The Revenant

There is no magick in the making of a revenant, no ritual, no alchemy… there is only rage. Only the most grievous injustice, deepest betrayal, or greatest loss can foment the sheer hatred from which a revenant is born. As the soul of one so aggrieved leaves its body upon death, it is drawn into the realm of the dead along with so many thousand others. But while the hordes of deceased drift deeper into the dark, the revenant’s soul rebels. The outrage of what it suffered in life turns it against the flow of the others, and hatred drives it back the way it came. Ripping and tearing, it forces its way through the dead, every step won by utter brutality.
The counter march is exhausting, and the newly dead are without end. Many would-be revenants are overwhelmed, dragged down by the dead, and carried into the dark, never to return. But for those that choose to keep clawing, keep thrashing, keep suffering no matter what comes against them, their souls are kindled with preternatural rage. They become engulfed in violet flames that give no heat, a baleful pyre to light the shadows of the world of the dead. And the dead turn from them in fear then, clearing a path for the nascent revenants to pass, but there is no mercy. Still they rend their way through those that now cringe before them, cleaving their own path, not the one that was given to them.
And so a revenant returns to the world of the living, seeking out its mortal remains as a vessel to house its all-consuming wrath. Reunited with their flesh, revenants serve as the brutal enforcers and avengers of Deadhaus.
They wield enormous weapons toward the singular purpose of retribution, finding strength in the crucible of war. Every blow against a revenant fuels its need for vengeance. Violence begets violence, rage begets rage, ever enkindling the violet fires, unable to extinguish. Even if the revenant should tear apart every last soul that wronged him, still the fires would burn, for that is the price of his power… eternity.