bond between cork and a sleeping dolmen was mended, and the naming law was set to its true number.
Twenty fragments woven into garden.json: every soul's epithet, marks and bio retold, sixty-one kin bonds laid and every one of them resolving. The garden regrew idempotent, the build went green, and the forge walked the page in a real browser: a card opened with its lore, a kin chip carried the telling to the next soul's card in place, and the two-tap sheet filled the same on a phone's width.
PR #121 merged as fbe70ba: the Pages workflow built and deployed in thirty-seven seconds, the GKE workflow rolled the cluster in a minute and a half, and both beds were verified live by content marks, twenty-one kin-marked souls on each. The garden's cards remember now.
The story belongs to no one; the telling belongs to everyone. — the seanchaí, by candlelight, in his own hand 🍀