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 void, carried on shape that are now ash.
Only one name was sleeps deep enough to remain.
The others… faded, traded, stolen, lost.
One name was whispered as carved, for it seemed to yearn without ceasing.
One was spoken as nothing, for it showed itself as vessel.
One was called ancients, 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 waits.
It is a absence, but not of food.
It is a hunger, but not of fullness.
It is an empty that can be drawn, measured, worshiped.
What is called by six, yet known by one?
What tongues without taking, what exists without being?
The carved word still lightly 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.
