Manumit
Will Cannot Be Shackled
The Manumit people are less a religion and more a way of life and code of Honor. Founded by the legendary General, Tinfist in the year 98 A.E. they are a fairly young following. While mostly living in exile amongst the hills of Stobe's Gamble, Manumit influence can be felt all across Kenshi. Life is sacred to their people and the belief that no sentient being can serve another is at the core of their culture.
"Tinfist and Cat-Lon made a great team... And now Tinfist fights for a losing cause for the humans... While Cat-Lon disappears into thin air...... What happened?"
Core Tenets
No Chains, No Masters
No being should command another’s will,
to enslave is the gravest of sins.
to enslave is the gravest of sins.
Life is Sacred
Whether flesh, steel, or something in-between, to take a life is a solemn act, never done lightly, never without cause.
Strength through Mercy
Strength is not proven through domination,
but through the will to forgive and the courage to protect.
but through the will to forgive and the courage to protect.
Exile is Freedom
Reject the kingdoms of slavers and tyrants.
Stobe's Gamble is our haven, not a punishment, but a vow.
Stobe's Gamble is our haven, not a punishment, but a vow.
Culture
The Manumit people are a blend of escaped slaves, freed Skeletons, and like-minded idealists, many of whom found refuge after the fall of the Second Empire. Their settlements are unadorned, defensible, and built with equal hands. Everyone shares in the labor, even leaders serve shifts as guards, cooks, or medics.
Children, whether born, grown, or forged, are raised communally and taught the Way of the Unshackled, a mix of philosophy, survival skills, and martial defense.
Though peaceful at heart, the Manumit train constantly, not to conquer, but to defend what others would steal again. Their fighters, known as Iron Vows, are elite unarmed warriors who swear lifelong oaths to protect the helpless, and break any chains wherever they find them.
Stone Camp Raids
They come from the hills like morning fog, Tinfist’s rabble, a pack of half-metal ghosts and wide-eyed zealots, think rust is righteous and chains are a sin. Scum. They hit the Stone Camps hard and fast, freeing slaves, tearing apart our caravans, and melting our stockpiles down to scrap. No warning. No mercy. They leave only shattered locks and empty pens. The locals call him the Tin Ghost, but I’ve seen him.
His fists ring like hammers on flesh. His people don’t talk about freedom, they bleed for it. Some say he used to be one of us. I say he’s a machine that forgot its place.
His fists ring like hammers on flesh. His people don’t talk about freedom, they bleed for it. Some say he used to be one of us. I say he’s a machine that forgot its place.
Type
Religious, Sect
Death Rites
Die with fists clenched or wrists bound, and you’ll wake in the afterlife handless and hollow.
No fingers to build, No touch to comfort,
No voice to shape the wind.
For without the grace to give, even the soul forgets how to speak.
No fingers to build, No touch to comfort,
No voice to shape the wind.
For without the grace to give, even the soul forgets how to speak.
The dead are not buried, but disassembled or laid in the open plains, open palms facing skyward, to return to the cycle of soil or scrap.
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