Marauders are the raw ore of the Slaves to Darkness: tribespeople of the wastes and hinterlands who come to battle with reaver axes, scarred skin, and totems of the pantheon, screaming for the gods to watch them. They fight in howling floods that drown the enemy in sheer arithmetic, and the arithmetic does not favor any individual marauder at all.
That is the cruel elegance of the system. Every marauder believes he is the next great champion, the next warlord, the next Archaon — and the gods let each one believe it, because ambition is the cheapest fuel in the realms. For every thousand who die unnoticed in the crush, one kills something remarkable, feels unseen eyes turn toward him, and begins to climb. The other nine hundred and ninety-nine were the price of the introduction.
Order of battle
