Nightglass Creeds

The Nightglass Creeds live at the intersection of Jarakia’s disciplined hierarchy and the Forlorn Moon’s harsher Exile legacy, forging a style of covert operations that surpasses most outsiders’ comfort levels. Their training hinges on cruelty laced with illusions—novices are thrown into punishing trials that recreate Jarakia’s darkest conflicts, leaving them bruised, psychologically frayed, and often terrified of failing their peers. Illusions are not mere trickery; instructors routinely force novices to relive imagined betrayals or monstrous invasions until they almost break under the strain. Despite this, the recruits show no outward resentment, believing only relentless methods can forge them into weapons of silent efficiency. Each time a novice falters and begs for respite, the mentors push them deeper into illusions or subject them to isolation in cramped, magically sealed cells. Harshness is the price for belonging to a faction that the city itself both fears and prizes.   Behind the sub-level halls in Tau and Nu Districts, the Creeds operate “Bleak Corridors” where recruits endure physical torment coupled with illusions that twist their sense of self. Overseers use whips or blunt training swords to batter them into obeying orders without question, all while illusions replay their worst memories or conjure monstrous effigies. If a trainee dares express doubt about the group’s directives, the entire class may be punished in unison, fostering a brutal unity where no one wishes to fail the collective. Although Jarakia’s Magistrates turn a blind eye to these extremes, a handful suspect the Creeds might exceed even the city’s tolerance for discipline. Still, the Creeds justify it as necessary for forging absolute loyalty and unshakable mental fortitude. Novices who survive emerge believing that anything less harsh would weaken them for the real horrors lurking in the Neft.   Out in the field, the Creeds exhibit ruthlessness that parallels their training, combining illusions with swift violence to outmaneuver threats. They isolate potential targets, induce panic through hallucinatory images, and then strike without warning or mercy. Survivors in the city’s underbelly share hushed rumors of “Nightglass agents” who can make someone’s worst nightmare bleed into reality before a blade lands. Magistrates tacitly approve because these methods keep monstrous cults, Draconic conspiracies, or vampiric enclaves from spreading. However, the city’s ordinary citizens hardly fathom the cruelty underlying each covert success, rarely seeing the twisted illusions or battered remains left behind. The Creeds remain convinced such approaches are the best defense against arcane corruption, deeming compassion a liability that could unravel cosmic stability.   While the official record frames them as specialized infiltration experts, the group’s hidden nature accommodates far more brutal tests than those used by the Primers or Netherals. At times, novices must kill captured beasts or illusions shaped to resemble rebel leaders, ensuring they overcome any reservations about lethal force. Creeds mentors escalate these trials by adding illusions that mimic the victim’s cries for mercy, daring recruits to question their mission. Those who flinch or hesitate face immediate censure, often in the form of induced delirium where illusions of betrayal assail them for hours. Such punishments are designed to eradicate empathy and mold operatives who will kill swiftly without confusion. Jarakia’s leadership, content with their results, seldom inquires how the group maintains its success rate.   Deceit underscores every Creeds operation, including the official logs they submit to Magistrates. When asked about excessive harm or missing individuals, they provide vague justifications about “unavoidable collateral” and “classified infiltration data.” In truth, they leverage illusions to mask the brutality of each kill, erasing bloody evidence or forging illusions that mimic official arrests. A few Magistrates suspect the Creeds dispose of potential witnesses to preserve their secrecy, but none has produced proof substantial enough to challenge their methods. This arrangement benefits the empire’s sense of order, allowing the city to appear strictly regulated while simultaneously harboring one of Tilith’s cruelest covert cells. The Creeds themselves would argue that harshness is the only language potent enough to outdo monstrous horrors in the Neft.   In their private “Midnight Summits,” the Creeds’ higher-ups discuss operations too grim for official Jarakian channels, referencing the Forlorn Moon’s cosmic mandates. Disobedient novices or suspected traitors are sometimes forced to duel illusions of themselves in the summits’ pitch-black chambers—a twisted reflection that plays on their fears until they either conquer or collapse. Surviving such a demonstration cements their loyalty, reminding them that failure to align with the group’s ruthless doctrine invites punishment beyond reeducation. Because these gatherings remain unknown to most city officials, the Creeds operate with a free hand, guided only by the Council’s instructions and their own honed cruelty. Attendees swap intelligence on external threats and internal dissenters, planning infiltration strategies well before the Magistrates even sense a problem. This ensures no meddling agency interferes with their heavier-handed solutions.   Missions often carry an undertone of psychological warfare that rivals conventional brute force. Members who infiltrate suspected cults slowly drive the targets into paranoia, turning the cultists against one another through illusions that hint at betrayal. By the time the main city forces arrive, they find a dismantled cell weakened by distrust and fear, with minimal external bloodshed required. Although the results seem precise, these illusions can push victims to mental collapse or self-harm, a fact the Creeds consider a cruel but effective tactic. When critics point out their methods verge on sadism, they quietly retort that Jarakia’s survival justifies any measure of intimidation or mental torment. Like many aspects of their work, these extremes stay hidden behind illusions and half-truths, fueling their reputation as a silent, remorseless blade.   While the Primers and Colts value open engagements and a code of martial honor, the Creeds thrive on inflicted terror. They prefer night raids, disguised infiltration, and manipulative illusions that unravel an opponent’s psyche. In some cases, they stage entire illusions of Draconic abominations to test an enemy’s reaction; if the foe flees or begs for mercy, the Creeds claim swift victory. Civilians remain largely unaware of these staged terrors, occasionally glimpsing only the aftermath of illusions searing the streets or half-mad captives begging for mental release. Jarakia’s leadership overlooks these spectacles, comfortable with the knowledge that external enemies are dealt with efficiently. The Creeds, on their part, take satisfaction in the fear they sow—believing fear is a powerful deterrent that keeps further threats at bay.   Initiates who excel in cruelty earn accolades, climbing the ranks to serve as infiltration leaders or illusionsmiths. They mentor newer recruits by administering the same punishing regimens that once scarred them, perpetuating a cycle of harsh initiation. Should any high-rank operative develop an unexpected conscience or question the group’s extremes, superiors respond with illusions that dredge up their darkest regrets—pushing them to reaffirm loyalty or endure psychological ruin. Among themselves, the Creeds rarely speak of empathy or moral qualms; their bond is built on collective acceptance that a savage approach is necessary. If a member cannot reconcile with that reality, there is no place for them in the Nightglass corridors. By ensuring absolute conformity, the Creeds preserve an impenetrable core of mutual intimidation and unwavering dedication.   Rumors also swirl of the Creeds reusing illusions from older conflicts, conjuring the restless spirits of Jarakia’s fallen or the tormented echoes of rebellious figures. These illusions are so potent that they sometimes blur the line between real and fake, occasionally shocking even seasoned mentors who find the illusions eerily lifelike. Novices must endure—and eventually command—these apparitions, learning to harness them as tools of psychological assault against enemies. The group’s archives reportedly include records of every major horror that ever threatened the city, now weaponized and ready to be unleashed on new foes. Some Magistrates doubt whether conjuring old nightmares is wise, fearing that each invocation seeds further mental instability. But the Creeds press on, convinced that repurposed terrors are the sharpest blade.   Despite this darkness, they remain valued because they rid the city of peripheral menaces: subversive cultists, Draconic sympathizers, or rogue lab experiments that standard Jarakian forces cannot manage discreetly. Citizens, by and large, assume the city’s impeccable stability arises from well-oiled governance and advanced wards, unaware that nightmares unleashed by the Creeds often ensure an enemy dies before dawn. Sub-level illusions training fosters consistent fear among novices, guaranteeing they obey orders without flinching. Failure is simply not an option, lest illusions be turned inward to break the faintest flicker of dissent. The entire system feeds on paradox—sustaining peace through methods many would deem monstrous.   Whenever monstrous raids or vampiric groups invade, the Creeds volunteer for the dirtiest tasks. They sabotage an enemy’s supply lines, whisper illusions of betrayal among the ranks, and even stage false Draconic resurgences to fragment allied monsters. This strategy often spares Jarakian regulars heavy casualties, though it leaves the opposition psychologically shattered. Prisoners of war rarely come back stable, having faced illusions that warp their senses until they cannot recall reality. The city benefits by winning quickly, and the Creeds feed their own certainty that cruelty is the city’s best shield. In hushed halls, certain Magistrates praise them for bloodless victories, never acknowledging the savage illusions that earned them.   Back home, the Creeds remain polite yet distant at official gatherings, mindful of their ongoing deception. They show curated illusions as demonstrations of “expert infiltration skills,” never hinting at the full extent of psychological torture they can deploy. Some who watch are alarmed by how seamlessly they conjure horror on command, but the Magistrates nod approval, grateful for the practical results. Unlike typical Jarakian squads, the Creeds do not thrive on public accolades; they prefer a masked anonymity that keeps prying eyes away from their brutal doctrines. Their illusions effectively conceal any slip-ups, ensuring even well-informed watchers cannot confirm the extent of their cruelty. Thus, they guard Jarakia’s secrets by doubling down on their own.   A handful of new recruits occasionally enters the Creeds from standard Jarakian units, enticed by the faction’s prestige. They are swiftly disillusioned when confronted by merciless illusions that tear at their sanity. Mentors justify these rites as forging unstoppable loyalty, emphasizing that only total surrender to cruelty can shield Jarakia from cosmic nightmares. Those who resist or express repulsion often vanish amid illusions that show them tortured and consumed by monstrous forms, a final lesson that the Creeds tolerate no betrayal. Survivors cling to each other in haunted camaraderie, sharing an unspoken vow of violence for the city’s sake. The shared trauma binds them, reinforcing a culture that celebrates their own cold efficiency.   In the end, the Nightglass Creeds embody the uneasy partnership between Jarakia’s iron discipline and the Forlorn Moon’s Exile extremes. They refine illusions and infiltration to a level that transcends typical cunning, at the cost of moral boundaries. By normalizing terror within their ranks, they hold foes in even greater fear, effectively quelling rebellions or cosmic threats that might trouble the city’s tranquility. Jarakia appears content to ignore the group’s cruelty as long as results align with official policy. Meanwhile, in the black corridors deep below Tau and Nu Districts, illusions and punishments never cease, forging assassins who believe a savage path is the surest route to cosmic balance. That shared acceptance of brutality preserves their place in Jarakia—silent defenders whose shadows loom larger than any illusions they conjure.