The Myrmidesh Painbringers have organised their entire existence around one question: what would the perfect sword-stroke feel like? Advancing in gliding, dancer-quiet ranks behind ornate shields, they duel rather than brawl, their curved blades describing arcs rehearsed ten thousand times in mirrored halls. Watching Myrmidesh fight is like watching calligraphy commit murder.
Pain, to a Painbringer, is annotation. A wound is a critique written on the body by a worthy opponent — evidence of a flaw in the form to be studied, corrected, and perfected. Myrmidesh thank the foes who cut them, and mean it. It is the enemies who never reach them at all that the sword-saints despise, for a flawless victory teaches nothing, and the stroke they truly seek always lies one duel further on.
Order of battle
