Few who march into the Ashen Wastes ever return. Over the centuries, the Azerai Church has dispatched countless crusades into that shifting expanse, armed columns sent to uncover secrets best left buried. Their failure is met with silence. Their fate, unspoken.

But some do remain.

Misshapen echoes of those crusaders still wander the Wastes, twisted hulks reshaped by creeping corruption. Their flesh has not rotted, only changed. Bone pyramids erupt from skulls. Armor and anatomy have fused, restructured into unstable, geometric forms. Geometry grows where flesh once ruled.

They move in scattered warbands, broken parodies of once-proud formations. Weapons meld with limbs. Shields pulse like carapaces. No mind endures, yet some reflex remains. A memory. A hunger. Or perhaps the Wastes themselves wield what they have consumed.

These things attack without hesitation. It matters not if the sigils they once bore still hang from the necks of their prey. In the Ashen Wastes, loyalty is forgotten. Survival, ruin, and recursion are all that remain.