The ballads call him The Bramble Howler. Nobody really knows what
he is—part beast, part plant, twisted up by old magic that’s more
curse than blessing. He’s huge, with sinewy green limbs and bark
for skin, like something that clawed its way out of the deepest
woods. His horns are crooked and gnarled, more like roots than bone,
and his eyes gleam with the wild.
But he isn’t a monster. Unless you count his voice. It’s
rough and low, gravelly—like wind stirring life into the withered
limbs of ancient, long-dead trees. His voice thunders through the
branching channels in his horns, as if the bone itself had been
forged to carry fury in melody. His voice alone could move mountains
but when he strikes his lyre—The Thornwrought Revenant—the
sound cuts through the battlefield like a war cry. He can lure
treants from deep in the forests of Mythoss out of their slumber,
waking them from ages-long dreams and rallying them to the call of
Xylona’s Flock. His voice rises in the old tongue, the ground
itself shakes and the trees answer.
He used to wander alone, keeping to the wild places. But when
Illythia’s monsters crept into a sacred glade, he didn’t run. He
stood and fought, and the Sylvan elders saw him for what he was: not
just a warrior, but a bridge between the music of life and the raw
magic of the forest. His songs aren’t just music—they’re
incantations, invoking roots to hold the line, healing the wounded,
and summoning the ancients of the wooded groves.
Now, he’s the voice of Xylona’s Flock on the edge of their
borders. His name carries weight— The Bramble Howler. When his
music rises, it’s not just a song. It’s the voice of the wild
itself, reminding you that nature can heal, but it can just as easily
tear you apart.
For inspiration: The Bramble Howler's armor
is a blend of dark, bark-like scales, resembling hardened dragon
hide, covering his shoulders and upper chest. Each scale is shaped
like a jagged leaf, matte black with deep, greenish veins that
shimmer faintly when light strikes them. The shoulder pauldrons are
edged with jagged, obsidian-like protrusions, resembling cracked wood
reinforced with ancient forest magic.
His leather belt and straps are weathered, stitched from
tanned hides of forest beasts, adorned with charms made from
small bones, acorns, and feathers—each a token gifted by Xylona’s
spirits or fellow Flock warriors. Moss and lichen cling to his joints
and crevices, hinting at his connection to the living wild.
"The Bramble Howler’s Cry"
"Roots below and sky above,
We howl the song
of thorn and love,
Hear my call and rise anew,
Let
forest wrath descend on you!"*
When sung in battle, this hymn:
- Rouses allies
- Weakens foes
- Summons an echoing chorus of phantom howls
His deep, resonant voice carries the chant across the battlefield,
blending with the crackling of branches and the rustling of unseen
leaves.
The Thornwrought Revenant
The Thornwrought
Revenant is a beast of an instrument—big, heavy,
and wild-looking, just like The Howler. It’s a massive, stringed
lyre carved from the blackened heartwood of a dead treant. The wood
is rough and gnarled, full of twists and knots, with veins of deep
green resin that catch the light like old sap still bleeding from its
core. The whole thing looks like it was ripped straight from the
forest floor after a storm, bark still clinging to the edges.
The strings are spun from dryad-hair and forest silk, giving them
a soft glow that shimmers under moonlight. They’re strong enough to
hold tension for a deep, growling resonance but delicate enough for
him to pull out those eerie, spine-chilling notes that make the air
ripple. And when he plays it, it’s the language of the wild.
The Thornwrought
Revenant’s body is reinforced with thick iron
bands—old, rusted metal that he salvaged from battlefield wreckage
and hammered into place with his own hands. Charms and totems hang
from the frame: teeth from fallen beasts, bones from past battles,
feathers gifted by Xylona’s flock. When he strums it, the sound
can shake the ground, calling up roots and
brambles to entangle his enemies. His music can heal wounds
with the pulse of living magic or wake slumbering treants,
pulling them from their deep sleep to march in defense of the wilds.
He carries the
Thornwrought Revenant on his back when he’s not
playing, strapped tight with thick leather bands. It’s not a
delicate thing—it’s as much a weapon as an instrument, and he’s
not afraid to swing it like a club if he needs to.
This is fan fiction in the world of Mythoss is not
associated with The Four Horsemen or Mythic Legions
