The Sythopian record.

Trudging forward behind a wall of mechanised soldiers, the armies of the Confederation lay waste to all that would oppose their masters’ rule.

Now is the age of the machine and the artificial mind. Once united against such a force, the people of the Confederation now unwillingly serve it in the name of their own survival.

All within the Confederation must fall in line, whether obediently fulfilling their given role or forcibly serving as an automated shield. Their masters are always watching, creating new engines of war and devising grand strategies while their citizens go about their daily lives in rigorous, constant toil.

All in the Confederation are elite. None are less than super-powered war veterans, for to be anything else means annihilation in this new age of war. The days of the lowly soldier in basic armour carrying a common weapon are over.

Only the shunt and drive of mechanical monsters remain.

You are a commander of the Confederation.

No force can break your immovable phalanx of silver and gold. Commit your forces and purge the lands with your new army of unwavering, unquestioning servants.

Forged from the molten ruins of a fallen empire, the soldiers of the Confederation brace against an endless tide of enemies—an immovable bulwark against the horrors of the new world.

Their past, like their present, has been shaped by the preservation and protection of all those beneath their banner. Survival is their purpose. Strength is their answer.

Should you seek to add your name to the legends of history, go no further.

Embrace your new purpose.

Discover the stories. Analyse your weapons.

JOIN THE CONFEDERATION.

From deep within the blood-soaked Asylum cities pour the creatures of nightmare known as the Asylumists.

From the moment they enter the world, emerging from the cold, lifeless mechanisms of great machines, they are set upon by their own kin. Only those who survive the onslaught through sheer brutality and ferocity make it beyond the machines’ confines to wreak havoc upon the world beyond.

Their numbers incalculable, the survivors swarm over and beneath the lands, seizing weapons and vehicles to aid them in their bloody slaughter.

Such is their lust for violence that the piles of their dead reach high into the sky. Yet even in death, they do not know peace.

Weapons roar and screams echo as the fighting continues, the combatants crushing bodies beneath their feet. Deep below, the shunting engines of great mechanical worms plough their maws through the mass, mashing the corpses into biofuel to feed the nightmarish industries of the Asylum cities.

The frenzied Hordes are not alone. Many find themselves under the influence of sinister minds that reshape them into cybernetic soldiers, specialised killers, or horrific walking weapons.

Now you control the Horde.

Where you point, they destroy.

Send forth your frenzied masses to swarm the enemy beneath an unstoppable tide, or surgically remove threats with specialised units forged for a singular, murderous purpose.

The violence is endless. Their numbers are without measure.

Your Asylumists await your command.

They are not alive.They are not dead.They are the Host — a colony of wills bound by death itself.

Every cell that falls silent, every flake of shed skin, every fragment of plant tissue — all is claimed in an instant. At the cellular level, spores and filaments surge into husks, weaving them back into motion. The result is no single organism, but a mass of corpses and matter repurposed into grotesque forms, driven by countless competing minds.

What appears as a monster on the battlefield is only a fleeting shape — a coagulation of stolen tissue, a temporary compromise between clashing wills. Mid-combat, the Host may twist without warning: limbs reshaped into tendrils, a maw collapsing into a cyst, a torso bursting into spore chimneys. Destroy one body, and its cells scatter, claiming the fallen nearby to rise again.

The Host are endless. They are patient. They are inevitable. To fight them is to feed them.On the battlefield, their forms are ever-shifting nightmares — worm-things riddled with new maws, flyers stitched from the skin of the dead, spidery feeders that harvest the fallen. No death is wasted, for each cell becomes another node in the Host’s vast neural mesh.

They are not invaders. They are not conquerors. They are the world after death — the final stage of biology.

The Drakkaran are the Kin of the Dark Blade, tribal beings transformed during generations of isolation beneath the Voidstorms. Their bodies have become inseparably bound to the Void, leaving them unable to survive beyond its influence and forcing their wandering tribes to follow the storms across Sythopia.

After the fall of Rothe, the first Void-Touched and High Chieftain, the Drakkaran tribes fractured beneath competing beliefs. Some worship the immense black Drakka as a divine protector, while others regard it as a terrible curse. In battle, they wield fragments of its indestructible substance, accepting mutilation, petrification and death in exchange for its power.

Beyond the physical world lies the Inner—a boundless realm where thought becomes reality and its inhabitants live out their dreams as gods. There, the members of the Order can reshape existence, command time and repeat any pleasure for an eternity. Yet limitless experience has rendered them numb.

To feel again, the Order reaches into the real world.

Its members manifest through immense, lavish constructs shaped by their personalities, obsessions and most extreme desires. Each is a theatrical work of living symbolism: porcelain, polished surfaces and flowing fabrics arranged into elegant forms that appear flawless from afar—and profoundly wrong up close.

The Order does not fight for territory, resources or conquest. It harvests experience. Pain, terror, anger and pleasure are drawn from mortal lives and carried back into the Inner, where even the briefest genuine sensation has become more precious than power.

To the ignorant, they are gods. To those who understand what stands before them, they are something far worse: immortal aristocrats searching for one last thing they have not already felt.

The BioSite Expanse was born in the aftermath of the Ziron Blast—not from the bodies of its victims, but from everything death failed to silence.

Within the Expanse, countless final thoughts, emotions and fractured memories have congealed into a reality-altering substance known as the Weld. This unstable medium draws surrounding matter into itself, forcing debris, architecture, weapons and biological remnants into physical expressions of half-remembered lives. Familiar forms emerge rebuilt incorrectly: soldiers fused with fortifications, forgotten tools transformed into anatomy, and entire cities reconstructed from places that no longer exist.

The BioSite does not wage war through strategy or conquest. It reacts. When threatened, the Weld reshapes itself around dominant emotions, assembling symbolic armies from fear, duty, grief and rage. Occasionally, a powerful identity rises above the screaming mass and imposes temporary control, but these dominant personalities are not true leaders—only the loudest voices within an ocean of unresolved death.

As Emergence events tear open reality and spread the Weld into new territories, the BioSite Expanse continues to grow. It is an army, an environment and a living record of catastrophe: memory made physical, trauma made territorial, and haunting evidence that Ziron may never have truly erased anything at all.