The Codex of Purge 

The Codex of Purge is our archive of lore and characters, and our mythic truths. It's the heart behind the brand- where broken oaths, cursed blades and haunted heroes come to life.

Meet Solien Vireth, the Purge Lord. 

Cast out by gods, armed with Ashvein-a blade with a sharp tongue- they journey through the underworld to face the regrets of his past.

Every product we make carries part of that story. Every glyph, every scent, every wash.

Welcome to the Purge.

 

The Purge Lord

Prologue

The underworld thrummed with a solemn pulse, its fractured landscape reshaped into a vast hall of obsidian and bone. The air was heavy with the musty scent of damp stone and decay, mingling with something older—an intangible weight, like the lingering breath of ancient regret. Faint echoes drifted through the gloom, not quite voices, but the distant hush redeemed souls. At its heart rose the throne of the Purge Lord, a towering structure carved from the skulls of the fallen, their hollow eyes staring into eternity, their surfaces etched with faint runes that glowed with a dim, crimson light. Solien Vireth sat upon it, his form no longer the fractured warrior of old but transformed into a large, muscular figure of otherworldly power. A voluminous brown cloak and hood draped over his bare, muscular upper body, the fabric tattered at the edges as if weathered by the underworld’s trials, clasped together with a large circular metal ring that rested over his neck and one side of his chest, glinting faintly in the dim light. His head was a stark, skull-like visage, smooth and unmarred, the glyphs of his past sins erased by the purge that had forged him into this state, radiating a cold, regal menace. Leather bracers adorned his forearms, scarred and worn.

His presence, free of the scars that once marked him, was a beacon for the lost, his transformation a testament to the Purge’s power. Ashvein rested across his lap, its crimson veins pulsing faintly, a companion of his journey. He gazed upon the souls before him—translucent figures of warriors, rebels, and lovers, their forms flickering as they sought his judgment. He had purged their guilt, guided them through the darkness, each trial stripping away his past, leaving him a vessel of purpose. The cost was etched in the silence of lost memories—Elara’s laugh, the legion’s camaraderie—sacrificed to the Purge. Yet purpose had replaced despair, a bitter victory over the High Seraphs’ exile. Behind the throne, a shadowed alcove hinted at a forge, its anvil cold but surrounded by fragments of ancient artifacts—shards of glowing metal, vials of ethereal liquid—tools of a craft dedicated to helping the lost, aiding them with their own purge.

A whisper slithered through the hall, the Shade’s voice, now a weakened echo, its translucent form rippling at the throne’s edge. “You’re no savior.,” it hissed, its gold and black eyes dimmed but still mocking. “Just a prisoner of your own making, bound to this hell, guiding others, while you rot here for eternity” Solien’s muscular hand tightened on Ashvein, the words lingered, a reminder that he’s a prisoner here. The Shade’s form wavered, its power diminished by his reign, yet its presence is a constant test.

The hall trembled, a new soul approaching, its presence stirring the air with a familiar ache. Solien rose, the throne groaning beneath him. He nodded to himself, the weight of his destiny settling, a memory flickering—ash drifting over a battlefield. Years before, that's when his descent began…