OUT-OF-CHARACTER-INFORMATION
Unit Name: Rats
Credits: Image 1
Consolidation Thread: N/A
Unit Description: Hazak’s Brood are pitiful, hunched ratlings bred solely to serve as livestock for the Unfed horror and to carry his belongings. Emaciated, broken, and nearly mindless, these creatures scurry through the battlefield not out of loyalty, but out of fear and compulsion. Stripped of individuality and dignity, they exist only as extensions of Hazak’s will—tools to to be used, and fodder to fodder to be drained, broken, and discarded.
ATTRIBUTES
- Armour: Low
- Gear: Tattered rags, broken metal, or scavenged remains
- Speed: Low
- Melee: Low
- Weaponry: Claws, teeth, and whatever debris they can wield
- Ranged: N/A
- Morale: Low
- Size: Low (4-12)
- Number: Semi-Unique
- Recruitment & Replenishment: Hazak’s Brood are not born, they are bred and moulded through necrotic rites and alchemical horrors by Hazak himself. Their numbers are maintained solely at his discretion. Ensuring he creates only as many as he deems necessary, never truly replenished, only replaced. No other being possesses the knowledge or means to replicate them.
- TvM Requirement: 3v1
STRENGTHS
+ Able to transport and protect Hazak’s tools on the battlefield, allowing him to relocate equipment as needed.
+ Their only purpose is to die in service; their loss is never mourned nor felt.
+ Small size allows them to move unnoticed, scurry through tight spaces, and sometimes infiltrate enemy ranks unnoticed if not properly guarded.
WEAKNESSES
- A single strike often proves fatal; they are not built for survival.
- Cannot fight at range or contribute strategically beyond serving as couriers.
- Without direct control or magical compulsion, they will flee even minor danger.
- Carrying heavy equipment limits their mobility and balance.
HISTORICAL INFORMATION
The Brood’s first recorded appearance was during the infamous Battle of Bamberg, a conflict that has since passed into legend for its sheer horror. As Hazak the Unfed rampaged through the city, his path was preceded not by siege beats or warriors, but by a tide of withered rat-things dragging doom spell tomes across the scorched earth. Eyewitnesses described them as pitiful things: hunched, limping, their bodies visibly cracking under the strain of the dark tomes they carried. Many cried out not in rage or battle cry, but in confusion and pain, mewling like wounded beasts before being silenced one by one. But their role in the battle was not to fight.
As Hazak cast his spells, he reached out with long, skeletal fingers and siphoned the life from the Brood, drawing strength from their trembling forms. Their bodies withered instantly, collapsing into brittle husks as their vitality flowed into their master. With every spell cast, a Broodling died screaming. With every wound he suffered, another was drained dry. They were his walking wards, his mobile lifeforce, and his portable grimoires, nothing more. When Bamberg fell, the streets were paved not with the bodies of defenders but with the scattered corpses of Hazak’s Brood. Burned. Shriveled. Forgotten. Yet still, more would be made. For Hazak does not mourn, and the Brood do not remember.
They are not soldiers. They are not allies. They exist to die, and life to serve
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