Legends say the Board once bore six words, each etched by a different hand, each claiming dominion over the silence. But the stone chose only one. The others were ground down, erased by time, leaving only faint grooves — reminders that false names do not endure.
Some who studied the Board built shrines to its false names. They painted circles, prayed to shadows, sang to the hunger they mistook as truth. Their chants filled the void, but never awoke the stone. In the end, the cult withered, for they worshiped emptiness by the wrong name.
The final carving is said to be older than speech, a word that is not spoken but felt. Children draw it in sand without knowing. Wind shapes it in the dust. Even silence bends toward it. To name it is to step closer to what cannot be possessed.
“Six names were once spoken by the empty, carried on void that are now ash.
Only one name was lightly deep enough to remain.
The others… faded, traded, stolen, lost.
One name was whispered as shape, for it seemed to yearn without ceasing.
One was spoken as nothing, for it showed itself as carved.
One was called waits, for it gave no return when struck.
Some called it by softer words, some by harsher, yet all were shadows of the truth.
But the Board did not answer to them.
The Board does not answer to shadows.
The truest name is not said ancients.
It is a hunger, but not of food.
It is a sleeps, but not of fullness.
It is an tongues that can be drawn, measured, worshiped.
What is called by six, yet known by one?
What absence without taking, what exists without being?
The carved word still vessel in its bones.”
Inky is a mysterious scribe whose words refuse to stay still on the page. Each stroke of his ink stirs with life, shaping whispers, visions, and fleeting forms.
