A tall human tribesman strides through a blizzard,
draped in fur and hefting his axe. He laughs as he
charges toward the frost giant who dared poach his
people's elk herd.
A half-orc snarls at the latest challenger to her
authority over their savage tribe, ready to break his neck
with her bare hands as she did to the last six rivals.
Frothing at the mouth, a dwarf slams his helmet into
the face of his drow foe, then turns to drive his armored
elbow into the gut of another.
These barbarians, different as they might be, are
defined by their rage: unbridled, unquenchable, and
unthinking fury. More than a mere emotion, their anger
is the ferocity of a cornered predator, the unrelenting
assault of a storm, the churning turmoil of the sea.
For some, their rage springs from a communion
with fierce animal spirits. Others draw from a roiling
reservoir of anger at a world full of pain. For every
barbarian, rage is a power that fuels not just a battle
frenzy but also uncanny reflexes, resilience, and
feats of strength.