Iron Revenant
“Was a horrible thing, an evil thing. A thing born from all the swirl of madness we bring to those killing fields. It cared not for friend or foe. Bancroft or Larodan, its blade chopped them down all the same, like lambs on butcherin day, and it didn’ matter how many bolts we put into the damn thing, it just kept churnin through,”
- A survivor’s account, scribed by Syr Halonquin
Appearance
When first manifested, an Iron Revenant appears like any other soldier encased in full armor, though a dark mist, like iron powder, has been observed by those who have survived their encounters with these entities.
It is with time that the war gheists change. Growing different as they enact violence and sow death across the mortal plain. Their shapes twist and warp as their rageful magnetism binds more parts to their carapace. Swords, wands, helmets, spears and plate, all those things crafted for the purpose of war and killing held by its victims seem to be shattered and consumed by a waking revenant, feeding its existence.
As they walk the land, wandering from battle to battle, they grow larger, more dangerous and stranger still.
It is with time that the war gheists change. Growing different as they enact violence and sow death across the mortal plain. Their shapes twist and warp as their rageful magnetism binds more parts to their carapace. Swords, wands, helmets, spears and plate, all those things crafted for the purpose of war and killing held by its victims seem to be shattered and consumed by a waking revenant, feeding its existence.
As they walk the land, wandering from battle to battle, they grow larger, more dangerous and stranger still.
Habitat
If an Iron Revenant isn’t sighted on the battlefield or in the midst of chaos, be sure that it is headed there. First awakened at the sites of bloody combat, these soldier’s banes are merely one of the many twisted scavengers that follow the aftermath of war. They can be found anywhere in Arethil, but there will be more in regions that see regular conflict.
Traits
An Iron Revenant is never seen standing still. Trapped in an eternal vigilance and fueled by battle rage, most Iron Revenants behave in a similar way. They will plod steadily towards nearby armies and warbands, having a preternatural sense for the violence and death that clings to warriors. Curiously, unarmed settlements and commonfolk are often ignored - Iron Revenants will walk right through a village, and not so much as glance at the residents. However if confronted, or if it senses enough bloodlust emanating from a person, an Iron Revenant will stray from its path and attack until either the disruptor is dead or the Iron Revenant has been incapacitated.
If an Iron Revenant is left to wander for long enough, it can develop a more complex personality, approaching sentience, and become unpredictable in its routes and actions.
Though they are united by their rage and berserker nature, each Iron Revenant has its own fighting style, and none share a common weakness. These skills are inherited from the deceased bearer of its original armor. Some lumber onward with heavy battleaxes, some dance endlessly by swordpoint, and an uncommon few retain the burning spellwork of a past life.
As they kill in the field, they become stronger, their weapons and iron bodies hardened by hatred. If they cut down an especially worthy foe, they can absorb the skills and power of the slain.
If an Iron Revenant is left to wander for long enough, it can develop a more complex personality, approaching sentience, and become unpredictable in its routes and actions.Though they are united by their rage and berserker nature, each Iron Revenant has its own fighting style, and none share a common weakness. These skills are inherited from the deceased bearer of its original armor. Some lumber onward with heavy battleaxes, some dance endlessly by swordpoint, and an uncommon few retain the burning spellwork of a past life.
As they kill in the field, they become stronger, their weapons and iron bodies hardened by hatred. If they cut down an especially worthy foe, they can absorb the skills and power of the slain.
Lore
Niyenli felt her heart pounding in her chest. Her guts turned over as they marched on across the grass and dirt. Spear in hand, her kettle-helm bounced with each of the plodding steps that brought them closer to the killing field. Enemy archers were already in sight, lined up behind a wall of round shields and bristling spear points.
Gods above. Why was she here? What was the point of all this? Marchin’ off to fight some lord’s battle. Move a line across a map.
The trumpet blasts sounded. Her sergeant bellowed out. “Loose formation! Loose formation!”
She could see the enemy grab arrows as all her comrades spaced wider apart, she could see their foe bend back and draw. So many little bows pulled to kill. A dull sound. A curtain of wobbling death sailed through the air as they raced forward.
“On now! On now! Charge!” The sergeant cried. The horns blared. The quills rained down. Pierced through leather and a shoddy plate. Scores fell. Scores more kept on their mad dash forward until steel and flesh crashed together in a ball of murder.
Red. All Niyenli saw was red. She shouted, her throat hoarse as she ran a man through the gut. Something hard cracked against her face and put her to the ground with a wed thud. The crush of feet, the suck of mud. She was suffocating.
“War gheist!” A voice called out. And more added theirs to the chorus.
All screams of blood-boiling rage turned to bone-chilling horror.
“Break the attack! Break-” the heavy crunch of metal caving in, crunching bone with the wet rupture of viscera.
Arrows still peppered about as soldiers scrambled away. Niyenli, still alive. Blooded and broken but alive! She groaned as she pulled herself out from under dead men. Heard the life leaving those around her as something metal clanked and rasped and plodded through the blood soaked earth, punctuated by the cacophony of shearing armor and snapping arms.
It grew closer. The plodding steps. With iron clinks and tinks as it moved on.
She crawled more desperately. Dragged herself across the muck, as her legs failed to move with any strength. Tears streamed down her mud-stained face, but her teeth were bared and her blood boiled with the will to live.
Plink. Plunk. Plink. Plunk. It passed her by. An armor, dark and swirling with a miasma of metal. Arrows rose out of the planes of its plate like twisted flowers from a bed of steel. The feather blooms shook with each of its steps, as if a dark wind stirred them.
“Ser… Ser Drenden?” she asked, eyes wide with horror. For she knew that greatsword it dragged behind it. Knew the colors it wore. Those same colors she wore.
It did not heed her. It only followed those men who still ran before it. Those archers who trained arrows onto it once more and let fly.
Gods above. Why was she here? What was the point of all this? Marchin’ off to fight some lord’s battle. Move a line across a map.
The trumpet blasts sounded. Her sergeant bellowed out. “Loose formation! Loose formation!”
She could see the enemy grab arrows as all her comrades spaced wider apart, she could see their foe bend back and draw. So many little bows pulled to kill. A dull sound. A curtain of wobbling death sailed through the air as they raced forward.
“On now! On now! Charge!” The sergeant cried. The horns blared. The quills rained down. Pierced through leather and a shoddy plate. Scores fell. Scores more kept on their mad dash forward until steel and flesh crashed together in a ball of murder.
Red. All Niyenli saw was red. She shouted, her throat hoarse as she ran a man through the gut. Something hard cracked against her face and put her to the ground with a wed thud. The crush of feet, the suck of mud. She was suffocating.
“War gheist!” A voice called out. And more added theirs to the chorus.
All screams of blood-boiling rage turned to bone-chilling horror.
“Break the attack! Break-” the heavy crunch of metal caving in, crunching bone with the wet rupture of viscera.
Arrows still peppered about as soldiers scrambled away. Niyenli, still alive. Blooded and broken but alive! She groaned as she pulled herself out from under dead men. Heard the life leaving those around her as something metal clanked and rasped and plodded through the blood soaked earth, punctuated by the cacophony of shearing armor and snapping arms.
It grew closer. The plodding steps. With iron clinks and tinks as it moved on.
She crawled more desperately. Dragged herself across the muck, as her legs failed to move with any strength. Tears streamed down her mud-stained face, but her teeth were bared and her blood boiled with the will to live.
Plink. Plunk. Plink. Plunk. It passed her by. An armor, dark and swirling with a miasma of metal. Arrows rose out of the planes of its plate like twisted flowers from a bed of steel. The feather blooms shook with each of its steps, as if a dark wind stirred them.
“Ser… Ser Drenden?” she asked, eyes wide with horror. For she knew that greatsword it dragged behind it. Knew the colors it wore. Those same colors she wore.
It did not heed her. It only followed those men who still ran before it. Those archers who trained arrows onto it once more and let fly.
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