Press deeper, and the texture remembers: fish scales rise in overlapping rows, iridescent and sharp-edged. Breathe on it, and they dissolve into downy spores that drift upward. Pull your hand away, and the surface shivers — barnacles erupt for a second, then sink back into amber resin.
Under a fingertip, the surface ripples outward in slow, liquid rings, like sound made visible. Where the pressure lingers, the material hardens into polished obsidian, then softens again into wet velvet. Light bends strangely across it — sometimes matte as dust, sometimes glossy as oil on water.
To hold Proteus texture is to hold a question. It never answers the same way twice.
Proteus texture doesn't have a fixed grain or weave. It listens . If you drag a fingernail across it slowly, it groans like deep ice — but scratch quickly, and it laughs in high metallic clicks. Leave it alone for an hour, and it becomes petrified fog: translucent, soft to the knuckle, filled with suspended light.
