Amondi Garnet
Bastet Simba Elder | Sanctuary of the Ashen Heart
Amondi doesn't waste words.
She never has. Those who've stood with her in silence say it speaks more than most men do in a lifetime. When she does speak, it's with purpose—a low, steady cadence that carries generations in every breath. She listens like a lioness watching the tall grass, still but ready. And when she moves, she moves like someone who's done the hard work of choosing what's worth fighting for.
Her story begins far from Oklahoma—under the dry heat and vast skies of South Africa, in an encampment forgotten by governments but not by the spirit world. She was young when the call came from her pack leader, Thulani: go west. Cross an ocean, chase the darkness to its roots, find where the corruption spreads and start digging. That's what brought her to the States in 1984—not hope, not adventure. Purpose.
By 1986, she had carved a space into the skin of Oklahoma. Not with fang or claw, but with labor. The Sanctuary of the Ashen Heart wasn't just a safehouse—it was a reclamation. Land poisoned by history. Earth beaten and scarred. And there she built something rare: neutral ground. A place where vampires, shifters, mages, and those in-between could sit, rest, maybe even speak—so long as they left their war at the door. And if they didn't… she made sure they wouldn't be back.
She walks the halls of the Sanctuary in suede and sashes, her hair braided in tight rows down her back, adorned with beads and metal—each one placed with intention. Her eyes are brown and sharp, but when the light catches just right, they glint gold—the lion's gaze within.
People assume she's the soft one because Lonán is the one who growls and bristles. They forget that she's Simba, born of war and spirit both. Her compassion isn't weakness—it's resistance. A refusal to let the Wyrm claim every inch of the world. When she battles, it's not to kill. It's to remind the land that someone still cares if it lives.
And yet, she is not a lone warrior. She is a keeper—of peace, of community, of the memory of what the world could be. When the broken come to her doorstep, she doesn't ask where they've been. She asks, what do you need? And more often than not, she gives it freely.
Some say the Sanctuary only stands because of Lonán's rules.
But they're wrong.
The Sanctuary breathes because Amondi believes it should.
Changing Breed: Bastet Simba
When the lioness steps forward, it is not to conquer.
It is to restore the order of things.
Amondi Garnet's Crinos form stands just under eight feet tall, but her presence makes her seem larger—inevitable. Her body is a seamless fusion of her human grace and the feral strength of the apex predator she carries in her blood. Her fur is short and radiant, a deep, sun-burnished gold that gleams like armor in the light. Across her shoulders and spine, the fur darkens into streaks of burnt orange and blood-red—markings that shimmer faintly, like the last light of dusk before the stars claim the sky.
Her limbs are long and powerful, each movement deliberate. There is no wasted energy in her war-form. Her claws, thick and matte black, extend just past the pads of her hands and feet—less like weapons, more like tools that have never dulled. Her tail, long and whiplike, balances her frame with the same poise she carries in her human walk.
Her face is unmistakably leonine—broad, dignified, framed by tight, thick braids that merge with her mane, each one adorned with tiny beads of bone, brass, and obsidian. Her mouth hides rows of serrated fangs behind a mask of calm. Her brow is furrowed not in anger, but in watchfulness. And her eyes—
Her eyes burn with goldfire. Not rage, not bloodlust. Memory. The ancestral weight of a hundred generations of hunters and protectors stares from behind her gaze. They are the eyes of one who knows the balance between mercy and retribution, and who can choose either with terrifying ease.
And still—there is ceremony in her appearance. Sashes remain wrapped around her torso, their deep reds and ochres undisturbed by the transformation. Beaded cords cling to her fur, tied not for ornament but remembrance. She carries the dead with her when she stands between the living and the Wyrm.
In motion, Amondi is all silence and finality. Her footsteps are thunder without sound. Her strikes are not wild—they are chosen. When she fights, it is with the weight of a people who have seen their lands burned and still rise. Her voice, when she uses it in this form, comes like wind through old stone—low, resonant, ancient.
This is not the form of a predator. It is the form of a judgment.
When she stands in the doorway of the Sanctuary, claws extended and teeth bared, it is not a challenge.
It is the last invitation to leave in peace.