MYTHERIN

🐍 Mytherin: Whispers of the Coil, Daughters of Storm and Sand
Before the dunes, there was jungle.
Long ago, the Mytherin slithered not through dust, but beneath emerald canopies and jeweled rain. These serpentkin—peaceful, elegant, and deeply faithful—thrived on the eastern coast of Scorrachai. They built their temples into cliffside groves, sang to the stars, and raised serpents not as pets, but as sacred kin.
Then, the jungles vanished.
No one knows why. Some claim the Mytherin grew too proud and were punished by the great balance. Others whisper of ancient sins forgotten by time. But the truth remains lost—buried beneath sand.
The rain ceased. The trees died. Sand swallowed the coast. And the Mytherin were forced to adapt.
They built stone temples into the cliffs. They hunted scorpions and stored every drop of dew.
Until the sandstorms came.
I. The Sand’s Demand
One month, a storm came howling from the west, stronger than any wind the coast had known. It shattered homes, swallowed lives, and ripped roofs from temples. It was dismissed as a rare event—until it came again the next moon.
And again. And again.
The Mytherin watched as the storms ravaged their lands with growing cruelty, always reaching their full fury by the time they struck the eastern coast. As if the storm’s wrath found its crescendo upon them.
They prayed. They wept. And then, they reasoned.
“The storm is not blind,” they whispered. “It is a breath. A voice. A goddess.”
Thus was born Uzhira, the Serpent of the Sands. She was no gentle deity, but a divine fury whose breath became the storms. The Mytherin began to sacrifice to her. First offerings of incense. Then small beasts. And when that failed, themselves.
Each month, one Mytherin was chosen. A brother. A sister. A high priest.
“Her breath is fierce. Our blood is balm.”
Some storms faded. Others did not. But the ritual endured—woven into the stone and soul of Mytherin faith.
Until one dared speak.
Her name was Sasshira, a priestess of moon rites. At a monthly offering, she stood before the gathered clans and cried:
“Have the storms lesssssened? Nay. Have our offerings been heard? I think not. We throw away reason, at the cost of our wise, our kind—for nothing but wind!"
The temple fell into silence—until High Priest Khalzek rose in fury.
“Your doubt poisons the air! Uzhira hears us. Would you have her wrath returned tenfold? The storm grows worse when we falter!”
The clans bickered. Tempers hissed. But Sasshira’s words rang clear. For once, the Mytherin chose to believe her. They canceled the sacrifice. That month, for the first time in memory, no blade was drawn.
From the cliffside halls, the people watched the horizon—waiting.
The storm came.
Sasshira and Khalzek stood together at the front, staring out into the gathering winds.
And then—Khalzek drew his ceremonial dagger. With a flash of silver, he plunged it into Sasshira’s heart.
She collapsed into his arms.
In the far, far distance, the storm stuttered—then collapsed.
Dust sank to the earth like it had been exhaled.
The Mytherin gasped. Some fell to their knees.
The sacrifice had worked.
From that day forward, none questioned the ritual again.
Belief was sealed not by proof—but by fear.
II. The Rise of the Undead Architects
When the Draetherin rose, they offered aid to the suffering Mytherin: undead servants, tireless and obedient. These reanimated beings helped erect massive stone defenses, reinforced domes, and spire-temples untouched by wind.
The storms did not stop. But the casualties waned. Many claimed the goddess was pleased.
Yet behind closed veils, another idea formed.
"Perhaps Uzhira tires of Mytherin blood. Perhaps she wants something… new."
And so the hunters were formed.
They were known as the Fangless Coil—silent stalkers of the night, their faces hidden, their names erased. They slipped beyond the canyons, into the open desert, and vanished. Days later, they returned with captives: wanderers, pilgrims, even traders. None were ever seen again.
Each new sacrifice was offered with reverence. Each time the storm still came. But each time, fewer Mytherin died.
"The walls grow stronger," said the priests. "The goddess is guiding us."
And so they built. And bled. And believed.
III. The Beast of the Broken Gulch
There was one terror the Mytherin had never challenged: A monstrous canyon-dweller—part scorpion, part beetle, all nightmare. It had lived near their lands since the first sands came, devouring any who strayed too close. The Mytherin named it Skhathaz, the Burrowed Maw.
They avoided its gulch. Fed it scraps. Feared its shadow.
Until one moon, a storm was due. The sky turned ochre. The people braced. But a group of warriors led by a young fire-eyed Mytherin named Zivhar the Bold decided enough was enough.
"This beast devours our kin as the storm does. Perhaps he is the storm. And if he is not, then let it fall anyway. We fight for peace."
They marched to the gulch with spears, blades, and resolve. The battle raged for hours. Skhathaz tore through stone and flesh. Its stinger split towers. But the warriors fought with venom in their hearts. Zivhar, wounded and furious, drove his blade through its belly as the beast collapsed into the canyon.
Bloodied, battered, and half-buried in rubble, the warriors watched the horizon.
No wind. No roar. No storm.
The sky remained still.
IV. The Day of Still Breath
The storm did not come. Not that day. Not the next.
The priests wept. The hunters cheered. The people declared:
"The goddess is satisfied. Her hunger is ended."
A new holiday was born: The Day of Still Breath. Each year, the Mytherin gather in silence at the edge of the Broken Gulch. They offer flowers, shed old skins, and whisper thanks to Zivhar and the slain beast—the final sacrifice.
Whether the storm ended by claw or coincidence, the Mytherin no longer question.
They endured. They adapted. And they remember.
Not with triumph. But with wary reverence.
For Uzhira still sleeps beneath the dunes. And sand always remembers.