Deep-Meesch

A Book of Moles, Mushrooms, and the Emergence of Madness

Before the sun scorched Grimspire’s skies and the war echoed through Myrravale, there were whispers. Beneath the roots of the oldest trees, past layers of dust and ruin, the Meeschling bloodline forked. A splintered kin, pale and sharp-eyed, drifted downward into the chasm’s throat—the Deep-Meesch.

They did not flee.
They simply… preferred the quiet.

For thousands of years, they thrived in bio-luminescent caverns, cultivating mushrooms that hummed with latent arcana. They spoke in riddles, studied in silence, and tamed the one beast that would listen: the Sacred Cave Mole—a creature they revered as mount, livestock, and spiritual equal.

When tremors shook the ceiling, they’d mutter:

“Upworlders again. Always stomping. Tell them to hush, Brambletooth.”

They had no idea there was a war going on.

It wasn’t a scholar who discovered the surface. It was a mole.
A particularly nosy one named Clumpsnout.

When Clumpsnout breached a thinned cavern wall and sniffed his way into the moonlight, the Deep-Meesch followed. They emerged from the dark like forgotten ghosts—peeking through mossy cracks into a world aflame with Eldrin fury and Netherin cruelty.

Some cried at the sight of stars.
Others squinted, hissed, and ran back underground.

But a divide was born.

Half joined the Meeschlings above, pledging themselves to the preservation of Myrravale.
The others… felt kinship in the shadows of the Netherin.

The most infamous of the Deep-Meesch was Vilkrith Holloweye, an arcanist of disturbing brilliance. Obsessed with the mechanics of the Meeschlings, he sought to craft a creature that could not only kill—but terrify.

And so he made the first Constrükt.

A scarecrow construct, hollow-chested and stitched with spellwire, it radiated dread. Its movements were unnatural. Its voice—when it spoke—echoed like a child whispering through a coffin lid.

When Professor Rodrick Glimpsewhittle of the Meeschlings saw it in action, he simply said:

“Nope. Absolutely not. Out. Get out.”

Vilkrith was banished, both he and his creation exiled from Myrravale.

His response?

“I understand. I do. I’d be terrified too… if I’d rejected perfection.”

He vanished into the Wailing Canyons—eventually joining the Netherin and gifting them his legions.

Not all Deep-Meesch embraced Vilkrith’s path. Many remained loyal to the quiet—the caves, the crystals, the ancient fungi. They serve now as keepers of illusion, underground sentinels who walk the line between dream and deception. Eldrin and Meeschling alike rely on their shadowcraft, though they remain difficult to trust fully.

When asked if the Constrükts still wander the dark, one elder Deep-Meesch replied:

“Sometimes, we hear rustling in old tunnels.
Sometimes, moles go missing.
But hey, maybe it’s just the mushrooms again.”

The Deep-Meesch are not heroes. Nor are they villains.
They are the echo in the cave. The soft tap on the ceiling.
The mole whisperer in the dark saying:

“Keep it down up there, will ya? Some of us are trying to research.”