Husk of the Hunter

They were once hunters, scouts, and rangers who knew Fenmoor Basin like the back of their hands. Every landmark, every trail. Where it was safe to pitch a tent and where you'd wind up in a troll's gullet by morning.

But the basin is dangerous. Not everyone gets out alive.

Craniax the Quick hollowed them out and bound them to his will. They no longer hunt for food or coin. They hunt for him.

Old instincts linger. What made them formidable in life makes them relentless in death. Twisted into weapons without thought or mercy, their ruined eyes pierce darkness as they shamble through reeds and brambles. No cunning remains. No joy in the stalk, no satisfaction in the kill. Only the endless march through fen and fog, stripped of memory, driven by a master who sees them not as hunters but as tools to be used and discarded.