He who tames the beast, commands the clans.

Among the scattered clans, each ruled by its own elder and war-chief, there is only ever one king, and only the gods can choose him. Once every fifty years, the clans gather, sharing stories, honoring ancestors, and daring their bravest to face the final trial: the taming of a great cave bear. Most who try are broken, torn, or forgotten. But when one succeeds, he is crowned not by vote or birthright, but by survival. For only the Urscar King rides a great cave bear into battle, and he rules until either he or the beast falls. Generations may pass without a king, the clans splintered but waiting. And then, roaring from the mist, crowned in fur and stone, he returns. Clad in relic armor and weapons worthy of gods, the Urscar King is more than a leader. He is myth made flesh.

They don’t seek victory, they seek an end worth remembering.

Where clan wield axes, he wields memory, magic, and the weight of tradition. The Makara Elder is the clan’s spiritual heart, interpreter of the Bear will, and keeper of stories older than stone. He guides with wisdom, heals with touch, and binds the past to the present through sacred ritual. When battle calls, he does more than chant and counsel. Drawing on the raw, untamed power of blood magic, he makes offerings to the old gods, with his own flesh if need be. These rites call down strength, fury, and endurance upon the clan, but such power is never free. Every boon comes with a price paid in blood, spirit, or soul. The clan fears and respects those with the title of Makara. In his presence, the forest seems older, the earth heavier, and the air thick with memory.

They don’t seek victory, they seek an end worth remembering.

When a warrior has earned every honor and carved their name deep into clan lore, there is only one triumph left: a death worthy of song. These are the Painseekers, veterans of countless battles who shed armor and fear alike, chasing the edge of oblivion with savage purpose. Their scarred bodies bear the story of a hundred victories, but they fight as if seeking one final, perfect wound. Armed with massive stone axes hewn from the heart of the mountain, they hurl themselves into the fray with reckless abandon. Each swing is a challenge to fate, each wound a step closer to the end they crave. To the clan, they are both inspiration and warning: a living legend burning bright before the fall.

Exile made her a warrior. Oath made her a legend.

Cast out for daring to wield arms as a woman, she walked alone into the Wyldwood, unbowed, unbroken, and unforgiven. When a king’s life hung in the balance, she rose from the shadows and stood in his defense, shielded only by the skull of a fallen Duskhorn beast. That act changed everything. Taken into the clan by royal decree, she was named Kingsguard, an honor never before granted to an outsider, let alone a woman. She now bears the king’s own spear and still carries the shield that saved his life, its bone surface carved with glowing runes of warding. Bound by sacred oaths, she no longer fights for acceptance, but for loyalty, to the king who saw her worth, and the clan that she now calls home.

A single beast can feed the clan. A single hunter can inspire it.

Eager to earn their place among the clan’s legends, Fellcast Hunters are the youngest of the Boulderbreakers, still short of beard but fierce in spirit. Too young to join the shieldwall, they instead take to the wilds, proving their worth the only way they know how: by bringing down the greatest beasts the Wyldwood has to offer. Expert trackers and cunning trappers, they move with patience and strike with precision, hurling relic javelins passed down through generations. Each javelin bears the carved stories of legendary kills, and with every throw, the hunter hopes to add their own tale to its worn shaft. In the eyes of the clan, a hunter is measured not by words, but by the size of their trophies.