We came from what the empires couldn’t contain.
From pirate crews torn apart in the black.
From outlaw gangs left smoldering in dust and betrayal.
We weren’t erased. We weren’t forgotten.
We were reforged—in fire, in silence, in the screams no one heard.

We are the Bedlam Raiders.
Marauders without border—
Star-bound and soil-stained.
Our raids don’t begin. They arrive.
Like static before the breach.
Like wind carrying flame.

We drop in orbit like judgment.
We rise from the ground like ash reborn.
What was whole becomes fractured.
What was ordered becomes abandoned.

We do not warn.
We do not repeat.
No one calls us.
No one survives us unchanged.

We are a war tribe.
A war band.
Bound not by law but by ritual—
Marks scorched into hulls, oaths carved into bone, silence spoken through destruction.
We fight for memory—for scars that outlast stars.
For storms that rewrite maps with ruin.

Where we strike, the sigil remains.
Hung in ruin. Etched in flame.
Our War Banner doesn’t speak.
It haunts.
It tells you: this world burned because we walked through it.

Sometimes it’s found days after—
Hung from the wreckage where air still hisses.
Sometimes it’s planted in clear view—
For those who watched their world crack open and knew what name not to whisper.

A counting coup made myth.
Proof that we passed through.
Proof that we will again.

We are not witnessed.
We are endured.

We are the blade they fear.
We are the Bedlam Raiders.