All living things know hunger. All that is flesh must consume. But for those who partake of the flesh of their own kind, a door is opened and a ritual begun. For the act of cannibalism is an invitation to a ravenous spirit that covets the flesh. It is known by many names to many peoples, but its purpose is always the same, to inhabit the flesh so that it may consume.
Each cannibalistic meal widens the door for this spirit, allowing more of it to pass into the host, twisting its body as it does. The bones of the host are warped and elongated; jaws widen and jagged teeth burst forth, shredding the lips and knocking the original teeth free to be swallowed in insatiable hunger. The spine is curved so that the host must crawl instead of walk, and claws puncture the toes and fingertips, as suited for digging as for rending flesh and bone. The more human flesh is consumed, the more the host is reshaped, until it begins to crave this meal above all others. Its hair falls out in clumps. Its eyes are overgrown with folded tissue. Its nose, now replaced by nasal slits, can detect the scent of flesh, even buried deep underground, yet still the hunger grows, maddening, all-consuming, until the host knows little else.
A full stomach is no reason to cease the feast, and a Ghoul is happy to purge a previous meal if it spots something particularly tasty, if only for the sheer pleasure of eating again. To the living, and to many undead, Ghouls are but mindless scavengers, but to a Ghoul, the rest of the world are just picky eaters. Either way, their ferocity and adaptability are an undeniable asset to Deadhaus, and it takes little convincing to enlist the aid of a Ghoul in war. After all, that’s where the freshest meat is found.
You are what you eat.
None are certain how long vampires have stalked the shadows of Malorum. Since history has been recorded, there have been writings of the children of the night, immortals that preyed upon the blood of the living.
There is no magick in the making of a revenant, no ritual, no alchemy… there is only rage. Only the most grievous injustice, deepest betrayal, or greatest loss can foment the sheer hatred from which a revenant is born.
There are many methods of twisting the natural order of life and death, each producing their own form of undeath, but few are so intricate or precarious as the binding of a wraith.
Unlike most other undead, Banshees were not once part of the realm of the living. They did not once draw breath, nor were their spirits ever bound by flesh and bone. They are wholly native to the realm of the dead.
The most cunning of mortal spellcasters inevitably seek to extend their lifespan beyond its natural limits, but few have the strength of will to endure the excruciating path to immortality.
Together with the Grand Inquisitor's research, they developed the capacity to create an undead entirely under their control, a construct of interwoven limbs and parts animated by alchemy, a Wight.
All living things know hunger. All that is flesh must consume. But for those who partake of the flesh of their own kind, a door is opened and a ritual begun.