Emblem
Not just a symbol, but soul of the story.
This engraved emblem is more than just a symbol, it is the soul of the story. At its center stands a black wolf, carved in defiance and solitude. The wolf is Ghara, a half-werewolf caught between bloodlines, born of both predator and prey. She belongs to neither side, yet bears the weight of both.
Beneath her paws lies a gold-etched stone, a mark of destiny and pain, forged where chains once held and hunger burned. Behind her, the silhouette of Lilith rises, not seen, but felt. Her presence looms across the coin, celestial and corrupted, a reminder that beauty can carry ruin.
The surrounding runes are not decoration, but remnants of the first spell that shattered balance. They were carved by a witch who broke the veil, letting the dark seep through. What remains is not a story… but a scar.
“Every symbol hides a wound.
This one howls.”
Glyph of Descent
An ancient mark scorched into Bastion’s gate.
Do not carve it in blood unless you’re ready to fall.
For this is not a mark from below. This is a wound cut into stone, where the divine descended without prayer.
The ancient records of Bastion speak of a symbol that is neither seal nor ornament, but a rupture in reality. Called the Glyph of Descent, it appears upon doors that do not open… unless blood speaks.
It is said the glyph was etched in the moment she first whispered, not fallen, but willingly descended. Her will, woven from shadow and longing, burned the shape into the gate, as a summons, as a warning, as a path.
When Bastion’s gate was sealed, the glyph remained. Not to protect. But to remind.
“It was not carved by hand. Nor by heart. But by a hunger that knows its name.”
Lore
Fragments preserved from journals of Morgana
The Book of Blood is not a diary. It is a confession, carved in ink and regret. Morgana, once a healer, wrote it not to preserve what was known, but to contain what should have never been found.
Within its fragile pages lie rituals too ancient to speak aloud, names that no longer belong to the living, and truths buried beneath centuries of ash. Some passages bleed like open wounds, others burn with fury. All of them carry weight.
What remains are echoes, not just of history, but of those who tried to rewrite it. Each fragment reveals a piece of a greater curse… one that feeds on memory, silence, and blood.
“She wrote not to be remembered,
but so others might forget.”
