Nyzzrix, The Candlewrought Apostle of Emberveil

Far beneath the Heartforge—past the Veilsteel crucibles, through tunnels choked with scentless flameweed, and into the molten black of the Emberveil Depths—slithers a being believed by dwarves and flatstone scholars alike to be a myth, a curse, or a lesson in hubris. Nyzzrix is a Wyrmbalm, a newly emerging species descended not from dragons, but from molten resonance spores cast off during early Heartflame testing gone awry. The spores bonded with unstable goblin souls exiled into the cracks below Or, mutating through centuries of subterranean pressure and esoteric heat.

Nyzzrix glows faintly from within—his body is semi-amorphous, a waxy serpentine mass riddled with veins of liquid fire. Tiny candles sprout like antlers from his shoulders and spine, each one flickering with the stolen dreams of those who slept too near his tunnels. His voice is slow, burbling, like magma burping up forgotten lullabies. His eyes are wide and luminous, ringed with soot, and his many limbs (if you count the extra fused wax arms along his midsection) twitch rhythmically to the beat of forgotten war drums.

He refers to himself in the third person—often ominously—and considers all non-Wyrmbalm life “flickerkin,” blessed but temporary. Nyzzrix was first discovered (or perhaps released) when the Passage of Or cracked into a collapsed forge-rune vault. A dwarven worker named Rilk Flatstone fled screaming that “the wax whispered back.” The tunnels have since been officially “under renovation” for three years.

Despite his eerie manner, Nyzzrix is not malevolent. He considers himself a caretaker of melting truths, keeping a record of all things softened or blurred by time. He has a working agreement with Stonfin Dustbinder, offering flicker-dreams in exchange for discarded footnotes. He also sends candles to Miss Terry, who insists they burn lyrics no one ever wrote, and only hum at night.

Nyzzrix’s signature magic is Wickbinding, a form of molten resonance manipulation that converts memories and oaths into flammable foci. He can ignite a promise, melt a secret into a soothing mist, or create Waxsentinels—hulking candle-hulks that flicker with protective rage when their source-promise is threatened. He believes every soul is a wick waiting to be lit, and that pain is simply wax too stubborn to drip.

His stated goal is to build the Library of Heat, a molten archive of all things left unsaid—recorded in living candles that flicker differently based on who asks the question. He invites anyone with a burden to descend and leave it burning.

“Let it melt, flickerkin. Flame does not judge. It simply remembers… by forgetting everything else.”
— Nyzzrix, to a dwarf who confessed to betrayal without speaking a word