Before the Dragon War, there was a nation of elves who loved to fight. They held themselves as the descendants of fine warriors of every calling, bringing glory and honor to the race. By bringing veils over their faces, the Valenar would channel the spirits of their ancestors in glorious battle, seeking out the toughest of foes for the sheer thrill and honor of the fight. Riding on their peerless chocobos, they were murder incarnate on any battlefield, and raiding parties would continually rove the Blade Desert and beyond, looking for a fight.
Carlotta of the Wasteland thought this was a totally bitchin’ idea.
Sure, she got the name a bit wrong (she’s only a half-elf, after all), and they’re just degenerate thugs of every race who ride around in their souped-up, spiky vehicles around and through the city. They’re still the Valnur.
Members furiously couple until they’ve produced offspring (and they have some strange ideas on fatherhood), at which point they feel free to go caroming over the hills and dunes, looking for anyone who looks vaguely threatening so they can channel their ancestors into the fight and be awesome doing it.
If they die in the process? Well, they get to become an Awesome Ancestor themselves. It’s win/win.
If you want to make it through their territory, hide your weapons and look like traders. They don’t bother traders except to demand a small tithe. As crazy as Carlotta is, she’s talked her goons into not taking everything, since drying up the caravan lines from MegaMart is good for nobody. If you look dangerous, though, the Valnur will sound the battle horn, put on their face masks, and pick a fight.
They’re pretty shit in a stand-up fight, but they love their vehicles, and there’s NEVER just one or three of them. Turns out a combined fertility/afterlife/murderation cult is a bit popular in the Brelish Wasteland. Go figure.