Emberfang

The steppe does not forgive. It burns, and what survives learns to burn back. Emberfang warbands rise from the endless Plains, where the wind carries the scent of scorched earth and the horizon is a line of fire. They do not build cities; they move, always moving, leaving behind only embers and the echoes of war cries. The land is their weapon, their home, and their altar. To stand against them is to stand in the path of a wildfire.

Warfiends stride at the heart of every warband, their blades drinking the heat of battle. They strike first, always first—no warning, no mercy. The steppe teaches that hesitation is death, and the Emberfang have learned well. Their Brutes follow, heavy and unyielding, their strength a hammer to shatter resistance. On the flanks, Wolfrider packs surge like the wind itself, swift and relentless, cutting down stragglers before they can flee.

The Cinder Drake is no beast, but a storm given form. It does not charge; it descends, wings beating like the breath of the steppe’s fury, and where it passes, flames follow. Its ranged attack is not an arrow or a bolt, but a breath of fire that sears the air before the melee even begins. The Firethrower, slow and deliberate, is the warband’s anvil—its presence alone cancels the defenses of cities, turning stone walls into kindling. Together, they are the steppe’s wrath, and the Plains remember their name.

No marsh will shelter their enemies. The Emberfang do not drown; they evaporate the water itself. Their favored ground is the open Plains, where the wind carries their war cries and the earth trembles beneath their charge. Here, they are unstoppable. Here, they are home.