Among the martial branches of the Alchemic Order, the Grenadiers stand apart in both form and function. Each is a walking crucible, bearing a sealed alchemical cauldron across their back, an ever-churning orb of volatile compounds requiring constant vigilance. Unattended, these vessels rupture with devastating force. There is no safe retirement. The path of a Grenadier ends only in fire or silence.

To serve, they give up more than time or safety. Many surrender their limbs willingly, replacing them with reinforced prosthetics alchemically grafted from ritual-grown tissue and copper-braided mechanisms. These modified arms connect directly to their cauldrons, allowing them to project pressurized alchemy through jets of flame, globs of corrosive matter, or soporific vapors.

Their silhouettes are unmistakable: hunched under their spherical burdens, their venting lines snake behind them like smoldering tails. Each step is taken with grim awareness, each gesture calibrated to avoid catastrophe.

Few outside the Order would choose this life. Yet within it, the Grenadiers are honored. They embody balance, precision, and the raw tension between order and annihilation. Among their kind, there is no room for error, only combustion, containment, or collapse.