Few men have survived an encounter with the swamp horrors that lurk in the marshlands. Survivors speak of great beasts rising from the swamp in a flurry of tentacles and seizing entire hunting parties in their slimy grip. Once ensnared, a swamp horror’s victims can only struggle futilely as they are pulled into its bone-crushing maw. Only the very strongest gatorman bokors and shamans can hope to control these primal beasts, so taming one is viewed as a show of great power.
In farrow society, might makes right, and only the strongest and most willful climb the ranks over the battered bodies of those left below them. Through bloody battles against both friend and foe, farrow warlords are those rare few who have scraped together enough clout to hold their positions through a lifetime of unbridled violence and cunning. No warlord’s position is secure, requiring demonstrations of sheer brutality to keep the ambitions of their subordinates in line. The slightest hint of weakness can topple any of them. To the farrow, this represents the natural order.