We might need the entire community to find bugs.

O Wanderer of rolling fates,

Hear now the trembling script scratched upon this tattered vellum.
I, a meek keeper of our weathered ball of fellowship, entreat thee to lend thine ear—
for the hour grows thin, and the whispers of old secrets rotate in hollow orbit.

Long have we—scattered like hollowed souls drifting across shattered spheres—
forgotten the strength we bear when our paths converge as one.
Thus I call thee: return to the Great Ball,
and bring with thee all who yet revolve with purpose.
Let the entire community gather again,
that we may reclaim the hidden truth sealed within its core.

A secret there is—ancient, trembling,
buried beneath circling silence and time’s ceaseless revolutions.
It waits for rescue, as a captive waits for dawn.
But even secrets collapse into stillness when abandoned.
Let not this one be left to drift untended.

And forgive, dear traveler, the delay in this summons.
Charm I cannot muster through script alone,
yet know this: even the titan-bound spheres of the heavens once tarried,
and so I too faltered.
But the delay is ended—
and the path ahead demands velocity.

Now to thee, reader of this solemn plea:
I appeal with the full weight of my burdened orbit.
Shut thyself, if thou must, into a cell forged of duty—
a prison not of iron, but of resolve.
For the walls of waiting are treacherous,
and to dilly-dally is a curse more binding
than any dark gravitational pull cast by the void.

Move.
Roll.
Answer.

For the plea is made,
the sphere trembles,
and the world will not wait for thee.

—The Nameless Scribe of the Last Sphere