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. As the soul of one so aggrieved leaves its body upon death, it is drawn into the realm of the dead along with so many thousand others. But while the hordes of deceased drift deeper into the dark, the revenant’s soul rebels. The outrage of what it suffered in life turns it against the flow of the others, and hatred drives it back the way it came. Ripping and tearing, it forces its way through the dead, every step won by utter brutality.
The counter march is exhausting, and the newly dead are without end. Many would-be revenants are overwhelmed, dragged down by the dead, and carried into the dark, never to return. But for those that choose to keep clawing, keep thrashing, keep suffering no matter what comes against them, their souls are kindled with preternatural rage. They become engulfed in violet flames that give no heat, a baleful pyre to light the shadows of the world of the dead. And the dead turn from them in fear then, clearing a path for the nascent revenants to pass, but there is no mercy. Still they rend their way through those that now cringe before them, cleaving their own path, not the one that was given to them.
And so a revenant returns to the world of the living, seeking out its mortal remains as a vessel to house its all-consuming wrath. Reunited with their flesh, revenants serve as the brutal enforcers and avengers of Deadhaus.
From Concept To In Game Model
Templars wear silver armor, not only to repel the dead, but to prevent themselves from being reanimated. Should they fall in battle, this armor would reduce their corpses to ash if they tried to rise again. And so N’Gaztak woke from death into smoke and white-hot fire, thrashing against his own cuirass as it seared into his flesh. Yet though his tissues bubbled and burst, his rage burned hotter still, and the king of Deadhaus rose in hissing flames, fusing with his armor, staining it black.
The white knight rises, now stained deepest black
“Then tell us what is, Keeva,” the prince said.
Keeva’s black eyes locked onto the board, and the leper craned his neck toward her. For a moment, no one spoke, and then the banshee gave her omen. “Black stars cast across a lake of blood… a leper king rises… men chant his name as twin suns sink into dusk… I see the Crimson Sign… I see death.”
Hearing this, the leper’s imitation of a smile returned, and a rattling sigh of satisfaction sounded in his throat. The banshee’s eyes left the board and stared ahead once more.
"What do you see of death?” the prince asked.
Keeva said nothing, but returned her gaze to the board. Her hair and robes began to flow faster, rising as if caught in a great current. “I see…” she began. Her face knit with strain, and her boundaries thrashed in a vortex that wasn’t there. “The white knight rises, now stained deepest black. A mighty house is built on hatred’s back. Death undone will ride against the Crimson Sign. And by its darkness shall the stars align.”
They wield enormous weapons toward the singular purpose of retribution, finding strength in the crucible of war. Every blow against a revenant fuels its need for vengeance. Violence begets violence, rage begets rage, ever enkindling the violet fires, unable to extinguish. Even if the revenant should tear apart every last soul that wronged him, still the fires would burn, for that is the price of his power… eternity.
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.