Nestorak

In the frozen depths of Horefalls, beneath the endless halls and towering spires of Castle Lock, the true heart of House Lock'aihain lies hidden. The Jaspine Mines. These vast caverns stretch endlessly, forming a labyrinth of flooded tunnels, jagged rock corridors, and ancient tunnels swallowed by darkness. Only the cold shimmer of scattered Jaspine crystals illuminates the way, a ghostly light in an otherwise forsaken place.

And deep within those tunnels dwells something that even the Lock'ahain fear.

They call it The Nestorak.

Born of ancient pacts and darker magics, The Nestorak is said to be a creature of nightmare. A massive leviathan of a body, scaled and coiled like a serpent, crowned with a bull’s head. Its horns twist like the roots of a gnarled tree, and its mane trails behind it like blackened seaweed, stirring the subterranean waters.

How it came to be is a matter of grim speculation. Some whisper it was summoned by the founders of House Lock'ahain, a last desperate act to protect the mines that made them powerful. Others claim it is the spawn of the Jaspine itself, the living vengeance of the crystal.

Whatever the truth, its purpose is simple: to guard the veins of Jaspine, the lifeblood of the House.

Only those of true Lock'ahain blood may take from the mines without consequence. Any outsider, even a noble guest, who dares to steal a shard faces a grim fate. It begins with a soft tremble underfoot. A distant, rasping hiss. And then a roar, deep and wet, like a mountain steeped in anger.

Before the thief can scream, the darkness shifts. The waters churn. The Nestorak comes.

Its golden eyes blaze in the blackness. Its horns scrape and shatter the stone as it coils through the drowned labyrinth. One moment, nothing. The next, teeth and terror.

Still, Tales persist of a treasure hoard buried in the deepest sanctum of the mines. A trove of stolen riches gathered over centuries, piled high atop a throne of broken stone where The Nestorak slumbers. Gold, relics of ancient magics, artifacts lost to history. All wealth beyond imagining, waiting for the brave or foolish to claim it.

Many have tried.

Few have returned.

Some whisper that The Nestorak was once a man, a betrayer of Lock'ahain blood, cursed to an eternity of guardianship. Others say it is the embodiment of the House's greed, made flesh by centuries of hoarded wealth.

In the end, it matters little.

In Horefalls, children are taught not to stray near the mine mouths. In the lonely hours of Castle Lock, the Serfs murmur prayers to any god that might listen, begging not to be sent to work the lowest levels. And when the mountain winds howl and the Jaspine veins hum with an unseen rhythm, all who live in Lock'ahain’s shadow remember:

The Nestorak is real.

And it is always watching.