Ravagers
Relentless warriors, each clad in heavy plate adorned with jagged horns and savage trophies.
Beastsworn Champions
Risen by strength alone, carving out their place among their kin through sheer martial skill and unmatched brutality.
The North has never known peace. It has ever been a land of warring petty lords and chiefs, rising and falling with the brutal march of the seasons. The Cataclysm and the fall of the Old Empire did not destroy these kingdoms so utterly as the rest, but left them abandoned, cut off from supplies and order. Nobles became hard-bitten warlords, their warriors bleeding for nothing, their halls filled with the dead.
It was in these desperate years that the cult of the Beast took root. Knights and sworn swords, weary of fighting for dying banners, turned to heed whispers from the deep woods, where Baphomet’s priests whispered of a different path. Those who cast aside their old loyalties were granted strength beyond mortal limits, flesh hardened by sorcery, and the favor of something far greater than petty lords.
Like wildfire, the ranks of the Beastsworn spread. They overthrew their masters, burned their keeps, and took what they willed. Those who resisted were crushed; those who yielded swore the Black Oath or died upon the altar. In time, these scattered warbands found common cause, bound not by land or blood, but by their worship of the Beast. To this day, their raids are a blight upon the Azerai Empire and the Thulean warclans alike. They fight not for conquest, nor for wealth, but because it is now their primal, bestial nature.
Whispers speak of a fortress deep in the tundra wastes of Thule, where the Knights of the Beast rule unchallenged. There, their priests spill rivers of blood in Baphomet’s name, feeding her endless hunger and preparing for the day when all of Doaden will kneel before the Beast.
The influence of Baphomet, the Sire of Beasts, runs deep in the untamed places of Doaden. Her worship is not confined to warbands of oathbound knights but thrives in isolated villages, remote woodlands, and the wild places where man and monster blur. To those who hear her call, she is no mere demon, but the primal force of instinct, unshackled strength, and fecundity in the face of terrible deprivation.
Across the land, scattered cults offer tribute to Baphomet, praying for power, protection, or vengeance against a cruel world that has cast them aside. Some are lone zealots, drawn into the deep by whispers on the wind. Others are entire communities, succumbing over generations to the slow creep of her bestial will.
