The Feral Ones

We are what was left behind when the world lit the torches.

“We didn’t choose the woods. We chose not to return.”

They don't speak in full sentences. They don’t explain.

The Feral Ones didn’t begin. They slipped loose.
From something larger. From somewhere older. From someone who tried to shape them — and failed.

They live on the edges: in the woods, in rusted-out trailers, in caves no map acknowledges. They eat what they find. They sleep when they must. They move like they know something you don’t — and they do.

They wear layers scavenged from every place they’ve ever fled. Scraps of denim, wool, leather. Symbols scratched into metal or painted in bone. Their objects feel handmade, weathered, and dangerous. Nothing polished. Nothing finished.

They're not evil. They're not broken.
They're just done pretending to be tame.

To walk with the Feral Ones is to walk with the part of yourself that still remembers teeth. Still remembers hunger.
Still remembers the moment you decided not to beg — but to bite.

🐺 Faction Traits:

Raw instinct, survivalism, freedom

Forests, trailers, abandoned places

Scarcity-turned-style — patched layers, found objects, functional grit

A refusal to be civilized

A strong sense of intuition, loyalty, and territorial energy

🦷 Marking Rituals:

A howl answered. A name eaten. A cut made without flinching.
They don’t brand you. They watch you — and if you don’t run, you’re in.

🕯️ Closing Line:

You were never lost. You were wild. And no one knew the difference.