Towering above their lesser kin, the Elder Brothers are grotesque hulks of devotion, their bodies swollen with the unchecked bounty of the Crimson Grove. Standing twice the height of a man, their forms are a tangle of overgrown muscle and distended flesh, wrapped in baroque armor that barely contains their bulk.
The Elder Brothers wield immense flails, chains fused to the stumps of their thick, malformed wrists, each tipped with jagged, bladed weights that turn their sluggish swings into ruinous arcs of destruction. Their movements are ponderous, dulled by years of indulgence in the Grove’s ever-fermenting bounty, their minds lost in a syrupy haze of devotion and excess. They are kept in this docile stupor until roused to purpose, stirred by the chants of their kin or the scent of those who would deny the fruit’s gifts.
Once awakened, they become unrelenting engines of devastation, lurching forward with terrifying momentum, their massive flails whipping through the air in wide, bone-shattering sweeps. There is no thought to their violence, no strategy, only the blind, instinctive need to serve, to obey, to crush all that stands against the Crimson Grove’s will. And when their fury is spent, when the bodies have ceased moving and the ground is soaked in the harvest of their wrath, they are led back into their slumber, lulled once more by the thick, rotting sweetness of the fruit that has shaped them.
