NETHERIN

In the darkest pit of Pentara lies Grimspire—a land torn by unending war and lit only by the glow of distant flame and cursed moonlight. From the obsidian crags and blackstone valleys rose the Netherin, a race not bred, but carved—shaped by millennia of war against the luminous Eldrin and the cunning Meeschlings who cling to the last sanctuary of life.

They call it Myrravale—the Garden of the Dying World.

To the Netherin, it is nothing but a delusion.
Peace is the armor of the weak.
And paradise, a lie told to cowards.

The Netherin believe in one truth:
That the afterlife is no reward—but a battleground worse than this.

Long ago, before the sky of Grimspire split and bled violet storms, the First Warcaller—Vaerak the Endless—led a crusade into the heart of Myrravale. His body was pierced by thirteen Eldrin arrows, but he did not fall. Instead, he laughed—a low, guttural sound that echoed into legend.

“I fight not for land, but for the wars to come.
Let the next world know—I arrive sharpened.”

His armor became relic. His scream became ritual.
From his bones, the Code of Ash was carved—etched onto obsidian tablets and taught to every Netherin child:

“No blade dulls in shadow.
No warrior fears what is beyond.
Every strike is a prayer for readiness.
When death calls—I will be ready.”

To the Netherin, the Eldrin are not foes—they are sparring partners in a sacred cycle. For thousands of years, their battles have raged across the twilight ridges, into the crystalline forests, and beneath the thundering sky-rivers of Grimspire.

The Meeschlings? Tricksters. Engineers of cowardice.
But dangerous nonetheless. Their traps wound, their machines maim, and their jokes are said to have driven three Warcallers mad.

Still, the Netherin endure. Each generation leaves behind their war stories etched into stone blades buried in the ruins of the Withered Grove. And each new warrior adds one more.

Beneath Grimspire lie the Scorched Depths—caverns of flame and smoke where beasts of war are bred. Serpent-wolves. Talonfiends. Nightmare stags. The Netherin do not tame them—they bond with them, through ritual combat and bloodletting.

Those who emerge victorious are called The Bound.
Those who fail are never seen again.

Together, Rider and Beast forge a bond deeper than family. They charge into battle not as man and mount—but as twin flames.

Vaerak the Endless – First Warcaller, died standing.

Zuryth the Pale Gale – Master of the Dagger Wind Form, who once fought blindfolded for three days and won.

Korrax Twin-Soul – Rode a twin-headed beast and spoke in two voices: one of mercy, one of rage.

Tazren Voidbrand – Betrayed the Code to seek peace with the Eldrin. Slain by his own apprentice in a duel under moonfire. His name is still spat, not spoken.

Though the Eldrin grow weary and the Meeschlings hide behind clever toys, the Netherin sharpen their blades still. The Code of Ash is whispered into firelight. Children are taught to parry before they walk. Death is not feared—it is expected. Welcomed. Trained for.

Some believe a great afterlife war awaits—where only the finest warriors of Pentara will be summoned to fight.
Others say the Netherin know it's a myth... but fight anyway.

Because what else is there?

“When the soul burns, the blade wakes.
Strike true. Bleed well.
Sleep never.”