Borron
God of War
Intermediate God

Epithets: the Divine General, Warmaster, Skullcrusher, the Butcher  
Alignment: Chaotic neutral
Symbol: Club
Colors: Gray and red
Primary followers: All who enjoy and/or profit from war for war's sake, many mercenaries and barbarians, and those who seek power through armed conflict

     The true form of the Warmaster Borron is whatever a mortal imagines it to be. The appearance of the True God varies greatly in the arts and traditions of Minarra’s myriad cultures. An elven aristocrat might think of the True God as a proud, lean elf in a suit of elven chain, capped by an exquisite mithril helm. A human barbarian would conjure up quite a different image: seven feet tall and bulging with raw muscle, the True God would sport little but leather breeches, a suit of hide armor, and an expression of joyful mayhem on his bearded face.

     There are a few constants, to be sure. The wavy, shoulder-length hair of the Butcher is a deep, fiery red, while his blood-red eyes are aglow with battle lust. The right hand of the True God is never without a bludgeoning weapon, most often a heavy wooden club or iron truncheon (or, less frequently, a mace, morning star, or warhammer.) The armor and weapons of the True God bristle with barbs and spikes, guaranteeing some first-rate intimidation and the nastiest wounds on the battlefield.

     The Butcher’s ideals are tangled and often contradictory. At their core is the True God’s love of the Chaos that war brings, from the terror and confusion of the battlefield to the social, economic, and political upheaval suffered by warring nations. But in order to feast upon this Chaos, mortals must first know how to organize their efforts (and thus prolong the mayhem). Tales abound in the Astarith of how Avatars of the Butcher would appear to both sides of a conflict in order to drill raw recruits, form orders of battle, and otherwise teach by example all the arts of war.

     Borron finds his training and organizational roles mundane and even boring, and treats them as necessary evils. The True God is rather mystified that so many mortals are engrossed with the "science" of war, and go to such lengths to regulate such a chaotic exercise. Never one to pass up loyal worshipers, however, the Warmaster nonetheless sees to it that his faithful receive whatever training they desire.

     Borron has no doubt that war has its long-term benefits. It consumes dying states and decadent cultures. It spreads new ideas and beliefs. It forces its participants to examine their own values and their place in the sun. It acts as a catalyst for new invention and technological innovation. Mortals are often blind to these "blessings"—that is, until the dust settles and their eyes are opened to new possibilities.

Avatars: The Warmaster may appear as a male warrior of any bipedal race. These Avatars always sport the eyes and hair of the god’s true form, making his nature abundantly clear. Whatever their form, the Avatars of the Skullcrusher are bold, forceful, and utterly intimidating.

     In the days of the Astarith (especially in the Fourth Book), Borron was an almost ubiquitous presence; today, his manifestations are few and far between. In most cases, Borron has merely appeared to "sanctify" what would often become the battlefield of the decisive engagement of the war. Despite the sorest temptations, the Butcher has never taken sides in any mortal conflict since the Age of Mists—thereby keeping faith with the terms of the Covenant.

Mortal Servants: Followers of the Warmaster come from just about every bipedal race of Minarra. Unlike most other faiths, the clerics and Knights of the Order of the Truncheon may be of any alignment, and are free to pursue their vocations in whatever manner they wish. Thus, the savage barbarian shaman and the cultured "Holy Marshal of the Empire" are brethren in this most diverse of all Minarran faiths.

     In keeping with this diversity, there are no "standard" vestments or holy symbols that mark the members of the Order, save for the gray-and-red elésahs worn by the Knighthood. Though many locales have a fairly consistent "look" for the members of the Order, this regularity is culturally derived. Even the holy symbols worn by the Order vary from race to race; for example, many human noblemen use a small silver mace as their symbol, engraved with the Istari glyph bearing Borron’s name so no mistake is made. The materials used to create holy symbols are equally varied; gnomes favor cut crystal, elves polished hardwood, and dwarves wrought iron.

     One curious facet to the Order is the selective nature of its healing spells. In many instances, magical cures cast upon beings not injured in combat (or stricken by the illnesses that plague any army) simply don't work. As far as Borron is concerned, those unfortunates are some other Power's problem.

     Promotions to Grace or titled Knighthood usually occur in either one of three ways: formal elevation by the Order, public acclaim for some great deed on the battlefield, or by divine fiat. Note that the traditional "connection" between church rank and experience level is often ignored whenever the latter two methods are employed.

     The mantle of Head of Order is so frequently contested that Borron must sometimes employ his own "common-sense" solution to the thorny problem of succession: the Tournament of the Warmaster. This sacred contest can range from two priests locked in single combat to full-scale wars with up to half a dozen hopefuls at the head of their own armies.

Philosophy/Tenets of Faith: Far from having a formal body of thought and belief, the Order of the Club has but a handful of values prized mostly for their practicality: personal courage and skill, a soldier’s obedience and loyalty to his officers, and a commander’s responsibility to his troops. Not all clergy give equal weight to these values—if they honor them at all—but Borron doesn't really give a damn. Similarly, matters such as fealty to a lay ruler, dedication to a "higher goal", or "honorable" codes of martial conduct are of little concern to the Warmaster. In the end, it is the battle that counts—the battle against the enemy, against the privations of the battlefield, and against one’s own fear.