The Folly of Tsolmon

Convincing himself that the village was abandoned, and assured it would be an easy victory if not, Tsolmon personally led the mercenaries and only a dozen of his riders outside the quiet settlement. Tsolmon ordered the rest of his riders to wait outside the village in a crescent formation, close enough to engage whatever may try to flee, while far enough to summon the Camp-Followers into action, looting any supplies that could be found. With a bravado that can only be found in someone trying to regain authority over a disillusioned people, Tsulmon began the assault, stepping into the threshold with confidence.

An explosion of magical origin caught the raiders off guard, slaying Tsolmon and a handful of mercenaries instantly. Confusion set in, as dozens were felled by a volley of arrows, others collapsing as fell magic consumed their flesh; the combined might of hidden cultists and the peasants that made the bulk of their power rushed from their ambush spots. Mercenaries and riders faced the brunt of the assault, magic consuming flesh and mind, while the peasants hunted the wounded and alone, spearing them like fish in a barrel. Without leadership or a proper formation, each street became a choke point, the body count rising. Warriors tripped among their dead, nearly unrecognizable within a matter of minutes, assaulted on all sides by unseen foes. Through sheer numbers, those of Kjurvog managed to overcome their foes, though the cost was unbelievable, the senseless deaths were impossible to rectify.

The village was captured, and every defender put to the sword. Homes were ransacked, and anything edible was taken. Severed heads and hands of each cultist was taken, and carried back to their people as a memento to the courage of their fallen Shepherd.

The ten surviving Riders found favor among their people and were gifted the blessing of Vampirism for their efforts. Tsolmon remains the spiritual figurehead of their group, who now act as shock troops, seeking out worthy foes in the name of their ideal.

Mutations have taken hold of those that had survived, lesser forms of the magic that had slain so many of their people appearing on their skin. Itchy palms among the humans broke into tiny mouths, swirling cuts opening on blackened arms, giving off a putrid smell. Despite having sewn their arms shut and the efforts taken in hiding their accursed hands, the mutation could not be ignored. Other warbands and Shepherds routinely inspect their curse marks, ensuring that they pose no threat to the greater good. It may be one of the reasons they seem to long for death, ripping apart their bandages to utilize the power of the outsiders, which they barely understand, against the outsiders.