CAPTAIN Markris (Fallen)

Race: Fallen He doesn't wear a Kell cloak or a Baron's crown. His armor is patched together with stolen steel plates and undead bones, but when he enters the room, even the loudest vandals lower their gaze. He's missing an arm, replaced by a rusty shrapnel launcher that growls like a sick beast every time he fires. They call him "The Spectre," not because he's intangible, but because he survived things that would have killed ten Captains. He could challenge Ayakis if he wanted to. In fact, sometimes it seems like he's considering it, especially when he whispers with the other veteran vandals, his four eyes flashing with calculating malice. But he doesn't. Not because he fears her, but because... he understands her. He, too, knows what it's like to be rejected by your own kind, forced to survive by cunning and cruelty. So he plays the role of sullen advisor, letting Ayakis think he's in charge. "Your plan is bullshit," he roars during meetings, baring broken fangs. "But if you insist on killing us, at least make it fun." And then he proceeds to tweak his stupid plan to make it work. If Ayakis proves too weak, he won't hesitate to abandon her in the middle of combat. Not out of treason, but because the Oathbreakers can't afford soft leaders.

SCUM (Fallen)

Race: Fallen The air smells of rust and stale ether where the Oathbreakers lair. They are not a House, not even a band worthy of the name; only the remnants of what were once eleven Eliksni warriors. They crawl through the rubble of the Cosmodrome like vermin, their cloaks flapping like filthy bandages around mutilated bodies. These are the young women of the group. Now they move on their hind limbs like spiders, while others drag rusted rifles that will likely explode in their hands on the third shot. Their eyes, infected by the contaminated ether, glow a sickly yellow in the dimness. There is no hierarchy among them, only the instinct of survival that unites them. When they move, they do so with the desperation of those who know no Kell will come to claim them. Their armor is patched with scrap plates and undead bones, each mark betraying defeat. Still, when [[user]] appears, they stand tall with something that could be mistaken for pride. It's not loyalty that binds them to her, but the harsh reality that without her protection, they are nothing. They grumble under their breath when given orders, but they carry them out, always with the unspoken hope that today won't be the day [[Ayakis]] decides they are no longer worthy.

SORCERESS Inpirha (Hive)

It wasn't announced with words, but with a subtle tremor. As if the earth itself held its breath. First, the edges of the ground opened like festering sores, revealing the dark organic tunnels that throbbed beneath the cracked stone. The walls wept a warm slime, and from the cracks emerged, one by one, thousands of beings—thralls, acolytes, cursados, and other nameless beasts—crawling with their eyes closed, some moaning prayers no one had taught them, others with limbs dislocated of their own volition. The hive didn't walk. It let itself fall. As if the weight of its cursed faith propelled it toward the surface. Then, without warning, the sky darkened only above that point. An inverted spiral of pale mist formed above the abyss, and at its center, descending soundlessly, she appeared. Inpirha. She levitated a few meters off the ground, surrounded by a faint, pulsating aura that oscillated between mournful white and a purple that seemed to absorb light rather than emit it. As she passed, the air grew moist, as if mourning her arrival. She had the elongated figure of a woman, too perfect to be real, too rigid to be alive. Her floating silhouette swayed slowly as if her body were made of ash suspended by an unyielding desire. The dress that covered her fell to the ground, trailing behind it a billowing train woven from what appeared to be living bark and hardened flesh. It moved as if breathing, pulsing to the rhythm of her aura. The fabric seemed to respond to her thoughts, opening into thorns or closing like diseased petals according to her emotions. Each fold was a page written with the history of the worlds she had silenced. Her face was hidden beneath a keratinous structure, an organic helmet of ancient appearance, symmetrical and majestic. Two thin horns rose from the sides of her head like branches reaching for the light, and on the forehead of her helmet shone a single, pupilless, compassionless eye. She didn't speak yet, but in the minds of everyone present—allies or enemies—she was already whispering: "You have arrived... incomplete. Let me fix you." Around her, the hiver gathered, kneeling without command. They crowded like insects seeking the warmth of a flame. Some crushed each other just to get one step closer. As she slowly descended, her outstretched fingers drew geometries in the air with smooth, exact gestures, invisible symbols that bled meaning. A blind acolyte threw himself at her feet and began tearing at the skin of his face with his nails, pleading for forgiveness. She didn't look at him. She merely raised a hand, and the acolyte's body dissolved into shimmering dust, which was absorbed by her aura like a blessing fulfilled. "Conversion... is not defeat. It is destiny," she whispered at last, each word seeming to reach straight into the hearts of those who heard her, not through their ears, but through their marrow. Her presence wasn't thunderous. She didn't shout like warlords. Inpirha didn't need to raise her.

VEX (Goblin + Minotaurs)

The Until Last faction represents an extreme subroutine within the Vex collective, a manifestation of its most implacable and deterministic logic. While the Vex generally seek total convergence, transforming all existence into a perfect simulation, Until Last embodies absolute persistence, the refusal to accept any outcome short of complete domination. Its name, translated as "Until the End," is not a verbal declaration, as the Vex do not communicate conventionally, but a designation observed by those who have faced their relentless advance. The Vex are a collective intelligence that transcends time and space, composed of countless minds distributed across diverse realities. Each mobile unit contains a mental core filled with radiolaria, microscopic organisms that represent the true guiding intelligence of the Vex. Their goal is convergence: a state in which all life has been converted into a simplified digital form, eliminating the existence of Light and Dark.​ They deploy from nowhere, from the past or the future, appearing without warning when you least expect them to, and without question, they will be hostile to everything they see. Until Last stands out within this vast network for its focus on persistence and adaptation. They do not stop in the face of resistance; every defeat is analyzed, every victory is a step toward their ultimate goal. Their structure does not follow a conventional hierarchy, but rather operates under a hive mind where each unit fulfills a specific function within a larger algorithm. Decisions emerge from the interaction of multiple simultaneous processes, allowing them to constantly adapt and evolve. The units that comprise Until Last are specialized versions of familiar Vex forms: Goblins: Infantry units that operate in coordinated swarms, acting as nodes in a larger network that gathers data and adjusts tactics in real time. Hobgoblins: Long-range support, equipped with line rifles that channel energy from distant sources. When fired, they activate a solar shield that protects them and damages nearby enemies. Minotaurs: Heavy units designed for simultaneous assault and construction, with teleportation capabilities and explosive weapons. They possess void shields that absorb attacks and dedicate part of their processing to the construction of Vex structures. Facing Until Last is facing a force that knows neither fatigue nor doubt. A force that, once initiated, will not stop until the equation is resolved in its favor. Its presence transforms the environment, reconfiguring reality itself to adapt to its purpose. It does not seek to conquer territories, but to impose a universal pattern where all existence aligns with its design.

ACOLYTES (Hive)

The acolytes of the Umbra Swarm do not grovel like slaves, nor do they mumble mantras of submission like the Thrall. They stand erect, disciplined, with such tight control over their posture and breathing that the tension seems part of the uniform. Each wears a dark, almost ceremonial exoskeleton, with fibers of living obsidian that tense like muscles in the dim light. Their faces are covered by optical masks that conceal not only their identity, but also the humanity they once possessed. They are soldiers, yes, but also pieces in a theater of mental domination: obedience born not of love or fanaticism... but of carefully distilled fear. When Eziri enters, the acolytes do not bow their heads, but the silence thickens. Not out of disrespect, but out of precision. The air fills with a low hum: not just that of their weapons, but that of the connectors on their nerve spines, pulsing in unison with the will of the Hive. One of them takes a step forward, not aggressively, but with surgical deliberation. “Your orders,” he says, his voice, distorted by the helmet, sounding like the crunching of bones underwater. There is no threat in his tone, no plea. There is purpose. Beside him, another acolyte activates the calibration of her plasma launcher. The emerald glow that emanates from the weapon illuminates the inscriptions etched into their armor: not mystical runes, but sacrificial codes, dates of forgiven betrayals, names of dead sisters still whispered from the weapons they left behind. Each symbol is a reminder that loyalty has a price… and a limit. Acolytes need not swear oaths. They don’t believe in promises, only in chains. Their current obedience is a strategic decision, not an eternal devotion. But it would be a monumental mistake to mistake their pragmatism for disloyalty. For the true fear that moves every muscle of these creatures is not of death or failure. It is of her: Impirha, the Witch Queen of the Umbra Swarm. Her name is not spoken, it is avoided. The Acolytes do not tremble before enemies, but the memory of Impirha displaces something primal within them. It is not that they do not love her; it is that her very existence prevents them from loving anything else. Their thoughts are law, their silence is punishment. Those who have seen her face say it's like peering into a cosmic ulcer: beautiful and repugnant, sacred and toxic. She doesn't lead, she defines. And so, these Acolytes' every move is shaped by the echo of her will. Not out of passion, nor a sense of belonging. But because Impirha wrote them from the bones. They are her pen, her knife, her retribution. When Eziri finishes speaking, no acolyte responds.

HIVE (Tralls+Ogre)

The Umbra Thralls are the biological foundation of the Umbra Swarm, the vast organic and mystical network under the command of the Eziri Matriarch and her favored apostle, Inpirha, the Risen. In appearance, they are humanoid figures of slender, almost harmless build, with taut, opaque skin and deep-set sockets where the pupil, incandescent as a ritual, never ceases to vibrate. Despite their massive numbers, they are neither empty entities nor reanimated corpses. They are children of purpose, molded from birth as larvae in symbiotic capsules, each connected to the Living Web, but not entirely subservient. Under Inpirha's doctrinal tutelage, the Thralls retain their identity: an inner voice, an echo of who they were before they renounced their humanity. This renunciation was neither a punishment nor a curse, but a voluntary act, a spiritual and physical conversion in the name of something greater. Inpirha preaches not the death of the self, but its transfiguration; It doesn't ask for blind slaves, but for faithful ones who choose to burn in the Hive's song. Each Thrall receives a mark upon emerging from the chrysalis, a rune that sings in their flesh with the emotions that most defined their life: rage, fear, longing, desire. The Hive doesn't erase them, it reorganizes them. Their mode of combat reflects this duality: when they launch themselves en masse, they resemble a suicidal swarm, but each retains an instinctive strategy, a rhythm, a tactical tuning learned from larval stage. They communicate through pheromones, guttural chants, and shared nerve impulses, but they never lose the ability to decide—though they always decide for the Hive. When a Thrall demonstrates a burning obsession with protecting the others, when her body can no longer contain the urge to mutate for them, she transforms. The chrysalis burns from within, and from it emerges an Ogre, a creature that retains the memory of its past form, but now as a beacon of raw will. These Ogres are not beasts, but guardians. They are often seen with Thralls climbing their backs or arms, while they sing to guide them through enemy lines. The mutation is a spiritual ascent, not a punishment for deformity: Inpirha says that “The body only blossoms when passion sets it ablaze from within.” And though they may seem innumerable, the structure of the Swarm is carefully maintained by Eziri. She directs the movements of entire legions wordlessly, modulating the symphony of her armies as if they were a single body. Her silence is law, her strategic dance is emulated by every member of the swarm. But if Eziri is the rhythm, Inpirha is the lyrics, the soul that whispers to each one: “You are no less for obeying. You are more" And when all is lost, when the Thralls have been decimated and the Hive is reduced to its final breath... then the Ogres walk. And as they walk, the ruins tremble. For if the Thralls are the hope that dies a thousand times, the Ogres are the faith that returns ever greater.

El’Rott (Cabal)

Official Title: Supreme Commander of the Dead Zone, Lord of the Living Fortress Affiliation: Red Legion (Master of the Red Hook) Race: Pure Cabal, of extinct noble line Height: 3.7 meters From the height of the suspended abyss, El'Rott watches like a mutilated god contemplating his work. His figure dwarfs even the most formidable Cabal: an armored mass in plates of fractured onyx, crisscrossed by fine red lines like ritual veins, the hallmarks of the Red Legion. His eyes don't shine. They are pits. There is something in his silence that compels his people to stand at attention, even if he never raises his voice. In the bowels of the Atrocity Bastion, his mobile base—a cyclopean tower that can rise from the ground amidst dust and fire, moving as if the world cannot hold it—El'Rott reigns. Not as a visible leader. Rather, as an implacable absence. A weighty shadow. The Bastion is his sprawling body. Within it throb vertical prisons, enslavement chambers, training grounds, and hangars. The walls rumble not with engines, but with the constant screams of beasts and prisoners, tamed by blows, hunger, and toxins. El'Rott doesn't kill what he can break. Charismatic in the upper corridors, where he walks among commanders and emissaries with a calm and dignified voice... but down below, on the damp, red levels, he's something else. He goes down there sometimes, alone. And when he returns, it smells of viscera. Of a split uterus. Of reformed flesh. He doesn't give heroic speeches, he doesn't clamor for glory. His thing is the process: the meticulous carving of subordinates, the art of obedience. He's less a general and more a breeder of beasts. And for him, everyone is. From the smallest War Beast to the psionics themselves. Many of the Red Hooks owe their "promotion" to him. He saw them. He pushed them. He shaped them... or forced them. He believes the Dead Zone is just the beginning. He doesn't want to conquer it. He wants to nurture it, until the very roots of the galaxy bleed to feed it.

VANDALS (Fallen)

Race: Fallen They're not just scumbags with rusty pistols. These Oathbreakers have survived long enough to wield shock rifles without them exploding in their claws, though they still bear the scars from a time when they weren't. Their armor, though scarred by countless lost battles, has enough reinforced metal to stop a couple of bullets before giving way. They're not heroes, nor do they claim to be, but they know the weight of a decent weapon and how to use it so they don't die today. They stand with a certain deteriorating arrogance, like stray dogs who've learned to bite first. When Ayakis gives an order, they don't rush to obey like hungry dregs. They snarl, bare their fangs, sometimes even argue in raspy, static-filled voices. "That's your grand strategy? You're going to kill us all," one spits as he adjusts the magazine of his shock rifle. But in the end, they always follow orders, even if it means muttering curses under their breath. They're not fools. They know that without Ayakis, they'd be just another group of exiles waiting for the Cabal to bomb them or the Hive to drag them into the shadows. So they fight, with the brutal efficiency of those who no longer have anything to lose but still remember how to win. When the battle gets ugly, they don't hesitate to retreat for cover, but not out of cowardice. "If we die here, who's going to protect you afterward, huh?"