ELDRIN

Before Grimspire was shadow and stone, it was known as Myrrasyl—a continent of singing rivers, crystal-lit canopies, and wilds thick with ancient magic. At its heart stood the Eldrin, luminous beings shaped by nature’s breath and starlight’s memory. Their cities were trees. Their walls were moss and spell-thread. Their guardians? Songs turned to spirit.

But paradise never lasts.

The Netherin came like a plague—ash-skinned warriors bearing blades of obsidian and a religion of endless war. They called peace “weakness.” They called growth “decay.” And they set Myrravale ablaze with their purpose.

So the Eldrin remembered.
And they fought to make the world remember too.

When the wars scorched Myrrasyl into what is now Grimspire, the Eldrin fell back to the last untouched place: Myrravale. Nestled between jagged ravines and veiled by spellbloom mists, it is the final living forest—kept alive by ancient oaths and eldritch roots that burrow deep into the soul of Pentara.

Myrravale is not just land. It is memory.
Every leaf sings. Every stone speaks. Every branch weeps when Eldrin blood falls.

To protect it, the Eldrin formed the Circle of Thorns—a council of druids, seers, and arcane naturalists sworn to defend the grove by any means. Among them rose three great Orders:

The Verdant Claw – Guerrilla warriors wielding vine and fang.

The Sapphire Bloom – Sorcerers of moonlight and illusion.

The Rootbound – Wardens who become one with tree and beast.

When the Netherin unleashed a dragon bred in the infernal foundries of the Scorched Depths, panic shook the grove. Its wings tore through warding glyphs. Its fire scorched songwood.

High Druid Thalara Moonshard called for retreat—until an unlikely figure rose from the crystal tunnels: the first Auto-Meesch.

Crafted by the Meeschling arcanist Greevix Shattergear, the construct bore no soul, only duty—and in that moment, it fulfilled it.

The Auto-Meesch marched into the fray, raising a gleaming core of arcanic latticework. It spoke one word:

“Burn.”

A blinding surge of magic lanced through the sky, piercing the dragon’s chest and shattering its obsidian heart in a thunderous bloom of light and rootfire.

Thalara, once skeptical, removed her helm and said simply:

“Build more.”

The Eldrin do not only fight with blade and spell.
They fight with empathy.

During the Second Verdant War, a Netherin warrior named Karath Shadowjaw was captured at the Whispering Hollow. Tortured? No.
Interrogated? Not quite.

Instead, Arch-Seer Lethenil of the Nine Ferns invited Karath to tea.
They walked the gardens. They discussed life. They watched a frog leap from a lily pad. Karath confessed to missing his childhood. He spoke of fear—not of death, but of failing in the afterlife his people trained for.

On the third day, Lethenil asked softly:

“What would you do if peace were not weakness?”

Karath wept.
And he told them everything.

Thalara Moonshard – High Druid of the Verdant Claw, first to embrace the Auto-Meesch alliance.

Lethenil of the Nine Ferns – Seer, peacemaker, interrogator by kindness.

Aeras Starvenn – The ‘Druid of the Gale,’ who turned an entire Netherin warband into trees. One still whispers her name.

Yven Thornmantle – Betrayed the Eldrin by siding with the Netherin in a belief that war must be answered with war. Banished. Still watched.

Now, the Eldrin remain—wiser, sharper, and more pragmatic. They still dream beneath the leaves and drink from enchanted springs, but they no longer hesitate to strike. Myrravale is sacred, yes—but it is also strategic.

With the Meeschlings and Deep-Meesch at their side, they wield illusion, wisdom, and arcane ferocity against the madness of the Netherin.

Some say the forest itself has grown aware.
That it watches. That it chooses.

To enter Myrravale without permission is to gamble with your soul.

“We do not guard paradise.
We are paradise.
And paradise bites back.”