webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    embeddedMedia {
      mediaId
      state
    }
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      id
    }
  }
}

fragment JobInfo_job on AiGenerationJob {
  id
  type
  status
  currentStage
  attemptCount
  maxAttempts
  lastErrorCode
  scheduledAt
}

fragment MediaStatusFields_media on Media {
  id
  status
  generationError
  activeGenerationJob {
    ...JobInfo_job
    currentStage
    id
  }
}

fragment MyProfile_myProfile on User {
  id
  name
  email
  isAdmin
  hasEverPaid
  isEmailConfirmed
  isEmailNotificationEnabled
  isTelegramNotificationEnabled
  isTempPassword
  avatar
  cover
  about
  contacts
  support
  telegramId
  vkId
  availableLimits
  frozenLimits
  urlSlug
  topUpPackages {
    id
    price
    currency
    toBalanceLimits
    bonusLimits
    totalCreditedLimits
    USD
  }
  availablePaymentProviders
  aiGenerationCosts {
    plan {
      size
      cost
    }
    characterSuggest
    ideaExpand
    sceneWrite {
      length
      cost
    }
    mediaGenerate
    animate {
      withoutAudio
      withAudio
    }
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    limitCost
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      genesis
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      sourceMedia {
        id
        mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      }
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  embeddedMedia {
    mediaId
    state
  }
  sceneCharacterStates {
    id
    character {
      id
      name
    }
  }
}

fragment Scene_scene on Scene {
  id
  order
  displayOrder
  title
  rating
  isPublished
  isScheduled
  publishedAt
  minWaitersToPublish
  waitersCount
  readCount
  content
  story {
    id
    isMine
  }
}

fragment Story_story on Story {
  id
  title
  createdAt
  publicDescription
  type
  size
  narrativeType
  rating
  hasCharacters
  status
  isPublished
  isMine
  publishedAt
  likesCount
  favoritesCount
  displayDirection
  plotGenres
  settingGenres
  moods
  tropes
  displayContentWarnings
  sceneAtmospheres
  publishedStats {
    scenesCount
    wordsCount
  }
  author {
    id
    name
    urlSlug
    avatar
  }
  characters {
    id
    name
  }
  fandoms {
    id
    urlSlug
    translation {
      canonicalName
      id
    }
  }
  myState {
    isLiked
    isFavorited
    isWaiting
    id
  }
  lastPublishedScene {
    id
  }
}


The transition from the chilling, bone-strewn cavern to the stale, metallic-scented warmth of the workshop felt like surfacing from deep water into a thick, murky fog. Hours of hard riding across the crags had numbed Lambert to the whistling wind, but the slamming of the workshop door behind him brought an immediate, suffocating transition into the world of gears and gears-within-gears. He strode across the floorboards, which groaned under his boots like shifting gravestones. Dust motes danced in the sparse golden light filtering through greasy clerestory windows, settling upon stacks of scrolls, rusted copper coils, and skeletal frames of once-intricate clockwork creatures.

Borin stood hunched over his mahogany workbench, a jeweler’s loupe pressed into the deep, wrinkled orbit of his left eye. He was meticulously cleaning a brass escapement with a needle-thin brush, his massive beard tucked into his leather apron to keep it from fouling the grease and oil smears. The scent of ozone and machine oil permeated the air, thick enough to taste on the back of Lambert’s throat. Lambert felt the weight of the artifact resting against his hip, a constant, low-frequency hum that seemed to vibrate in rhythm with his own racing heart. He did not care for this place, nor for the suffocating clutter that surrounded the old master smith. It smelled of secrets and stale dedication. He pulled his heavy cloak tighter, the leather creaking as he approached the counter, his eyes scanning the surrounding dark corners for hidden dangers, though he knew the old gnome was too absorbed in his craft to pose a threat.

"Borin," Lambert said, his voice gravelly from road dust and lack of conversation, slicing through the rhythmic clicking of the gear-works.

Borin did not look up immediately. He finished his stroke with the brush, exhaling a puff of air that ruffled his bushy eyebrows, before clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. With a grunt that sounded like rocks grinding in a mill, he adjusted his position and peered over the top of his loupe, his sharp, obsidian eyes landing on the witcher’s frame. He pushed his chair back, the metal legs scraping harshly against the wood, and wiped his stained fingers on a rag draped across his shoulder.

"Lambert. You look like the mountain spat you out, or perhaps you fell into a badger’s den and forgot the way out," the gnome remarked, his accent thick and jagged. "You come to me for repairs? Your left pauldron is dented, I see from here, and your sword hilt displays a nasty gash. But you have that look about you—the one that says you found something you shouldn't have, and now you want to be rid of the headache it brings before it eats your gut."

Lambert didn't bother with pleasantries. He reached into his pouch, his fingers brushing the cold, smooth metal of the item, and drew it forth. The object pulsed, a faint, rhythmic amber glow radiating through the gaps in the casing, and he set it down on the clutter-strewn counter with a heavy thud. Borin’s expression shifted instantly. The idle curiosity in his face vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity as he leaned forward, setting aside his brush as if the instrument suddenly offended him.

"Where did you pry that loose?" Borin whispered, his voice losing its usual gravelly mockery. "That doesn't look like scrap metal from the surface. It’s too heavy for its size, almost as if it’s anchored to another world."

Lambert crossed his arms, his posture rigid as he watched the gnome’s hands hover over the artifact. "Found it in the ribs of a corpse in the northern tunnels. It pulled at me almost as if it were calling, and when I touched it, I felt a vibration that didn't belong to the stone or the cold. Examine it, Borin. And do it quickly. I don't intend to keep it tethered to my belt for longer than necessary."

Borin didn't answer, instead picking up a larger, more complex jeweler’s lens from his tray. He held it up, aligning it with the amber pulsations, his mouth forming a thin, tight line. He tapped a small, hidden release on the casing, and the object unfolded slightly, like a flower blooming in a winter storm. Lambert watched his hands—calloused, thick-fingered, but surprisingly agile as they danced over the delicate, ticking internal mechanisms. Borin’s eyes widened behind the lens, and he drew back sharply, his breath hitching.

"By the Ancestors," the gnome muttered, his fingers hovering inches away from the device without daring to touch it. "This isn't just a toy or a simple map-maker. You have no idea what you’re lugging around, do you, witcher? This is a Gnomish memory-replayer, a relic from the pre-Collapse eras. They weren't crafted to store data in the way our modern chronometers track hours and minutes; they were built to anchor the echo of a consciousness into a physical vessel."

Lambert frowned, his eyes narrowing as he felt a sudden chill crawl up his spine, despite the warmth of the workshop. "A memory-replayer? That sounds like necromancy, Borin. I’ve dealt with enough ghosts and wraiths to know that playing with the lingering echoes of the dead is a recipe for a curse that even a medallion won't deflect."

Borin stood up, his height barely reaching Lambert’s chest, yet his presence suddenly seemed far larger. He gestured animatedly, his short fingers poking the air for emphasis. "It’s not just a ghost! It is a snapshot of lived experience, distilled through arcane mechanics. It isn't a passive record; if you trigger the activation mechanism, it doesn't just show you what the person saw—it links your nervous system to theirs. You would feel the cold, smell the air, fear the same terror they felt in their final moments. That is the danger, Lambert. The human mind isn't built to sustain the superimposed reality of another, especially one that hasn't cleared the barrier of time. If you stare into that amber light for too long, your own sense of self starts to fray. You could lose yourself in the replay, trapped in an endless loop of someone else’s life, while your body withers away in the corner."

Lambert reached out then, his gloved hand closing over the cool, humming device, effectively silencing Borin’s lecture. The metal felt almost alive beneath his touch, rhythmic and persistent, pulling at his thoughts like a magnet pulling at iron filings. He felt a surge of dismissive arrogance, a common defense mechanism when faced with threats he couldn't slash into pieces. The gnome’s warnings felt like ancient superstitions, the kind elders told children to keep them away from deep water. He had survived monsters, wars, and the slow, grinding indifference of a world that wanted him dead; a trinket, however magical, was not going to break his mind.

"You’re worried about shadows, old man," Lambert said, his voice dropping to a low, cold tone as he tucked the artifact back into his pouch. "I need to know what it contains, not what it might do to some weak-willed novice. If there's information inside—if there's a record of the path that led to these tunnels or who left it there—then that risk is mine to bear. Your fear doesn't pay my bills, nor does it fix my gear."

Borin wiped his sweating palms on his apron, his gaze lingering on the pouch with visible unease. "You’re a fool, witcher. A stubborn, arrogant fool. I’ve seen men shattered by less. When you find yourself unable to distinguish your own memories from the ghosts inside that casing, don't come knocking on my door expecting me to perform an exorcism on your steel-hard skull."

Lambert didn't respond. He reached into his coin pouch, his fingers counting out the heavy metallic weight of gold crowns, and dumped them onto the workbench, the sound cutting through the stale atmosphere like a bell. He took a single step back, his eyes fixed on the gnome for a heartbeat, searching for any sign of hidden craftiness, but finding only honest, deep-seated concern. It barely registered. He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling around his armored legs, and walked toward the door. As he moved, he felt the heavy, comforting thud of the artifact against his thigh, pulling his attention back to the secrets it held. He pushed the door open, the sound of the wind outside rushing in to meet him, and stepped out, the weight of the item in his pocket serving as the only true compass he had left.

The transition from the chilling, bone-strewn cavern to the stale, metallic-scented warmth of the workshop felt like surfacing from deep water into a thick, murky fog. Hours of hard riding across the crags had numbed Lambert to the whistling wind, but the slamming of the workshop door behind him brought an immediate, suffocating transition into the world of gears and gears-within-gears. He strode across the floorboards, which groaned under his boots like shifting gravestones. Dust motes danced in the sparse golden light filtering through greasy clerestory windows, settling upon stacks of scrolls, rusted copper coils, and skeletal frames of once-intricate clockwork creatures.

Borin stood hunched over his mahogany workbench, a jeweler’s loupe pressed into the deep, wrinkled orbit of his left eye. He was meticulously cleaning a brass escapement with a needle-thin brush, his massive beard tucked into his leather apron to keep it from fouling the grease and oil smears. The scent of ozone and machine oil permeated the air, thick enough to taste on the back of Lambert’s throat. Lambert felt the weight of the artifact resting against his hip, a constant, low-frequency hum that seemed to vibrate in rhythm with his own racing heart. He did not care for this place, nor for the suffocating clutter that surrounded the old master smith. It smelled of secrets and stale dedication. He pulled his heavy cloak tighter, the leather creaking as he approached the counter, his eyes scanning the surrounding dark corners for hidden dangers, though he knew the old gnome was too absorbed in his craft to pose a threat.

"Borin," Lambert said, his voice gravelly from road dust and lack of conversation, slicing through the rhythmic clicking of the gear-works.

Borin did not look up immediately. He finished his stroke with the brush, exhaling a puff of air that ruffled his bushy eyebrows, before clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. With a grunt that sounded like rocks grinding in a mill, he adjusted his position and peered over the top of his loupe, his sharp, obsidian eyes landing on the witcher’s frame. He pushed his chair back, the metal legs scraping harshly against the wood, and wiped his stained fingers on a rag draped across his shoulder.

"Lambert. You look like the mountain spat you out, or perhaps you fell into a badger’s den and forgot the way out," the gnome remarked, his accent thick and jagged. "You come to me for repairs? Your left pauldron is dented, I see from here, and your sword hilt displays a nasty gash. But you have that look about you—the one that says you found something you shouldn't have, and now you want to be rid of the headache it brings before it eats your gut."

Lambert didn't bother with pleasantries. He reached into his pouch, his fingers brushing the cold, smooth metal of the item, and drew it forth. The object pulsed, a faint, rhythmic amber glow radiating through the gaps in the casing, and he set it down on the clutter-strewn counter with a heavy thud. Borin’s expression shifted instantly. The idle curiosity in his face vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity as he leaned forward, setting aside his brush as if the instrument suddenly offended him.

"Where did you pry that loose?" Borin whispered, his voice losing its usual gravelly mockery. "That doesn't look like scrap metal from the surface. It’s too heavy for its size, almost as if it’s anchored to another world."

Lambert crossed his arms, his posture rigid as he watched the gnome’s hands hover over the artifact. "Found it in the ribs of a corpse in the northern tunnels. It pulled at me almost as if it were calling, and when I touched it, I felt a vibration that didn't belong to the stone or the cold. Examine it, Borin. And do it quickly. I don't intend to keep it tethered to my belt for longer than necessary."

Borin didn't answer, instead picking up a larger, more complex jeweler’s lens from his tray. He held it up, aligning it with the amber pulsations, his mouth forming a thin, tight line. He tapped a small, hidden release on the casing, and the object unfolded slightly, like a flower blooming in a winter storm. Lambert watched his hands—calloused, thick-fingered, but surprisingly agile as they danced over the delicate, ticking internal mechanisms. Borin’s eyes widened behind the lens, and he drew back sharply, his breath hitching.

"By the Ancestors," the gnome muttered, his fingers hovering inches away from the device without daring to touch it. "This isn't just a toy or a simple map-maker. You have no idea what you’re lugging around, do you, witcher? This is a Gnomish memory-replayer, a relic from the pre-Collapse eras. They weren't crafted to store data in the way our modern chronometers track hours and minutes; they were built to anchor the echo of a consciousness into a physical vessel."

Lambert frowned, his eyes narrowing as he felt a sudden chill crawl up his spine, despite the warmth of the workshop. "A memory-replayer? That sounds like necromancy, Borin. I’ve dealt with enough ghosts and wraiths to know that playing with the lingering echoes of the dead is a recipe for a curse that even a medallion won't deflect."

Borin stood up, his height barely reaching Lambert’s chest, yet his presence suddenly seemed far larger. He gestured animatedly, his short fingers poking the air for emphasis. "It’s not just a ghost! It is a snapshot of lived experience, distilled through arcane mechanics. It isn't a passive record; if you trigger the activation mechanism, it doesn't just show you what the person saw—it links your nervous system to theirs. You would feel the cold, smell the air, fear the same terror they felt in their final moments. That is the danger, Lambert. The human mind isn't built to sustain the superimposed reality of another, especially one that hasn't cleared the barrier of time. If you stare into that amber light for too long, your own sense of self starts to fray. You could lose yourself in the replay, trapped in an endless loop of someone else’s life, while your body withers away in the corner."

Lambert reached out then, his gloved hand closing over the cool, humming device, effectively silencing Borin’s lecture. The metal felt almost alive beneath his touch, rhythmic and persistent, pulling at his thoughts like a magnet pulling at iron filings. He felt a surge of dismissive arrogance, a common defense mechanism when faced with threats he couldn't slash into pieces. The gnome’s warnings felt like ancient superstitions, the kind elders told children to keep them away from deep water. He had survived monsters, wars, and the slow, grinding indifference of a world that wanted him dead; a trinket, however magical, was not going to break his mind.

"You’re worried about shadows, old man," Lambert said, his voice dropping to a low, cold tone as he tucked the artifact back into his pouch. "I need to know what it contains, not what it might do to some weak-willed novice. If there's information inside—if there's a record of the path that led to these tunnels or who left it there—then that risk is mine to bear. Your fear doesn't pay my bills, nor does it fix my gear."

Borin wiped his sweating palms on his apron, his gaze lingering on the pouch with visible unease. "You’re a fool, witcher. A stubborn, arrogant fool. I’ve seen men shattered by less. When you find yourself unable to distinguish your own memories from the ghosts inside that casing, don't come knocking on my door expecting me to perform an exorcism on your steel-hard skull."

Lambert didn't respond. He reached into his coin pouch, his fingers counting out the heavy metallic weight of gold crowns, and dumped them onto the workbench, the sound cutting through the stale atmosphere like a bell. He took a single step back, his eyes fixed on the gnome for a heartbeat, searching for any sign of hidden craftiness, but finding only honest, deep-seated concern. It barely registered. He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling around his armored legs, and walked toward the door. As he moved, he felt the heavy, comforting thud of the artifact against his thigh, pulling his attention back to the secrets it held. He pushed the door open, the sound of the wind outside rushing in to meet him, and stepped out, the weight of the item in his pocket serving as the only true compass he had left. «The Truth in Gnomish Amber», part 2. Fanfiction — The Witcher.

The Gnomish Merchant's Appraisal. The Truth in Gnomish Amber — The Witcher fanfiction | Fanfica

The Gnomish Merchant's Appraisal

Toss a Coin

After a routine contract, Lambert finds a gnomish artifact that replays memories. It shows Vesemir, decades ago, betraying a fellow witcher to save a child. Now Lambert must decide: expose the truth and risk tearing Kaer Morhen apart, or bury a secret that could destroy everything he believes in. What price does loyalty demand?

The Truth in Gnomish Amber — The Gnomish Merchant's Appraisal

Parte 2: The Gnomish Merchant's Appraisal