The Widow's Legion

"When the seven gods of Ozlith ventured into the domain of war, it was the widow who chose to focus on the cost, while her fellow gods latched onto things like joy, skill, and coordination. A goddess of death and rebirth, The Widow found herself at home on the battlefield. She was determined to do what the others would not. To join her legion, you will pay a price. " ~Ozlith: The Birth of an Empire and the Seven Legions

The Widow's Legion was one of the Seven Centurion Legions of Ozlith and The Widow demands a price to join. She gathered her priestesses and taught them a rite of her creation. She told them to go forth and gather only the widowers of Ozlith, the men who have lost a part of themselves. When they did they performed the rite and the centurion who emerged was a changed man.

Due to some arcane power, the heart of the man is removed. The nominubus is removed, grown dirty over time, as the one woman capable of removing it was dead. It would be flipped and painted over with a black ichor. The festering wound would never heal and a miasma of death radiates from the man as he enters his new unlife.

Outfitting

A gladius and black armor were all the widowers needed in battle, but they fought without a shield. In their off hand they often carried a second gladius coated in the venom of the widow herself. Death is certain and swift, if you can even get that close. Their armor was painted black and the widowers are one of the few legions who implemented magic into their training.

They learned the art of death, forcing their fallen enemies to rise and fight their countrymen. The widowers were always silent, methodical and the miasma made them as much a liability as an asset. Widowers were only used in dire circumstances.

They showed up when a battle was lost. They were an omen of defeat and failure and were shunned from society.

Not much is known about them, as they kept to themselves and guarded their secrets. Those who wanted to join must be chosen by a priestess and make a pilgrimage to the long-forgotten island of Ozlith, where the empire originated and where the widow was said to live.

Training

While very little is known about tactics and ranking, historical texts from Mhirriah go into enormous detail on the speculation of training and initiating a new prospect. When a widower is found, the priestess observes him and waits until his loss clouds his reason then approaches him and tells him of his pilgrimage.

Many entries state that when he arrives, the same priestess will transform into a spitting image of the mans wife and the rite, whatever it may be, begins.The widowers rarely fought face to face. Usually the only one's who can get close are those who use the arcane arts.

This is due to the miasma that flows from them. Inhaling the gas is to meet an unpleasant death. The legion was often referred to as "The Last Resort."

They were called when a battle was lost, but needed to be won. The generals of the armies would sound the black horn, a hollowed out fang of a giant eldritch spider. This causes the miasma around them to move and grow and they follow it to the fields of battle to purge it of enemies.

Type

Magic

Overall training Level

Elite

I sat on the hill with my mom watching them fight down below. My father was always on the front line. He fought like the centurions themselves, to be honest, but tides turn. They always do eventually. At some point, even the armies combined with the great centurion legions of Ozlith won't be enough. That is when the black horn sounds. It was a lovely sound, no wait... It was sad, a heart-wrenching sound. I can't seem to describe it... strange... a moment ago I could recall it perfectly. That's unsettling.
No matter. The horn sounds and I've never seen a man of war so scared. A cloud appears, not the dust kicked up from the battle below. It was black...thick like water creeping slowly. You can see them, or at least their silhouette. Black figures in a black mist.

I have never seen a battle that ended with soldiers from both sides running for their lives. Some of them were crying. My mother took me by the arm just as the mist began to overtake the enemy forces...and some of ours too. They held their breath, but they made a grave mistake. When the widowers take the field you don't run. You will likely die or you may not but it's dreadfully hard to hold a lung full of air with heart pounding and adrenaline pumping. You just ran half a mile and now your going to die tired.

I wish I could tell you all what that mist did but based on the screams and...oh...those horrible sounds....I honestly dont want to know.