On Loria Broadly:
The Myrrhn
/mɜrn/ — “MURN”
The Myrrhn is not a tool, nor a treasure, but a current — an unseen hum that courses through Loria. Some describe it as breath rising from the roots, others as static clinging to the edges of thought. It is felt in the pause before lightning, the shimmer of déjà vu, the sudden sense of being watched. All of this is Myrrhn: an ambient force, waiting, pulsing, shaping.
Though all people brush against it, only a rare few can harness it deliberately. A spark of predisposition — whether in blood, bone, or soul — grants one the vessel to hold more of it. For most, that vessel is too small; for the gifted, it is deep and growing. Such individuals are one in a thousand, and among them, true masters fewer still.
The Soft Current
The most common experience of Myrrhn is fleeting: a whispered intuition, an unshakable dream, a coincidence too sharp to ignore. No reagents are needed, no training demanded. A child may stumble into a vision; a farmer may know the weather a day ahead. These moments are sparks, soft and untrained, fading as quickly as they flare.
Yet with discipline, these sparks can be coaxed into flame. Meditation, repetition, and patient listening stretch the vessel wider. This is how most apprentices begin, often in secret, or under the tutelage of hidden guides who pass their knowledge quietly from one generation to the next.
The Deep Current
Beyond the fleeting hum lies the deeper current, a practice of sacrifice and substance. To bend the Myrrhn in lasting or violent ways, one must anchor it with material forms. Loria’s fungi are the most potent anchors. Certain mushrooms condense the hum of the Underroot into wax, resin, or spore dust, each with unique properties.
Spore dust is carried in pouches or blown from palms, amplifying intent or opening visions. Resins, dark and sticky, are burned to steady workings or consumed to twist endurance. Dried caps and waxes, powdered and bound into rites, stabilize workings too volatile to hold alone.
The choice of fungus is as personal as handwriting — a signature of style and strength. Practitioners can be recognized by the smell of their spores, the stains on their hands, the bundles they carry in secret satchels.
Mystery of the Paths
It is said that no two adepts touch the Myrrhn in the same way. One may heal with a glance, another conjure fire from silence, another vanish in shadow or glimpse threads of time. Each is shaped by their vessel, their discipline, and their chosen anchors.
Legends whisper of those who mastered more than one path, weaving them together as though the world itself were an instrument. Most scholars dismiss these tales as exaggeration, yet their names persist, carried on in song and half-believed prayers.
There are also darker branches — hushed stories of those who hollow themselves to command death, to feed on fear, to twist the living into mockeries of themselves. Such tales are spoken quietly, always followed by a glance over the shoulder.
Laws and Taboos
In most of Loria, open use of the Myrrhn is shunned or outlawed. The Great Houses denounce it as dangerous, corrupting, or heretical. Official decrees brand its practice as consorting with demons.
Beneath this theatre lies a quieter truth: power is hoarded. Whispers claim certain Houses keep vaults of rare reagents, employ hidden adepts in war, and bleed dry Brindle slave camps where fungi of great potency are cultivated in endless shifts.
To the rulers, the Myrrhn is not unholy. It is theirs.
The Cost
The Myrrhn does not come free. To wield it deeply is to burn something: material, strength, memory, or will. Some adepts grow pale and tremorous from overuse. Others forget entire days, months, or faces. A few waste away entirely, their vessels emptied.
Thus, power is never infinite. It is a balancing act of vessel and fuel, of patience and appetite. The most cunning masters are not those who burn brightest, but those who learn when to let the hum move of its own accord.
Closing Thoughts
Whether called miracle, curse, or science, the Myrrhn is threaded into all of Loria. Temples rise to study it, Houses suppress it, wanderers stumble into it. The source of its hum remains uncertain — the iron heart of the world, the vast fungal Underroot, or something stranger still.
But one truth endures: the Myrrhn remembers. Every spark, every working, every act leaves a trace in the great current. To walk in Loria is to leave marks upon it, knowingly or not. And for those few who listen deeply, the hum will answer back.