Beastman
From foul Goblinkind, a breed most savage doth spring, the Beastmen, or Bear-Men as some do name them. With strength unmatched and rage that burns like brimstone, they tower o'er their kin, clad in a pellage thick as winter's frost. Though vast of limb, these fiends move with the silence of moonlit shadows, lurking in tangled wilds till hapless prey they may entrap in their cruel embrace.
Basic Information
Anatomy
These brutish fiends, spawned from the same foul well as Goblins, do rise in hulking, man-shaped figures. Their frame, save for face and ear most vile, doth bristle with a pelt thick as a winter bear's. On their visages, where Goblin cunning might lurk, dwells a bestial ferocity, marked by ursine snouts and eyes that gleam like embers in the night. Claws they bear upon hands and feet, yet naught like weapons they be, mere tokens of their savage nature. But within their maws, sharp teeth abound, ready to rend the flesh of hapless prey once laid low.
Towering o'er their Goblin kin, these hulking brutes stand on legs nigh to eight feet long. Even the fearsome Nightwalkers must tilt their heads to meet their gaze. In the flickering torchlight of some dank dungeon deep, their shadow stretches vast, a monstrous harbinger of the carnage to come.
Ecology and Habitats
The Beastmen are not bound by clime or common ken. From the windswept peaks of snow-kissed mountains to the sun-dappled valleys of temperate climes, they carve their lairs and stalk their prey. Yet, their hearts yearn for the cold embrace of stone and the echoing halls of subterranean realms underneath Tel's boreal forests.
Imagine, if thou darest, a scene painted in shades of grey and shadow. Atop a jagged tooth of rock, where icy winds claw at the sky, stands a Beastman, fur bristling like winter's beard. His eyes, twin embers in the gathering gloom, observeth the desolate landscape below. Here, amid the crags and scree, the Beastmen find solace in the harsh embrace of the elements, their howls echoing like mournful trumpets against the frozen peaks.
But descend now, reader, into the dark maw of Mundus Telis. Follow the winding veins of ancient caves, where sunlight bith but a distant memory. In this sepulchral realm, the Beastmen truly thrive. Their senses, honed by ages spent in perpetual twilight, pierce the gloom. Their slaves swing picks that scrape against the cold stone, carving out labyrinthine pathways known only to their kind. Here, in the hush of the underworld, they weave their dark tapestries of savagery and primal might.
So remember, should thou find thy self amidst the whispering pines of a mountain pass or stumblest upon a hidden cleft in the ground, tread softly. For the Beastmen may walk unseen, their eyes burning like malevolent stars in the eternal night.
Dietary Needs and Habits
Learn now, of the Beastmen's grim hunger, a tale not for the faint of heart nor for a delicate stomach. These feral fiends are hunters born, their bellies furnaces that crave naught but flesh and blood.
Fresh kill is their delight, the warm pulse of life upon their tongues a savage song. They stalk the shadows, keen senses pinpointing prey, then fall upon it with a fury that chills the marrow. Be it stag or man, naught escapes their hunger. In their gnashing jaws, bone yields like brittle kindling, and lifeblood painteth the ground a macabre crimson.
Lo, their hunger knows no bounds. When fresh meat wanes, they stoop to carrion, scavengers in the wilderness. No carcass is too foul, no stench too rank. Whether plucked from the belly of a bloated serpent or gnawed from the bleached bones of a long-dead traveler, every scrap filleth their insatiable maw.
Such is the Beastmen's way, a diet that speaks of their feral core. In their ravenous gullets, the line between man and monster blurs, leaving only a primal instinct, a gnashing hunger that consumeth all in its path. So be wary, traveller, lest thou become the next morsel in their grisly feast!
Additional Information
Social Structure
In Beastmen's savage world, only might makes right and blood binds loyalty. They dwell not in scattered hovels like their more common kith, the Goblins, these fiends form tribes, a tangled web of smaller clans woven from the threads of kin. From ten souls to ten score, may dwell within such a brutish brood, their lives a fierce tapestry of mutual need and savage competition.
Among these brutes, strength stands as the light of Aelos, casting dominance upon the fiercest warrior. Through duels of fang and claw, leaders are forged, the victor claimeth the throne of bone and muscle that rules his clan. To him alone falls the right to claimeth the females, their offspring weaving further strands of loyalty and fealty into this monstrous tapestry. Thus, loyalty in their realm floweth not from whispered oaths or scribbled parchments, but from the shared blood forged in battle and birthed in shadow.
Mark thee well, for within these tribes lurk both unity and strife. They fight as one against outside threats, their combined fury a storm sweeping away all opposition. Yet, within their own ranks, simmering jealousies may erupt in challenges, the victor claiming not just dominance, but the right to sire the next generation. Remember this, should thou ever stumbleth upon their dens, for to understand the Beastmen's society is to understand the savage harmony of kinship and might that driveth them onward in their eternal twilight.
Average Intelligence
The truth of the Beastmen's mind is woven with both cunning and chaos. Though their wit may match their Goblin kin, a spark, nay, a furnace of bestial fury burns within, ever ready to consume their reason in flames of rage. A mere slight, a whispered threat, can unleash this tempest, transforming them from shrewd hunters to snarling beasts.
Yet, underestimate their savagery not, for in the dance of war, they are masters of cunning ferocity. Their warbands, like packs of wolves, move with a chilling cohesion, shadows flitting through the fray, striking with the unexpected speed of vipers. Skirmishing tactics, born of both instinct and experience, flow through their veins. One moment they vanish into the undergrowth, leaving echoes of yowls and flickering glimpses of fur, the next they erupt from the shadows, fang and claw tearing into any who dare stand their ground.
So ponder this, wanderer, when venturing near their lairs. The Beastmen may possess the mind of men, but their hearts beat with the rhythm of the wild. And in the heat of battle, it is the beast that holdeth the reins.
Perception and Sensory Capabilities
These foul fiends, spawned from the same twisted loam as Goblins, do not suffer the woes of mortal sight. For where darkness reigns, they see with eyes as keen as owls in the moonless sky. No dim crevice, no pitch-black tunnel, can shroud their gaze. They stalk the unseen paths, their vision a burning ember in the eternal night.
In the labyrinthine depths, where light is a forgotten dream, the Beastmen are kings. Their eyes, unburdened by the sun's tyranny, pierce the gloom. Their ears, keen as a lynx's, catch the rustle of leaf and whisper of wind. Nor are they wanting in the art of sniffing out prey, their nostrils twitching like serpents' tongues, detecting the tang of fear and the musky spoor of hidden creatures. They map the unseen pathways, their silent steps echoing in the endless dark. Woe betide the lost soul who stumbles upon their path, for they are the hunters, and the shadows their hunting ground.
Civilization and Culture
Average Technological Level
Let not thine preconceptions of smith and forge lead thee astray in the lands of the Beastmen. Though they tread not the path of refined iron and gleaming steel, their grasp of metal's bite goes beyond mere brutish bludgeoning. For these cunning fiends, born of shadow and fury, dance on the precipice of true smithcraft, their tools whispers of a burgeoning civilization yet to bloom.
Though the secrets of smelting, that fiery dance of ore and flame, seem beyond their ken, their eyes are keen to spy the glint of bronze in sun-dappled rock, the iron veins hidden in the earth's cold kiss. With cunning hands and brutal strength, they wrest these natural gifts from the earth, shaping them into weapons and tools as formidable as their fangs and claws. Nay, think not these mere crude stones fashioned to crude forms. Their bronze blades gleam with a savage edge, their iron axes bite deep with primal might.
Yet, their hunger for metal knows no bounds. When shadows whisper of settlements rich in the clang of forge and gleam of polished wares, they descend, a tide of fang and fury. From ransacked villages and gutted outposts, they plunder the spoils of war, adding stolen blades and plundered armor to their arsenal. Thus, their savagery feeds their progress, each raid a grim step closer to forging their own destiny in metal and flame.
Common Customs, Traditions and Rituals
In the shadowy wood where Beastmen lurk, governance bears naught the semblance of human civility. No silken-tongued orators nor parchment-wielding scribes hold sway amongst these feral fiends. Instead, their brand of democracy echoes the rumble of drums and the gnashing of teeth.
Those brave few who have travled to their warrens and returned tell of a scene lit by flickering torches, where hunched figures clad in fur huddle in a rough circle. These are the clan patriarchs, bruisers weathered by countless brawls and hunts, each bearing the scars of their leadership. Amongst them stand the warband leaders, their eyes burning with primal hunger and honed instincts. Through trials of combat, of blade against fang and claw against claw, one of these warriors will ascend to the mantle of warchief, his right to rule etched in blood and fury.
Yet, even for the Beastmen, brute strength alone does not a leader make. Behold, then, the council of elders, wise in ways beyond mere bloodshed. Though their eyes may dim and their claws dull, their spirits hold the whispers of ancient lore and the cunning born of a life spent navigating the treacherous paths of power. When matters of weighty import stir the tribe, from the migration of prey to the defense of territory, their voices rise in a guttural chorus, each word a smoldering coal dropped into the tinderbox of debate.
Mark well, however, for within this council lurketh a hidden asp. Though reason may flicker at the outset, like sunlight struggling through a storm-wracked sky, it bith but a fragile truce against the ever-present tempest of Beastman rage. A whispered slight, a perceived injustice, and the council chamber erupts into a maelstrom of violence. Teeth gnash, claws rake, and the air fills with the intoxicating scent of blood and primal fury. Debate gives way to duels, strength becomes the sole arbiter of truth, and the warchief must tread a perilous path, lest his own reign be engulfed by the very flames he seeks to control.So, traveler, venture not into the Beastmen's lands with notions of ermine-lined cloaks and gilded halls. For in their realm, power floweth not from parchments signed with a flourish, but from the glint of blades and the bellow of bestial rage. Their democratia is a brutal dance of might and cunning, a spectacle not for the faint of heart, but only for those who dare to peer into the untamed soul of the wilderness.
History
The long-lived Alvi speak of events of the last age, beyond our ken, when dragons ruled the skies like cruel gods, they deemed their goblin servants, those skittish, sun-shy wretches, unfit for their desires of conquest. Thus, in their lairs, the Dragon-Lords did weave a wicked scheme of eldritch alchemy.
From the goblin stock, the cunning dragons plucked the boldest, the fiercest, those with a flicker of defiance in their eyes. These they mated, generation after generation, to the brood of monstrous beasts, wolves of teeth and claws dripping with infernal ichor. And from this unholy union, the Beastmen sprang forth, hulking brutes sculpted in bone and sinew, their eyes burning with a fire that mocked Aelos himself.
No longer did they cower from sunlight's blazing rays, instead, their pelts, with fur thick as dragonhide, drank its warmth and thrived. Their hearts, forged in the furnace of draconic blood, pulsed with a savage strength unknown to their goblin kin. These were the shock troops of the fire-breathing overlords, instruments of dominion carved in fang and fury.
Across the fair lands of Alvi, Nanoi, and Man, the Beastmen marched, a tide of fangs and roars. With brutal might, they shattered Alvi defenses, their axes cleaving through enchanted glades like fire through tinder. Nanoi strongholds, fortresses of ancient stone, crumbled under their ravenous claws. Cities of Men, proud monuments to human ambition, were razed to smoldering ash, their screams echoing a grim symphony of conquest.
And ever above, the dragons soared, their shadows a harbinger of terror, their firestorms raining from the heavens. The Beastmen, their eyes ever fixed upon their winged masters, served with a fierce, if grudging, loyalty. For while they thirsted for the lands they conquered, they knew the sting of draconic wrath too well to defy their creators.
Thus, the world bled beneath the dragon's banner, bathed in the crimson tide of conquest until the events of the Dracomachia freed us from their yoke. The Beastmen, who, unlike their craven Goblin kin, refused to cower in subterranean shadows after the dragons' fiery reign had crumbled. Whilst the Goblins, those cowering wretches, slunk back to their dank holes, hearts poisoned by fear and longing for their cruel overlords, the Beastmen, veins still humming with the taste of sunlight and the heat of battle, did carve a different fate.
No, these bestial warriors, forged in the crucible of draconic ambition, sought not refuge not only in the cold embrace of earth. Instead, with eyes smoldering like embers, they turned their gaze skyward, towards the sun that had once been their bane. With claws that could rend hardwood and fangs dripping with the gore of conquest, they sought to claim the darkest heart of the mountain forests as their own.
Within the ancient boughs and tangled undergrowth, they built their lairs, fortresses sculpted not only from stone or mortar, but from the gnarled roots and twisted branches of their pine and granite kingdom. In these shadowed halls, they honed their blades, sang their guttural war chants, and feasted on the spoils of the hunts that echoed through the whispering leaves.
Let no Man or Alvus mistake this forest as a haven, for within its verdant confines, the Beastmen lurk. The echoes of draconic roars, though faded, still whisper in the rustling leaves, and the fire of ambition still burneth within the Beastmen's eyes. A realm where savagery reigneth and shadows hold secrets older than this age remembereth.
