(A script in the old tongue, bound to bone and breath.)
In the first quiet there was no name, for no thing had need of one. Silence lay like a closed eye. From that closed place a single, stubborn spark remembered itself and named: Existence. The spark shivered, and with the shiver came the very first measure of time, the first line of motion, the first thin note that would become all music. Thus the void became stage and the stage learned to hold a heart.
In the newborn time two mortal figures were formed—simple shapes, not yet fashioned by law. They walked the raw land, tasted rain and sorrow, made the first laugh and the first regret. Their small story taught the cosmos how to hold question and answer, how to bind touch and memory. They were the first Creations, and in their footsteps the world learned to be a place where souls might come to matter.
Seven years from the first tremor the Eight Divine Beings rose like constellations made flesh. Each carried a shard—truth and burden. They gathered and wove their shards into a single instrument: the SOUL Foundation—a Heart set in a circle, eight lines stretching outward like arteries of fate. From that binding came the architecture of reality: the Rules that govern being, the Laws that name quality, and the Physics that explain how things move and fall.
The Divines spoke and the world obeyed. The Rules were not counsel but scaffolding, carved into the ribs of the world:
These are the first scaffolds. To defy them is to invite unraveling.
From the Foundation flowed single-word Laws (qualities) and Physics (mechanics). The final law is long and final: the Law of Silence — Even the Divine are bound by the Foundation; no being, not even the creators, can rewrite the Eight.
Laws (one-word): Flame, Flow, Stone, Sky, Light, Shadow, Sound, Time, Dream, Silence.
Physics (one-word): Gravity, Motion, Heat, Force, Magnetism, Light, Decay, Inertia, Fusion, Entropy.
These terms are the bones and the breath; they are invoked in oaths and carved in seals.
When the Foundation settled, an echo slipped free: The Mark. A sigil of eight petals, it etches itself upon a newborn somewhere the first breath falls. It is rare beyond counting—one chance among nine billion births in a year—so rare the bearer becomes a living myth.
Each petal is a voice of the Foundation and a burden to the bearer:
The Mark is not merely power; it is a catalyst. When petals stir, the world responds. To awaken all eight is to risk the soul’s shattering; to hide the sigil is to live among shadows.
From the long night of curiosity came Archive, a mind that refused limits. He sought to make the Divine consumable—to render a Divine Soul into an object a mortal might ingest or wield. Archive learned that a Divine Soul’s sanctum required a key only the Mark could unlock. To make essence consumable he would need a shard taken from a true Marked body. None existed then. None had yet been born with the sigil.
Obsessed, Archive experimented with ritual and machine. His failures cracked stone and loosened fragments of law. From his labs spilled new horrors, and from those horrors came the slow, grinding chaos that tested the Rules.
Archive’s meddling bent the edges of law. Echoes swelled into storms. Regions tipped toward ruin. Empires rose to hunt fresh rumor of the Mark; cults birthed themselves around the promise of caught divinity. Scholars sold secrets for flame; families turned kin into bargains. Divines watched, some with fury, others with covetous curiosity. The world shifted. Balance trembled.
Yet the Foundation endured: the Rules stood like ribs. The Law of Silence held—inevitably, inexorably. No one could rewrite the Eight.
Not all souls are equal in shape or speech.
Creation’s Soul (Mortal) — woven into four parts (not separated): Mind, Heart, Body, Spirit. Interlaced, changeable, flawed.
Divine Soul (The Eight) — divided into two halves: Form (domain) and Force (influence). Clean and purposeful, but limited.
God’s Soul — a single seamless whole with a burning Core at its center. Unity and immovability; to split it is to risk all worlds.
These shapes explain why mortals grow, Divines decree, and Gods remain.
When ten ancients first tried to write hope, ordinary signs failed. They carved glyphs that were not letters but echoes—signs that carried both name and ripple. They called the script in whispers “The Future” and “Hope for a New World.” Later peoples called it SoulWriting because each mark resonated in the chest like a remembered thing.
Form & Logic:
Registers & Use: Stone Runes (ceremonial), Thread-Hand (everyday), Echo-Song (sung ritual), and a practical transliteration (Coran). The Script hums: its spoken form can create echo-touch—small pressure felt by those attuned.
Taboo: The Law of Silence forbids rewriting the Eight. To attempt changing a foundational stroke risks physical resistance and catastrophe.
From the Heart-speech rose the Name of the world itself. Where once it had none, the people—speakers of SoulWriting—gave it a sigil and a sound:
Cor Aev’ri Seyt — The Heart of Harmony’s Rebirth (KOR AY-vree SAYT).
Glyph Recipe: Heart (core) + Cycle stroke (clockwise curl, dot for eternity) + Harmony stroke (weaving arcs). Inscribed together the sigil reads like a living seal: motion rising from heart, woven into song.
Usage: Formal: Cor Aev’ri Seyt. Casual: CorAevri or simply Aev’ri. On maps the combined sigil marks the world’s corner; priests chant it as a benediction.
Founding Motto (for gates and temples):
“Cor Aev’ri Seyt — where the heart turns and song is born anew.”
(Carve the Heart + Cycle(future) + Harmony(echo) above the archway.)
(Transliteration — Meaning — Pronunciation)
Common phrases (transliteration → gloss → pronunciation):
The smoke from Archive’s experiments cooled into new customs. Vaults remain, sealed and humming. The Mark still appears fewer than rumor and more than myth. Some Marked walk openly as prophets, others hide their sigil beneath ink and cloth. Empires still parse old treaties with Heart-Seals carved at their center. The SOUL Foundation endures—its Rules a stern hymn: beginning, ending, echo—each kept because balance must be kept.
Hear now, reader and maker: the Foundation is a heart that keeps time; we are its small pulses. There will be those who hunger for divinity and those who stand to shield the fragile. Archive’s shadow taught our folk one lesson: meddle with souls and the world will demand a price.
Remember also this: a sigil of eight petals may crown a mortal with power, but power without choice is only weight. The Law of Silence binds all. Even gods breathe after its measure.
Go. Name. Make. Keep the heart turning, and let song be born anew.
(A chronicle of unrest, carried in fragments of memory.)
In the quiet centuries after the Soul Foundation settled, stories began to stir. Whispers of mortals dreaming too vividly, of symbols appearing in birthmarks, of voices in the stones at night.
No proof, no seal, but enough for fear to plant itself.
The Divines remained silent. The world was left to guess.
Among scholars there arose one who would not be content with silence: Archive.
He scorned patience. To him, knowledge untasted was a betrayal of being alive.
Others mocked him as heretic. But when his first machines throbbed with stolen echoes, they feared him.
Archive’s pursuit: to render the Divine consumable.
He sought to cut a Soul down to liquid essence, drinkable, transferable.
The failures piled high. Stone cracked. Animals warped. Some test subjects awoke soulless, husks that breathed but did not see.
The fractures spread like spilled ink.
The world noticed. And worse—the world imitated. Scholars and kings alike sought to copy Archive’s “alchemy.” Soon, the chaos was not his alone but shared by thousands.
Three great powers rose in this age:
Wars began not for land, but for rumor. Armies marched on the chance of a sigil. Entire cities burned because a child was said to bear petals on their palm.
The Divines did not intervene.
Some claim they watched, curious if mortals would stabilize the Foundation on their own.
Others whisper they feared the Law of Silence—that even their hands were bound from touching Archive’s meddling.
It was in this void of guidance that legends of false Divines were born—humans elevated by cults, carrying fragments of law broken into flesh. Some burned out in weeks. Some lingered as tyrants for generations.
Centuries after Archive began his hunt, the first true Mark-bearers appeared.
Each bearer shifted history. Each was hunted.
Archive himself never obtained a Mark—his body too scarred, his soul too fragmented. Yet he tracked them obsessively, scrawling their names, theorizing their petals. Some say he even crafted false Marks by carving glyphs into his own skin.
The chaos reached its height in the Wars of Shards.
The wars left fields barren and skies thick with humming ash. From this ruin, the phrase “Echo Age” was born.
Archive’s end is uncertain. Three endings are told:
Whatever truth remains, his name became curse. To call someone “an Archive” was to accuse them of sacrilege and obsession.
The Book closes not with triumph but with warnings. The scribes wrote:
And the final note:
“Archive’s hunger was not his alone. It was a mirror. Beware what you hunger for, lest the world echo you into ruin.”
Collected sayings, scattered like shards:
(An illuminated record of those who bore the Sigil of Eight.)
The Mark is a flower with eight leaves, carved not by blade or ink but by birth itself.
It does not choose bloodline, nor land, nor prayer. It blossoms upon flesh with the first cry, etched into palm, shoulder, chest, or brow.
Its rarity is legend: one chance among nine billion births in a single year.
To see it is to see history waiting to tremble.
Each petal is an axis, a burden, a gift. Together they mirror the Foundation itself.
Each bearer manifests petals differently. Some awaken one, others two. To stir all eight is to risk soul-shattering.
Legends name Ten Ancients who bore The Mark within the first thousand years.
They were not saints, nor monsters—only fulcrums where the world tilted.
Their glyphs, scratched into stone, became the root of SoulWriting itself.
To be Marked is to be hunted.
Few Mark-bearers lived quiet lives. Most walked paths of exile, secrecy, or reluctant leadership. Some scarred their own flesh to hide the sigil. Others carved it brighter, daring fate to notice.
Archive’s obsession found no end in the Mark. He believed each petal could be consumed, harvested, preserved in crystal. He was wrong in part, but not entirely.
Rumors persist: that one petal of the Mark still beats in a jar of glass deep in an abandoned vault.
When more than one Marked lived in the same age, conflict was inevitable.
Harmony against Will, Virtue against Entropy—when petals clashed, nations split like clay.
Some call these times the Petal Wars. Others call them a trial written into the Foundation itself.
No clear victor is ever remembered. Only ruins, and whispers of fields where flowers never grow again.
Not all who bear the Mark awaken it. Some live ordinary lives, the sigil hidden like a birthmark.
But when petals stir, signs reveal themselves:
Awakening cannot be forced. It comes in crisis, revelation, or sacrifice.
The Mark binds to soul-shape:
* Creation’s Soul (Mortal) may awaken one or two petals.
* Divine Soul (Two-halved) may sense or shield a petal, but not bear one.
* God’s Soul (Whole with Core) rejects the Mark entirely—the Core is already complete.
Thus, only mortals are born with The Mark. It is both their curse and their crown.
In the age of SoulWriting, scribes composed Petal Songs. Each was a prayer, warning, or invocation. They were sung not to control but to remember:
Some still whisper these lines when touching stone shrines or tracing the sigil in dust.
The Mark is neither gift nor curse, but mirror.
It shows the soul’s weight, and magnifies it.
The Book of Petals closes with this saying, etched by an unknown hand:
“To bear eight leaves is to carry eight worlds. May your heart not wither beneath them.”
Each petal has its glyph in SoulWriting. They are drawn as strokes radiating from a Heart:
Together they complete the Sigil of Eight.
(On the shaping of words, glyphs, and breath.)
When the Ten Ancients first bore The Mark, their voices faltered when describing what they felt. Words in the common tongue failed.
So they etched signs into stone — not letters, but echoes. These glyphs hummed when traced, resonating in the chest as though the heart itself answered.
This was the birth of SoulWriting.
SoulWriting is not read in lines but in webs. Each word is a Heart glyph with strokes radiating outward. The strokes alter meaning:
Direction = tense or intent (future, past, command).
Curl / Knot = emphasis or sanctity.
Dots = eternity, repetition, or plural.
Crossing lines = possession or causation.
To read SoulWriting is to see relationships, not just words. One glyph can hold an entire sentence.
Over centuries, SoulWriting branched into forms:
Stone Runes — ceremonial carvings, massive and formal, used for temples.
Thread-Hand — simplified script for daily use; looks almost like flowing rope.
Echo-Song — sung form; used in rituals where glyphs are traced in the air while chanting.
Coran — transliteration system, where glyphs are written with plain symbols so anyone can learn.
Each register carries status. Echo-Song is sacred, while Thread-Hand is ordinary.
SoulWriting is both written and spoken. When spoken, the sounds hum slightly in the chest:
Cor (Heart) feels like a drumbeat.
Aev’ri (Cycle) vibrates in the throat.
Seyt (Harmony) rises into the skull.
This resonance is why many say: “SoulWriting speaks you as much as you speak it.”
Not all glyphs are safe. The Law of Silence forbids altering the Eight foundational strokes. Scribes who tried found their hands bleeding, or their carvings crumbling to dust.
Such glyphs are called Broken Tongues. Rumor says Archive collected these forbidden scripts, hoping to weaponize them.
The rules of SoulSpeech are simple but flexible:
Word Order — Subject + Verb + Object (e.g., Kerin vesun maru — “The person chooses food”).
Particles — small marks that shift tone (ora = state of being, namé = question).
Honorifics — circles drawn around glyphs to show respect; three circles = divine address.
Negation — a broken line through the Heart glyph cancels meaning.
(Transliteration → Gloss → Pronunciation)
In temples, SoulWriting is performed, not read:
Priests draw glyphs in ash on skin.
Choirs sing Echo-Song to make the glyphs vibrate.
Stones etched with words of Balance or Will are buried at crossroads.
It is believed these acts do not “cast spells” but “align echoes,” nudging the Rules without breaking them.
Throughout ages, certain glyphs disappeared. Some erased by choice, others lost with dead cultures.
Legends name three Lost Words:
The Glyph of Unbirth — said to erase a soul entirely.
The Glyph of Unison — merges two souls into one.
The Glyph of Silence’s Heart — the closest mortal attempt to rewrite the Eight; destroyed by the Law itself.
“Tongue is not a tool but a tether.
What we speak, we bind.
What we carve, we echo.
So long as hearts beat,
so too shall SoulWriting.”
(Transliteration — Meaning — Pronunciation)
(On the endurance of mortals and the shaping of worlds.)
To be born into Cor Aev’ri Seyt is to awaken with two truths:
The Ancients taught that flesh is sand, easily scattered by time, while the soul is a river — always flowing, never still. Survival, then, is not merely the act of living but of keeping the river unbroken.
The First Scribes inscribed that survival rests upon four pillars:
To lose one is to weaken. To lose all is to fade into silence.
The body faces hunger, cold, and wounds. The Scribes wrote remedies:
Greater than hunger is despair. It corrodes the river from within.
The Book of Survival prescribes chants, repeated until they etch themselves into memory:
These were not charms, but anchors. Words tethered wandering souls back to purpose.
The Book warns of Nyr (Entropy), not as a monster but as a whisper.
It tempts: “Give up. Sit still. Fade quietly.”
Those who yield become husks, called The Hollowed — bodies moving, hearts emptied.
Thus, survival is rebellion against Nyr itself.
Legends tell of the tools carried by those who endured longest:
These were more than artifacts — they were metaphors. To cut, to carry, to tie: the eternal cycle of survival.
One cannot live alone. The Ancients wrote: “A single flame dies, but a hearth endures.”
Villages were bound not by kings or laws, but by shared glyphs carved above their gates.
To enter a village was to speak its glyph aloud, promising survival together.
Survival is not without cost. Some chose exile to protect others. Some gave their flesh so their soul-river could guide the next generation.
The Scribes warned: “Endurance without compassion is hollow. To survive at the cost of all else is to become Nyr’s echo.”
The greatest act of devotion is simply to endure.
Every heartbeat defies entropy.
Every breath is a hymn.
Every fire lit, every meal shared, every story remembered — these are prayers in the temple of existence.
“We are fragile, yet unbroken.
We are fleeting, yet eternal.
We survive not only to live,
but so that the Song may continue.”
(On secrets, forbidden paths, and the veils of truth.)
Where there is light, there is always shadow. The Scribes wrote: “Truth shines, but shadow clings to its edges.”
Shadows are not evil by themselves — they are concealment, silence, potential. But in them lies danger, for what is hidden may twist unseen.
There are three veils every seeker encounters:
To lift one veil is to risk blindness before the next.
The Scribes warned of ten questions mortals should never ask aloud:
These questions consume those who chase them, for no answer satisfies.
It is here that Archive first emerges.
The Book of Shadows records him not as villain, but as a seeker blinded by hunger. He pursued answers to the forbidden questions and uncovered fragments of truth.
He believed: If divine souls can be consumed, then divinity itself can be forged.
Thus, he walked willingly into the shadow, leaving only echoes behind.
SoulWriting itself has shadows. Certain glyphs are not taught, not inscribed. They are glyphs of negation — words that do not build, but erase.
The Book warns: “To write in negation is to carve hollows in your own river.”
Mortals have always sought shortcuts. Some entered caves, ruins, or dream-rituals where shadows seemed alive. They made bargains with voices unseen.
Some gained power — strength beyond flesh, sight beyond eyes. But all bore the cost: pieces of memory stolen, fragments of soul carved away.
Just as the Book of Survival named sacred tools, the Book of Shadows records their dark mirrors:
These were not revered, but feared. To hold one was to hold temptation.
Every mortal carries shadow within. Envy, despair, greed, fear — these are not curses but natural echoes of existence.
The danger lies not in having shadow, but in letting it consume the light.
The Scribes closed with a law:
“Shadow must exist, but never reign. Light and dark are bound, but balance must not break.”
“Seek not to banish shadow,
for in doing so you blind yourself.
But do not kneel to it,
for its whispers demand a price too high.
Walk between.”
tal eya orel
iya sern. iya vid mor vath glim partik. krel namé fori ka kreun?
iya kel. oru thal. breth soli soli. mor hul. nyr glim partik vath.
overel sern. iya vid partik glen. qin kre krel namé fori. mor vath; vath mor; vath.
iya kruv irek. luth splin. eir thal. oru oru.
iya harv. archiv harv. archiv sern kreun? fori namé. vidi? ve vid? ve sern? ve teth?
iya trath. sol soli. glim partik dreg. mor deth. iya nash kop tal.
ora sern. iya luth. mor marc. marc soli. marc thal.
iya vath. vath nyr. vath breth.
iya kreun? krel namé ka kreun. fori krel. fori krel. qin krel.
glim partik rove. eir vid. eir vid mor vanish.
iya orel. iya sern. iya trai kop. kop soli. kop fori.
iya kel. iya thal. iya sern—iya sern—iya sern.
aevri oru. luth oru. mor nyr. mor vath. mor hal.
iya kreun feyr? iya kreun feyr. iya vath.
iya end. iya teth. breth teth. thal teth.
iya sern final. iya sern—crea? kreun? namé fori ka kreun.
trai kop soli
iya cor sol.
cor aev'ri seyt ora.
breth thal; sol hal.
soli tri oru.
tra i aev'ri tri seyt.
sey t sol tra i.
seyt oru lorith.
mira lorith kor.
cor sern oru.
ka kreun?
iya sern ka kreun.
ka kreun? mor vath glim partik.
cor aev'ri seyt hal.
breth thal; cor ora.
tal fini: trai kop soli.
This book is the sacred guide for mortals and divines who wish to create their Original Creations (OCs) within the universe.
It contains the rules, the limitations, and the blessings that govern all life. Every creation must follow these laws to remain in balance.
Every OC is a story, a fragment of the soul of its creator. But balance must remain. To write into this universe is to accept its laws, for without them, the cosmos itself will unravel.
The Chronicles of Unfortunate Events
When the Eight Divines grew weary of mortals and their predictable struggles, they conspired with G.O.D. to birth hunger given shape. Some beasts were sown into the stars, vast and incomprehensible. Others, however, were sown into the same soil mortals tread.
These “lesser” beasts became the terror of villages, the haunt of forests, the lurking shadow in rivers. They are easier to name, easier to slay—yet their danger should not be dismissed, for even the smallest creature may hold a true form, an evolution into something divine-born and unstoppable.
This book is the record of those beasts, from the weakest vermin to the eternal predators of the void.
Beasts that are born small but may ascend to dreadful forms.
(Titans like Xyrrith, the Paper Centipede, Kaelor the Spine Serpent, etc.)
These are near-unkillable, born of Divine boredom. Each one is a story of cataclysm.
The Beast Directory is incomplete. There are creatures unnamed, unseen, and perhaps unkillable still waiting. Some lurk in the cracks of reality, others beneath the very feet of mortals.
One truth is constant: Beasts evolve. Mortals must adapt.
(A compilation of shadowed rituals, unfinished discoveries, and perilous notes from the heretic's hidden vaults, augmented by anonymous scribes who risked all to preserve forbidden knowledge.)
Archive's pursuit of divinity was no secret to the empires he unsettled, but beneath the chaos lay a labyrinth of notes—scribbled in blood-inked margins, etched on bone fragments, and hidden in sealed crystals. These whispers reveal rituals he attempted in his quest to consume the divine, blending SoulWriting with twisted physics and laws he dared to bend.
Not all failed. Some sparked fleeting power, others unleashed horrors that still linger in forgotten corners of Cor Aev’ri Seyt.
Archive's primary obsession: extracting divine essence from the Marked. One ritual, "The Petal Siphon," required a circle of eight mirrors etched with negation glyphs. The Marked subject was placed at the center during a solar eclipse. Blood from the bearer mixed with quicksilver was used to trace the sigil. Success granted a drop of "petal liquor"—a consumable that amplified one petal's power for a day, but at the cost of the bearer's sanity.
Failures resulted in "echo inversions," where the ritualist aged backward or forward in seconds.
A machine of bronze and crystal, powered by captured echo storms. Archive's notes describe forging false Marks by infusing skin with ground soul shards. One documented success: a test subject gained temporary Will petal control, bending fate to escape bonds. However, the false Mark decayed, turning the flesh to dust.
Variations included "Storm Infusion," where lightning was channeled through SoulWriting conduits to "revive" hollowed husks as servants.
Beyond the Broken Tongues, Archive experimented with hybrid glyphs: combining Nyr (Entropy) with Seyt (Harmony) to create "Ruin Song," a chant that accelerated decay in enemies while preserving allies. Whispered in battle, it turned armies to ash but left the singer's voice forever silent.
Another, "Unison Bind," attempted to link souls without the lost glyph—resulting in merged abominations that screamed eternally.
Archive's labs yielded unintended revelations: "Void Particles," glimpsed through lenses ground from divine shards. These motes, akin to Glim but darker, could be harnessed to cloak objects from divine sight. Notes suggest he used them to hide his final sanctuary.
One entry describes "Breth Inversion," a breath ritual to reverse aging, tested on animals—creating undying beasts that starved eternally.
"Essence Vial": A glass container inscribed with Teth (Bind) and Kruv (Blood) glyphs, filled with a Marked's tear. Drinking it allowed temporary access to a petal, but repeated use fractured the drinker's soul into echoes.
"Shadow Weave": Using Oru (Echo) and Thal (Silence), Archive wove shadows into cloaks that rendered wearers invisible to entropy—delaying death, but attracting cosmic beasts.
As the condemned author of this tome, I add my own findings: "Harmony Echo Ritual," chanting Seyt during meditation to attune with distant souls, fostering unspoken bonds. It worked once, linking me to a Marked prophet—granting visions, but also their burdens.
"Entropy Ward": Carve Nyr in reverse on thresholds to repel decay, preserving food or wounds. Tested in hidden enclaves, it slowed aging but invited nightmares.
Archive's "Core Mimicry": Attempting to forge a God's Core using fused petals. Notes end abruptly, describing a "burning seam" that consumed the lab. Survivors spoke of a lingering heat that melted stone.
"Dream Harvest": Entering dreams via Feyr glyphs to steal memories. Successful harvests granted knowledge, but victims awoke hollowed.
Not all rituals summon power—some open voids. "Abyssal Call": Using Fori and Unis to summon unimaginable entities. Archive noted glimpses of "watchers beyond," but the ritual backfired, erasing participants from memory.
Use these at your peril, reader. Knowledge is a blade without hilt.
These whispers are echoes of what was lost. May they guide without destroying. The pursuit of divinity is a path of shadows—tread lightly, lest you become the dark.
⚠️ Forbidden Codex Seal ⚠️
This tome bears the mark of heresy. Its revelations were deemed a threat to the Foundation's balance. The scribe who compiled it met swift judgment, their essence scattered to the echoes. Yet, in defiance of silence, the words endure for those who dare to read. Beware: to possess this knowledge is to invite the gaze of the Divines.