Some are Knights, heirs to a shattered code of chivalry, trained in the civilised realms of Albion, Chaubrette, or the war-torn reaches of Kurland. Clad in chain and bound by oaths - or merely the memory of them - they stride into battle like avatars of the old world.
Others are Barbarians, sons and daughters of the Eastern Steppes, the icy coasts of Thuland, or the burning sands of distant deserts. They owe fealty to no liege, but fight with the raw ferocity of a storm made flesh.
And yet others wear no banner at all - only blood and dust - veterans of mercenary campaigns, tavern brawls, and a dozen wars no bard ever sang of.
You begin not with spells, but with steel. No illusions, no tricks - only muscle, training, and the refusal to fall.
You wear chainmail from the start, with an Armour Rating of 3, giving you unmatched durability. Your Fighting Prowess surpasses that of any class - you hit more often, and harder. Your Military Training unlocks a brutal arsenal:
Weapon Proficiency sharpens every strike.
Vigor and Fortify turn you into an immovable object.
Battle Cry rattles the enemy line, Whirlwind carves through it.
Battering Ram breaks formations. Precision Stance sacrifices defense for raw killing power.
And when things get desperate? Even bare hands become weapons with Unarmed Combat Mastery.
Let's not forget Ambidexterity or the legendary Merciless Strikes at higher ranks.
Some Warriors fight for gold. Others for vengeance, for glory, for their gods. You? You fight because it’s all you’ve ever known. Barbarian or Knight. Mercenary or exile. The Warrior survives where others fall.
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