Firstly I need to give a brief overview of my campaign world, Foundation. Foundation is an unstable plane created as a sanctuary for a powerful, ancient psion. The instability of Foundation's construction causes the world to reach out across the multiverse and juxtapose large sections of itself with equal portions of other worlds. This story begins far from Foundation.


Long ago two Gods of War stood arguing in a field. They watched a vast herd of enslaved beings toiling in the muck, blistering in the sun, backs bent as they worked. The evil god of tyranny, massacres, and discord scoffed 'Chattel! lowing cows without strength or ambition. What use are they but the work they perform?' The good god of honor, justice, and daring smiled 'You are blind to their strength. Any man with armor, sword, and horse can fight for a just cause backed by a noble lord, but could that man stand every day and labor until his hands bleed and his bones ached? These men have more in them than you see. They require but a small push to become a fighting force like none this world has seen. The only barrier is despair. They require a leader, a symbol of rouse them' The evil god laughed aloud, 'I will take your wager! Arm this pathetic rabble and they will be crushed with the fortnight.'


And the two gods decided the contest; they would both create half a soul, combine them, then build a body to fit it. This man would be the champion of the enslaved, a symbol of hope, strength, and revenge, until such time as the gods decided one had won their wager. The result was a man like few alive in that world; seven feet, built like a statue, flowing blonde hair and flashing blue eyes. This man was strong, charismatic, and utterly without fear. Immortal, but with a mortals frail body, he was dropped into the worst slave pit the evil god could find and spent an entire human life span in brutal servitude. Not until the man was forced to eat the fallen body of a fellow slave in a time of great suffering did he truly decide that he would end the torment. His initial rebellion was swift and decisive, it spread across the land like a plague, swallowing up slaves and destroying slavers. The army had reached one million followers and was perched on the edge of overcoming the king's assembled forces. The good god stood gloating, watching the battle that would win the bet and teach the evil god a bit of humility when his beautiful slave army simply vanished before his eyes leaving behind a section of flint foot hills and  pebbled beach still wet from ocean spray.


The slave army and its brutal leader appeared on a misty seaside moor, with a vast mountain range at their backs. Down the shore a few miles, a plume of black smoke rose into the air and the faint sound of screams rolled across the crashing waves. Half a dozen ships with square sails and long banks of oars had come aground near a small village and fur clad warriors, wielding axes and great swords were ravaging the people, raping and pillaging. A very brief struggle subdued these mindless savages and the few remaining survivors knelt at the feet of the Leader, vowing their eternal loyalty. 


These reavers had been the undeniable monsters of this coastline as far as a long ship could sail but with this new leader quickly gaining the awe and worship of his followers a horrible new religion was born...


A Scourge of the Devourer is shrouded in black cloth and leather from head to foot, leaving only hands and mouths uncovered. Their weapons of choice are barbed leather flails and thick bladed cleavers. A Scourge is the spiritual leader for a ship, standing beside the captain in status and authority. In battle a Scourge whirls and slashes, hacking off limbs. The true horror of a Scourge only shows when the battle has finished, when the Scourge begins to feed. Each day the Scourge must eat a portion of flesh from a still-living sentient being in order to regain his allotment of divine magic. The hold of a reaver ship is hung with groaning, weeping beings like living sides of beef. As part of the training to become a Scourge, a likely warrior must preform a ritual wherein he consumes his own eye balls to gain the gods sight.


Well there you have it, my first post on the Citadel and the most horrible thing that exists in my campaign world. I have a twenty level class written for Dungeons and Dragons 3.5, though I have every intention of converting it to Pathfinder.


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