Amplifies brute strength with powerful magic
The Warrior was lost, and night approached. To be alone in the darkness of these haunted woods meant certain death, but there was nowhere to turn for shelter. Nearly resigned to fate, the Warrior's eye caught something... a distant light through the trees.

The Warrior approached, and bit by bit the gentle glow became a campfire. A wizard sat nearby, holding his thin hands to the small flame. Approaching cautiously, the Warrior asked for shelter, and the wizard was happy to oblige.

The two became both friends and tutors, and the Warrior learned several of the wizard's finest spells.

As they travelled, they happened upon a cave from which a terrible groaning echoed. The Warrior went in first, inching along the cold cave wall as the groaning grew louder. Deep within, a figure, half-woman and half-demon, writhed upon the floor. A Sourcerer possessed.

The Warrior turned to escape, but it was too late- the Sourcerer screeched and cast a deadly spell. But before it could find its target, the wizard threw himself in its path.

The Warrior- now a Battlemage and a Source Hunter- never forgot the wizard, nor the magic he'd left behind.
Heals allies or smashes skulls, depending on the direction of the winds
The Seven Gods may be almighty, but they hardly expect to fight their own wars. Thus an order of ascetics devoted to the Seven Gods and practiced in the arts of war and healing carries out the will of the divine.

These men and women are trained to transform a spartan diet of crickets and snow into the raw strength necessary to turn the tide in any holy war. They restore and regenerate their allies as thoroughly as they annihilate their foes.

Enemies of Source and all unrighteous magic, Clerics are the cleansing hand of the gods made manifest. For centuries, Clerics have worked alongside the Order of the Source Hunters to purify the land of evil magic.
Prefers to turn the tide of battle from afar, manipulating foes with powerful magic
Orcs? Puppets. Creatures of the Void? Dolls. For the Enchanter, enemies are more toys than threats, and battle is equal parts play and experimentation.

Raised by dedicated natural philosophers, the Enchanter grew up believing the less-desireable races were profoundly important. A living orc could be experimented upon in ways one would never dream of applying to a human, after all. Trained to assist in capturing and controlling these test subjects, the Enchanter's expertise is unparalleled. What those natural philosophers didn't expect, however, was for their well-trained Enchanter to realise the horror of their experiments and to turn that expertise against them.

The Source Hunters who pulled them down from the spikes upon which they'd been compelled to impale themselves offered the Enchanter a choice: Rot in jail, or turn those powers of manipulation toward the greater good.
Brutal warrior and expert in close combat
There was no Legion in the slums of Yuthul Gor. There was no mayor, no magistrate, no law. Only the Fighter. If your horse had been stolen, the Fighter would find it. If your landlord extorted you, the Fighter would help him see reason. This justice was harsh but effective; order persisted.

When the king heard of the vigilante who dared enforce the law without the monarch's consent, he was outraged. 'Banish this traitor,' the king said. But the king's guards could not subdue the warrior, no matter their swords and spears.

At last, the king called upon a black witch to cast a spell upon the so-called usurper. As the Fighter slept, terrible nightmares invaded where soldiers could not. Mad with terror, the Fighter fled and wandered for weeks before the nightmares began to subside, but if the Fighter dared wander in the direction of home, the nightmares began afresh.

The king might be untouchable, but dark magic was not. As a Source Hunter, the Fighter would destroy the charm at its root. The king would come after.
Specialised in war tactics, knights are trained not only to fight, but to rally troops
The Knight was one of many in his clan, yet he is the last who remains. The House of Sturmgrave offered countless fearless fighters for the protection of the realm, and they were widely revered for their prowess in battle and the righteousness of their swords.

Indeed, so much were they admired that lesser lords grew green with envy. One among them refused to be second-loved among the armies or second-honoured by the queen and so hatched a plan to undo the so-called 'House of Heroes'.

The lord ordered a terrible act: the pillaging and destruction of a small and peaceful town. Through careful manipulations, the wicked lord succeeded in fingering the Knights of the House of Sturmgrave as the culprits. All were tried, all found guilty by a corrupted judge, and all hanged.

The Knight, a mere child at the time, never forgot the gravity of the injustice. The mark of the House of Sturmgrave, the House of Heroes, was upon the youth already, and as the child's strength and honour grew, so did his desire for justice.

Now the Knight rides, a Source Hunter, leading the unrelenting charge against those who would inflict base misdeeds upon innocents.
A marksman with a legendary knack for self-preservation
The Archers of the Southern Peaks need no introductions. Any lost hunters or curious wanderers who happen upon them are made aware of this fact by a swift arrow through the heart.

Self-sufficient nomads, the Archers have no concern for the affairs of lowlanders and are loathe to descend from the sparse mountains they call home. Only once in all history did the tribe deign to join the affairs of the mainland: to fight the ever-encroaching war against the Source King Braccus Rex.

Since Braccus' defeat, the Archers have, once per generation, offered their finest soldier to the Order of the Source Hunters in an effort to rout Source before it ever may rise again. These soldiers are unmatchable in Rivellon for their marksmanship and ability to strike, unseen, like a mountain wind.
With a lot of skill and a little luck, this rogue sees the world as an open coffer
The job was supposed to be simple: Break into the vault, take the gold. The Rogue hadn't bothered to ask whose vault and whose gold it was - such questions were irrelevant.

Cold, thick steel and shining, precious gold had no human element, after all. One could be coaxed into yielding, and the other could be delivered to whomever had ordered the job in exchange for a small fee or, on particularly ill-fated occasions, the Rogue's life.

This job was, unfortunately, the latter.

The vault's internal mechanisms clicked small high- and low-pitched sounds, satisfying to the practiced ear. A few more manipulations, and- success! The rogue pulled open the great, heavy door just enough to slip inside. Noiselessly filling a satchel with gold, the thief had no time to react to the heavy hands that seized both busy shoulders.

'Well done,' it said, turning the Rogue to face the voice's owner. 'But anyone so adept with a lockpick should be working for the realm, not against it.'

'You managed to catch me,' the Rogue replied. 'I'm the Grand Master of the Source Hunters,' he laughed. 'I can catch anyone.'
A powerful assassin whose arsenal of both daggers and magic would terrify any enemy, if they ever saw it coming
When the Sourcerer went mad, only those who could flee were spared a terrible death. The fleet-footed Shadowblade escaped, but the rest of the village did not.

As a wandering orphan, thieves, beggars, pirates, and murderers taught the Shadowblade that man was no more than a beast, and the laws of nature were simple: Kill or be killed; eat or go hungry.

But a survivor among survivors needed an advantage. Posing as the child of nobleman, it was almost easy to gain access to the Academy of the Source Hunters. Here the most elite secrets of magic were offered freely, and the Shadowblade perfected them all.

By the time the ruse was discovered, it was too late. The academy had a prized pupil, and the Shadowblade had found that hunting Sourcerers satisfied the soul better than picking pockets. Usually.
A survivalist and a practitioner of magic, the Wayfarer is hard to hit and even harder to evade.
The Wayfarer was not born of woman, but of beast... or so the rumours go. Raised by the creatures and trees of the Phantom Forest, the Wayfarer learned the art of survival before that of speech.

Beasts that would have destroyed another human in a single swipe were the Wayfarer's caretakers and playmates; dodging lightning storms, a matter of survival for most, was the Wayfarer's favourite sport.

When the Grandmaster of the Order of the Source Hunters learned of this remarkable person, he ordered an expedition to make contact. Though wary of leaving the wilds, the Wayfarer was eager to learn more about these strange but powerful Source Hunters.
An intimidating presence whose bone-chilling powers terrify friend and foe alike
The Witch grinned over the great cauldron. Golden vapours twined upward in intricate patterns, and a fragrance of sweet jasmine filled the dark cellar. The perfect poison, the Witch thought. Beautiful and deadly.

Suddenly, BANG; the cellar door flew open and a troop of ten Source Hunters burst in. The witch smiled and, with a single nod, a small army of oozing undead filled the space before the cauldron.

'This time, we are not here to fight,' the leader of the Source Hunters called. 'We need you.' She paused. '...and you need us.'
A scholar of magic specialised in starting and ending battles with a flick of the wrist, exacting swift victory from a safe distance
The wizard's eyes snapped up from the heavy tome. Outside the small hut, the unmistakable sound of a struggle erupted, and an orcish roar sent shivers down the wizard's spine. But now was not the time for fear.

By the light of the moons, the orc's hulking silhouette was a boil upon the outline of the peaceful woods. He had pinned someone beneath one great knee, and the victim cried out in futile anguish. The wizard whistled. Turning its great head, the orc had only just noticed the distant figure before its great green mass erupted into a shower of ash.

The would-be victim rose, dusting the orc from his hair, and held out a hand. The signet ring of the Order of the Source Hunters glinted upon his finger.

'Friend,' he said, 'I was sent to find the great wizard of these woods. But it seems you found me first.'