murnens

Beneath the mountain’s bone, Stonehearth Deep breathes. Glow-moss bleeds light onto cobbles where Murnsnails paint shimmering trails. Ashvein forges roar; Murla’s ashstone armor gleams as she surveys warriors hammering blades that sing of war. Her servant Dirn, small and hooded, gathers threadlight fungus in silence, his sapphire Threnk-bird Lysil darting through fungal groves where Mossnar weavers knot secrets into cloth under watchful eyes. Blackhorn hunters like Karran and Harkan ride Barkhorns along cliffs—Veyra’s golden coat flashing, Brakk’s horns stained with old blood. In Glimmerfen’s gem-lit markets, Toran trades crimson Murnsnails that pulse like hearts, while Velra charms buyers with Shira’s spiraled shell. Deeper still, Voanara elder Elyss walks toward becoming a Tree, her silver Threnk-bird casting prophecies on stone. Sira the forgemaster burns scars into steel, her molehound Drass sniffing tunnels. Nirv mutters to Zintel, his voice-thieving bird, while Darnak feeds his three-legged horror Morch. Yarro weaves burial robes where Ippi glows white near dying Trees. Vollina’s voice-crack shatters rock, Thrond trembling at her feet. Maarka and Harru stalk traitors. Izelda inscribes history in snail-ink as Silquil’s cry chimes like wind. Ressa rides one-eyed Drim into battle, her war-songs shaking roots.