Iron Reapers
Where other Final Knights societies infiltrate, conspire, and corrupt, the Iron Reapers simply ride. They are the most overtly violent arm of the faith: vehicle-mounted raiders who hunt the sun-bleached towns and desolate roads of the Vegasian desert in gangs of exactly thirty-three, each number a whisper of the Names of Hell that define their faith. Skeletal markings adorn both rider and machine, and when a black cloud of thirty-three iron horses appears on the horizon, the vehicle you are driving is already theirs.
Their targets are primarily Dieseljock clans and wasteland vehicle caravans. The Iron Reapers harvest iron rides with the enthusiasm of zealots and the precision of experienced predators, refitting captured machines for their own use. What they take, they keep. What they cannot use, they destroy. Prisoners are taken for pleasure, for labor, or as food, and souls abandoned to the wandering wastes rarely find their way to anything but a slow death.
Headquartered at Mers Roadhouse, roughly ten hours of hard riding east of Vegasia, the Iron Reapers operate from the outer limits of Vegas proper to the very edges of Lone Star territory. They occasionally mix with the Lone Star Rangers motorcycle hellions, and the two groups share enough in common that the line between them blurs along the fringes. The VIP Speak gesture of the Iron Reapers, index and smallest finger extended from a fist held horizontal, is a signal between members. Turned sideways and pointed at someone, it marks them for capture. What follows is invariably worse than the marking.
Their targets are primarily Dieseljock clans and wasteland vehicle caravans. The Iron Reapers harvest iron rides with the enthusiasm of zealots and the precision of experienced predators, refitting captured machines for their own use. What they take, they keep. What they cannot use, they destroy. Prisoners are taken for pleasure, for labor, or as food, and souls abandoned to the wandering wastes rarely find their way to anything but a slow death.
Headquartered at Mers Roadhouse, roughly ten hours of hard riding east of Vegasia, the Iron Reapers operate from the outer limits of Vegas proper to the very edges of Lone Star territory. They occasionally mix with the Lone Star Rangers motorcycle hellions, and the two groups share enough in common that the line between them blurs along the fringes. The VIP Speak gesture of the Iron Reapers, index and smallest finger extended from a fist held horizontal, is a signal between members. Turned sideways and pointed at someone, it marks them for capture. What follows is invariably worse than the marking.
