The Umbral Circle

Shaman and Druids that bring forth others to fight for them (known as shades) within Horde as a more roleplay heavy warband to help and encourage others both new and old. 

As the great powers of Arebnak clashed over borders and tithes, another force took shape in the shadows of the Wargrounds. What began as a scattering of exiles, mystics, and wanderers grew into something far stranger; a splinter of the Horde that called itself The Umbral Circle. They gathered those whom the world had never known what to do with... spirit-talkers and shamans whose dreams were touched by whispers older than memory. At the heart of Circle stands their enigmatic founder. Their origin, lineage, and even their true name are unknown. They are spoken of only by the title Fyrstr Krellr. 

A figure wrapped in myth as tightly as they are wrapped in shadow, Fyrstr Krellr seeks out those with ties to the unseen and teaches them blasphemous arts: how to pull those entities from beyond death and give them shape and form. The Umbral Circle's dwelling lies within the Wargrounds residing inside an ethereal monastery that is summoned by profane ritual, drawn there by the wild and unstable magics that seep from that scar in reality. They call the storms “the breath of the old world’s death,” and inhale them like sacred incense. The warband will bargain or battle in equal measure to remain where the land fractures and reforms, for it is there that their purpose lies. They seek to understand and tame the forces that shattered the ancient age. Whether such power is controllable or catastrophic matters little to them. Knowledge is nourishment, and danger is merely another teacher. As shadows thicken and dissolve across the Wargrounds, so too does The Umbral Circle rise and retreat, fading in and out like a recurring omen. 

Their banner is unmistakable: a hand carved with runic sigils, dripping ghostly ichor, a symbol of pacts written not in ink but in bound spirits. Under its eerie glow, their ranks swell beyond mere shamans and druids, as each are accompanied by spectral allies pulled screaming into the mortal realm, and all bear arms under the darkened hand.

When the circle speaks, the spirits themselves seem to lean close. And when they cry out upon the field, their words echo like a curse carried on the wind:
“The spirits need blood, and we shall give it to them. BLEED THEM DRY!”