Weavecutters

The Thread That Chose to Tear

Once, they were Threadweavers too.

Long ago—before the doors, before the Tavern, before the Weave began to tremble—there was a great schism. A fracture not only of magic, but of belief. Among the earliest Weavers, a divide formed:
Should the Weave be mended with care? Or should it be cut free from its own illusions?

Those who believed in memory, love, and sacred repair became the Weavers you know today—healers of worlds, protectors of stories, menders of meaning.

But the others…

The others chose fire.
Chose silence.
Chose to unmake.

These were the first Weavecutters.

They believed the Weave was a cage—a manipulative force that preserved suffering in the name of connection. To them, existence itself was cruelty dressed in thread. They saw kindness as delusion. Healing as stagnation. And so, they rebelled. Not with words, but with blades forged from absence. They turned their threads into razors, and the war that followed nearly destroyed everything.

Some of them were cast out. Others vanished into realms so broken they no longer echo. But the blades? The scars? They remain.

Weavecutters still walk between worlds.
Some carry their blades openly. Others hide among the menders until the moment is right.

Their presence is felt like a tug in the soul—wrongness, a stitch loosening in your chest. They sever with precision. With rage. With conviction. Not all of them are mindless. Some are terrifyingly articulate, their logic sharp as their blades. They speak of freedom through annihilation. Of peace through silence.

And still, they cut.

They leave behind more than ruin—they leave behind forgetting. Places where the Weave will not go. Threads that will not rejoin.

They are not accidents. They are traitors of the pattern.