“Lay the candle down, traveler—here, in the quiet, even grief can see.”
“Lay the token true, and even the tide will hush.”
“If the wind swallows your name, the bell will give it back—once.”
“Light is a language the grieving can still hear.”
You don’t summon a Boneclaw. You birth one—when you make a promise soaked in blood, and break it.
Don’t look it in the eyes. Don’t call it by name. And never wander the fields after dark — or you’ll hear the rustling.
He doesn’t speak. He remembers. Every cut, every betrayal, every broken oath etched in steel. You don’t just die fighting the Hollow—you’re judged.
He fell from the skies like a comet of iron and rage. And when he stood, the ground burned with his name.
He walks the old ward each night, dragging chains that whisper in tongues long dead. Some say if you follow him, you’ll hear your name stitched into his skin.
"A sharp blade ends conflict. A sharper mind prevents it."
"I didn’t break the rules—I just never read them."
"Words are wasted. Steps are not."