The Hunt

“They don’t take prisoners"

In the drowned lowlands of Babin Marsh, where the fog never lifts and the ground drinks blood, the Hunt Faction thrives. They are not a tribe, not a cult, not even a gang — they are a condition, a sickness that spreads through violence and silence. No banners. No leaders. No rules. Only the kill.

The Hunt began as deserters — soldiers who fled a war they couldn’t win, dragging their wounded into the swamp. But the marsh didn’t let them die. It changed them. Twisted them. Now they wear bone masks, speak in whistles and clicks, and mark their kills with skull-star flags raised from drowned spears.

They believe the swamp is alive.

And they serve it.