Foulen · “Rot Brush”

Foulab

Wiry and undersized, patchy through the coat, with a saddle of black-and-silver guard hair across the back over a rust-tan body, a scarred muzzle and ears usually torn. The carrion caste, shunned even by other Foulen.

They do not work a verge. They work a war: three days behind a column, one day ahead of a plague, in among the wagons and the wounded and the pits.

Body

Wiry and undersized, patchy through the coat, with a saddle of black-and-silver guard hair across the back over a rust-tan body, a scarred muzzle and ears usually torn. Nothing about a Foulab is in good repair, and a coat in that state is the one part of a Foulen that is worth nothing to a skinner.

The scavenger gut that every Foulen carries is the whole of the Foulab's living rather than a solitary hunter's insurance. Meat three days gone goes down without complaint, and on the ground behind an army there is nothing else on offer.

Country

Three days behind a column, one day ahead of a plague, in among the wagons and the wounded and the pits. They hold no range, keep no verge, and follow the work in any climate, which makes them the only Foulen whose country is a season rather than a place.

They are the only Foulen with a reliable trade in bodies and the only ones welcome in a Vultari market.

Faith

It is among the Foulab that the idea took hold that something other than Irus has been answering the horn, and it is the Foulab who are best placed to know. What they say is that the listening was heard by one of the Princes, that the price is the villages, and that it was always the villages.

The Irugaine, who fear Irus in constant certainty that the gods exist, regard this as the single most dangerous idea currently loose at the forest edge, and it is one of the reasons they will not claim the Foulen at all. Old Whistle, who follows armies and has been at four of the last six battlefields of significance before the battles, is a Foulab.