SHARDKIN
Shardkin are not born—they are forged in desperation. When a Shardwake manifests, it anchors itself to reality through a crystalline core known as an Anchor Shard, a nexus of biome energy and corruption. Anyone can harvest shards from the fringes of a Wake, but true power comes only from surviving direct contact with an Anchor Shard. Those who endure this ordeal—often while trying to seal a gate or destroy the shard—emerge changed, bonded to its essence. The survival rate is almost nonexistent, and resisting the madness that follows is rarer still.
This bond grants immense power tied to the shard’s biome origin, but at a terrible cost: creeping insanity and a life marked by fear and pursuit. To humanity, Shardkin are paradoxical—revered for their ability to confront Wakes and feared for the instability that shadows their strength. Slavers hunt them relentlessly, empires weaponize them, and isolation becomes their only refuge. Each biome shapes its bonded differently, forging unique abilities, philosophies, and burdens. To be Shardkin is not a blessing—it is a curse carved in crystal.
TEMPESTBORN
Tempestborn are the swift predators of the Shardkin world—living storms bound in flesh. Their bond with the Stormwake grants them mastery over lightning, wind, and sound, making them devastating in short, chaotic bursts. Agile and unpredictable, they excel at hit-and-run tactics, battlefield disruption, and overwhelming foes before vanishing in a flash of light. Their presence is heralded by crackling arcs, roaring gales, and the metallic tang of ozone.
But this power comes at a cost. Tempestborn walk the razor edge of control; every surge of energy strains their nerves and fractures their mind. Prolonged use of their abilities can trigger storm fugue—a manic state of rage and delusion where allies become enemies and destruction becomes instinct. When the storm takes them, nothing survives the tempest.
Where others shatter under pressure, Graveminds endure. These titans draw strength from the Ironroot Crag, wielding gravity, stone, and metal as extensions of their will. They are siege-breakers and shield-bearers, capable of reshaping terrain and anchoring entire squads against overwhelming force. When a Gravemind takes the field, the earth itself becomes their armor, and every step is a declaration of dominance.
But such resilience comes at a creeping cost. Each surge of power hardens their flesh, stiffens their joints, and pulls them closer to petrification. Overuse can trigger stone sleep, a state of living stasis where the Gravemind becomes a monument to its own strength—silent, immobile, and eternal.
GRAVEMIND
Forged in the crushing depths of the Abyssal Wake, Abysscallers wield the relentless power of water, gravity, and psychic force. Their abilities flow like tides—fluid yet overwhelming—capable of slicing steel with pressure lances, collapsing structures under crushing weight, or infiltrating unseen through liquid form. Masters of control and mental warfare, they are feared tacticians who bend the battlefield to their will, cloaking themselves in abyssal darkness and striking with precision.
But this power comes at a cost. Every surge of pressure corrodes the mind, every echo pulse frays identity. Overuse leads to pressure sickness, hallucinations, and the slow unraveling of self. Some Abysscallers succumb entirely, becoming Deepbound—lost souls absorbed into the trench’s will. To command the Abyss is to gamble with sanity, for in its depths, even the strongest drown.
ABYSSCALLER
Cold is not just their weapon—it is their creed. Cryowardens draw power from the Frozen Wake, bending frost and fractured time to dominate the battlefield. They are tacticians of stillness, freezing momentum and shattering resolve with surgical precision. Illusions of ice and echoes of movement turn every fight into a labyrinth of uncertainty, while their control over temperature and perception makes them masters of psychological warfare.
Yet the price of such dominion is isolation. Every invocation of Shiverdeep’s shard leeches warmth from body and soul, leaving nerves brittle and emotions hollow. Overuse breeds time dissonance, memory fragmentation, and a creeping frostbite that gnaws from within—until the Cryowarden becomes as cold and silent as the Wake itself.
CRYOWARDEN
UMBRACASTER
Umbracasters are whispers given form—predators of perception and architects of fear. Bound to the Shadow Wake, they wield darkness like a blade, bending light and thought to erase the line between reality and nightmare. Masters of infiltration and psychological warfare, they strike from nowhere, unraveling minds before bodies fall. Their craft is surgical, their presence a void that swallows certainty.
But this gift is poison. The Shadow Wake gnaws at sanity, driving its chosen toward obsession and delirium. Umbracasters are the rarest of all Shardkin, not because the bond is difficult—but because few survive its hunger. Prolonged exposure breeds hallucinations, identity fractures, and a descent into wake-born madness, where the assassin becomes the shadow and the shadow becomes all.
Life and decay are threads in the same weave—and Mycokinetics pull both. Bound to the Bloomrot Wake, they command fungal growth and sporecraft with unnerving precision, turning the battlefield into a living organism. Their gifts heal wounds, mend armor, and knit flesh, but just as easily rot steel, corrode bone, and infiltrate minds. Subtle yet relentless, Mycokinetics thrive in prolonged engagements, spreading influence like roots beneath the soil until the enemy realizes too late—they’ve already been claimed.
But Bloomrot’s embrace is never gentle. Every act of regeneration or corruption deepens the bond, eroding individuality and feeding the hive’s hunger. Overuse breeds hallucinations, identity bleed, and Bloombound transformation, where the Shardkin dissolves into the biome’s collective will—a whisper in the fungal chorus, lost forever.
MYCOKINETIC
PYREBORN
Fire does not ask—it consumes. Pyreborn are living infernos, bonded to the Volcanic Wake and driven by its relentless hunger for destruction. They embody raw aggression and endurance, charging headlong into battle with molten fury and seismic force. Every strike is a detonation, every breath a furnace, leaving scorched earth and shattered lines in their wake.
But this power is a gamble. The shard’s heat gnaws from within, burning flesh, boiling blood, and eroding restraint. Overuse breeds burnout syndrome, a catastrophic collapse where body and mind ignite in their own rage. Only the strongest endure; most Pyreborn perish in flame, consumed by the very power they sought to master.