Fogborn Fanatics

The Truth, we see, the False, we raze.
The fog induces madness. Hollowing. It reduces you to a husk of a person. Everybody knows that.

Yet some venture into the mist, driven mad by its suffocating allure. This ‘house’ reveres them as prophets. The hundred or so loons who follow this depraved ideology are dismissed by others as ‘Foggies’, mad men who worship an insane woman on the brink of going Hollow, their Oracle, and enacting their lives upon the words that seep from the husk and her interpreters. Their shrines are scattered through Sanctus’s labyrinthine underground, filled with oddities and relics. Many dwell outside the ruined southern wall, outside the city, where the fog creeps and looms heavy. The pile of hollowed out boulders known as Leviathan’s Fist. Partially filled with fog, with their strangely resistant denizens, they can dwell there in safety.

Approximate Strength: Around one hundred.

Alignment: CE

Tenants: Piety, Worship, Obedience.

House Structure:
Four fanatical prophets serve as interpreters of the Oracle, a hollowed woman who believes herself to be carrying the Child of the Fog. From her, and from the prophets, orders are given. The deranged and brainwashed who follow, possibly mad from the fog’s touch themselves, execute said orders.

This group keeps their prophets and Oracle hidden, far from the watchful eyes of the Crows and the Humors. For the hollows they keep should not be in the city. They are pariahs. Many would like to see them eradicated, above all else the cleaners of the Humors.

Season of Strife
Among the accursed Fanatics, the fanning of the flames causes uproarious celebration. The chaotic madmen screech the news to their cohorts, knowing that those soft skins are slaughtering one another. The sacrifices of the soft skins feed their liege, the Fog.

In this time, the Fogborn begin to act. Normally quiet under the watch of the powers that be, the strife has brought them out. Kidnappings leading to the victims being dragged off into the Fog have become scarily common. The Fanatics are blamed, but the lurking creatures know how to avoid being seen to justice.

''“Go, sons and daughters. It speaks, it speaks to me. The truth. Our mission. Our calling. Feed the great beyond with soft skin souls.” -The Oracle''