Chronicle of the Realm’s Ending

Entry 1371 - The Beastworn

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 war
riors 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 whis
pered 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 re
sisted 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 war
clans 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 riv
ers of blood in Baphomet’s name, feeding her endless hunger and prepar
ing for the day when all of Doaden will kneel before the Beast.

These are the words of Dreyen Solius, Chronicler of the World’s ending

The Worship of Baphomet

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 intothe deep by whispers on the wind. Others are entire communities, succumbing over generationsto the slow creep of her bestial will.

On blessed and terrible occasions, her spawn walk among their faithful. The Chort, presiding asguest of honor at some foulsome harvest feast. The Woe Stag, a towering nightmare of sinewand antler, ever-stalking those who flee her grasp, before ultimately dragging them screamingback into the dark. The Bies, and lesser fiends, festering in the shadows, trampling at the edges of civilization. These creatures are both terrors and guides, leading the devoted further into theBeast’s embrace.

To the Azerai Empire, Baphomet’s cult is a cancer, a force of disorder that must be purged. Tothe forsaken, she is salvation, offering freedom from law, from weakness, from the chains of thehuman world. And as her children multiply and the wilds grow darker, it is clear: the Beast’shunger is never sated.

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An Empire of Mistrust

The Azerai Empire does not rule through
unity and mutual accord, but through fear. The Penitent Crusade, the horrors
beyond its borders, the Church’s threats of damnation, these are the chains
that bind its people. But no empire, especially one as vast as the Azerai
Empire, can be watched in its entirety. The Crusade cannot be everywhere at
once, nor can the Church observe all its vassals. Control, then, is maintained
not through omnipresence, but through paranoia.

The empire’s myriad vassal lords and
merchant princes, bound to the Church in oaths of fealty, are never allowed to
grow too strong. They are played against one another, their territories
carefully balanced so that no single ruler dares challenge the greater order. A
treasonous whisper is enough to bring ruin, and so every noble watches their
peers as keenly as they fear the Confessor’s knock at their door. This distrust
seeps downward, turning city against city, neighbor against neighbor, family
against itself.

The Church ensures this division runs
deep, rewarding informants, offering absolution to those who confess their
neighbor’s sins. Fear is a currency, traded freely, spent ruthlessly. And if a
town, a vassal, or a province grows complacent, the Order of Confession is
dispatched, dragging the Shrivewain in its wake. Guilt matters little, what
matters is that the lesson is learned, and that the lesson is never forgotten.

Extra content

Each Collection comes with a beautifully designed magazine with:

• D&D Statblocks
• Lore section
• Concept art
• Narrative shots
• Adventure prompts