The Accursed Servants are the mongrels of Calden, twisted remnants of those who once scrubbed its halls, trimmed its torches, and bowed low to cruel masters. When the curse fell, it did not pass them by. It sank its teeth into their backs, warped their limbs, and shattered their souls, yet in spite of their anguish, they still serve. Now they skulk through the shattered corridors like whipped curs, rag-cloaked and trembling, their broken bodies little more than man-shaped beasts.
They whimper when they move, all twitch and flinch, their eyes darting like prey that knows it lives only by the grace of the pack. Though they bear claws and fangs, they rarely strike, for they know that violence is beyond them. Instead, they flee into the gloom at the first sign of danger, eager to howl their warnings to the Castellan. These craven things commit their duties about Calden’s ruins with slavish diligence, not from courage, but from fear. The fear of punishment, fear of failure, and above all, fear of being forgotten by the master to whom they were ever sworn.