There is a tale told amongst the caravaneers that travel through the
Dark Lands connecting the Old World to the distant Kingdoms in the East. In this story,
an expedition laden with silks and spices found itself lost in a labyrinth of mountain trails.
Every promising way out led them only deeper into the range until finally,
in desperation they sent out a single rider to chart a safe path through the winding crags
ahead. After many days of fruitless searching, the rider found himself in a great valley, which
to his astonishment was blanketed in pure white snow despite the great warmth of the summer sun.
It was only when he came closer and made to touch it with a hand,
that he realized it was not snow at all, but the snow-white fat drained from corpses uncounted.
Everything that walked or crawled or slithered across the Earth had been butchered and left to
season in the sun, for the rider had stumbled upon the homeland of the Ogre Kingdoms.
Illiterate and blinded by their own superstitions, no records exist of how such a race came into
being, beyond the heavily mythologised tales of bravado recounted by the Ogres themselves.
Foreign loremasters believe the Ogres might be a work unfinished, a race created by the Old Ones
who departed before their ultimate designs came to fruition. Others believe they are an
offshoot of the halflings, for though they vary drastically in their appearance, both share an
all-consuming need to seek out their next meal, and a strange resistance to the forces of Chaos.
The first reliable records of the Ogres can be found in the histories of Grand Cathay.
Their scholars record that the Ogres once tended a vast steppe of grassland beyond the Mountains
of Mourne to the east of Cathay. Here the Ogres lived a life of plenty, raising herds of Gnubeast
and lubering Yak for food and maintaining peaceful relations with their human neighbors.
Yet as the population of Ogres began to soar, even their great herds were not enough to stave
off their ever-present hunger. The foraging parties of Ogres that appeared across Cathay
soon turned into raiding warbands. They consumed the harvests of their neighboring nation,
carrying off cattle and children to feed upon. The Dragon Emperor would
not stand for such a blight on his people and made ready to unleash his vengeance.
Yet a costly invasion of the Ogre homeland would not be needed. Whether through the powers of the
Dragon Emperor, the actions of Cathay’s famed Astromancers, or merely coincidental timing,
a bright star that shone with jade light resolved into a terrible comet that struck at the heart of
the steppe. Its shock was felt across the world as the ancestral home of the Ogres
was obliterated. Its seas of tall grass burned to embers, the rising smoke turning into a choking
mist that no wind could dissipate. Only those tribes at the very edge of the stricken territory
survived intact, and the few enfeebled survivors who managed to claw their way out from deeper in
the impact zone. Before dying of their wounds, the latter Ogres told of a great mouth that now sat at
the heart of their land, an immense maw that had swallowed their kin and still hungered for more.
The Ogre tribes that escaped destruction were forced from the ruins of their lands, driven into
the mysterious West by their need for new prey and their gnawing, ravenous, unnatural hunger.
Of these days even less is known, as the Ogres faded,
for a time, out of the Cathayan histories and into legend. Crude Ogre paintings, once interpreted,
tell of a great war above the clouds with a race of ancient giants; immense Sky-Titans
that dwelt in lonely citadels at the top of the world. Here, the Ogres, believing they had
entered a golden paradise of plenty, a promised land of raw meat, braved the relentless cold,
and thinned air, to batter down the walls of these fortresses and consume their titanic inhabitants.
With immense bones, sucked of all marrow, all that remained of the Sky Titans,
the Ogres slowly made the descent back down to the earth,
heartened by the belief that they could and would consume anything and everything as they pleased.
Beneath the bastions of the Sky Titans, the migrating Ogres found the Mountains of Mourn,
a formidable range of deep valleys and twisting mountain paths, filled with exotic beasts and
bountiful prey. Here the Ogres settled, founding what would become the Ogre Kingdoms
Today this wild land remains populated by scattered tribes of Ogres living a semi-nomadic
lifestyle that takes them through the high mountain passes and abyssal valleys. Beneath the
towering peaks, the Ogres clash with wild beasts, the unknown horrors of the deep caves and dreaded
Black Orcs, but their various warbands can just as frequently be found warring amongst themselves.
There are no cities or towns within the Ogre Kingdoms: each tribe dwells in a camp of
animal skin yurts and makeshift shelters. These primitive settlements are without exception,
raised around a roaring fire, above which, a great cooking pot constantly bubbles.
These tribes frequently migrate between familiar lands in the Mountains of Mourn,
driven by the earnest, but never spoken aloud belief that “If you stay still for too long,
the sky will fall on you.” Bands of Ogres that leave their tribe to venture beyond the Kingdoms
are inevitably faced with the challenge of tracking down their kin when they return.
The Ogres themselves typically take the shape of an immense humanoid, often standing at
nine feet tall and seemingly bursting in fat and muscle. Sporting heavily toothed mouths,
enlarged livers and oversized digestive tracts, Ogres are capable of eating venomous,
toxic and even chaos-tainted creatures with ease. This is of vital importance to their survival,
for the infamous gluttony of the ogres is nothing less than a biological necessity.
Whilst many Ogres hold a close -albeit oversized- resemblance to baseline humans,
the ancient subspecies of Yhetees are known to be covered in thick white fur
and exhibit an extreme resilience to the cold. These semi-evolved Ogres display a feral,
bestial nature compared to their more widely encountered cousins and are rarely found below
the snowlines of the tallest mountains. Likewise, Gorgers are an offshoot of socially devolved Ogres
that populate the deep caves of the Mountains of Mourne, and are thought to be the remains
of tribes that have wandered into the deep darkness and lost their way back to the surface.
Ogre society, such as it is, remains especially primitive and based around a simple philosophy
of might-makes-right. This is enforced through a brutal pecking order headed by those who can
drink the most, fight the most, but above all, eat the most. Ogre chieftains, known as Tyrants
represent the apex of this philosophy, with their lieutenants, known as Bruisers, enforcing their
authority through intimidation and bullying. The phrase “that will cost an arm and a leg”
can be quite literal in Ogre camps, and is in fact the primary method of discipline.
The power and prestige of a tribe is embodied in their Mawtooth,
a stone that bears various marks and sigils. This serves as a kind of history for the tribe,
and is one of the few permanent fixtures that is carried from camp to camp. It is placed in
a predominant position wherever the tribe settles, typically near the Tyrant’s hut.
To exist in this society is to expect and provoke constant challenges, with every Ogre fighting to
gain the position above them and hold off those below. Unlike the similar hierarchies practiced by
the greenskins and other beastial races however, challenges within the Ogre Kingdoms can be good
natured. Typically the winner might only demand a small part of the loser, such as a finger or ear
as a victory spoil. It is only in challenging the ruler of a tribe, known as the Tyrant,
that the defeated might have their bloody corpse added to the victor’s supper.
As an Ogre grows larger and fiercer their reputation will grow too, boosted by impressive
deeds and acts of gluttony. Reputation is the only measure of an Ogre’s worth, both in life and,
according to their faith, in the afterlife. This is cemented through the bestowing of a “Big Name”,
a descriptive honorific that is seen as the first step in becoming a successful Tyrant.
Though the term “Ogre Kingdom” remains something of a misnomer,
for no true kings exist amongst the tribes, the various Tyrants occasionally pledge allegiance
to an Overtyrant. This is an especially formidable Ogre
who claims dominion, at least nominally, to leadership over the whole of the race.
To prevent the tribes from descending too far into disorder, Ogre society embraces fighting
and feasting in a near constant cycle. These two acts are closely related in an Ogre’s psyche,
with many battlecries translating directly into the phrase “Feed me”.
A feast -often held after a great victory in battle- offers the chance for the Tyrant
to display their prowess and gluttony to their gathered kin and heal any lingering
resentments. The greater the feast that is held, the greater the reputation of the Tyrant,
cementing their power and offering the chance for others to gain social stature. Bretonnian
roasted in garlic, thick sausages stuffed with the finest Empire meat, sauteed Dwarf and the delicacy
of Elf legs fried in horse blood are all staple dishes of any good feast, offered first to the
Tyrant before being passed down the long trestle tables to be devoured by the rest of the tribe.
As part of this cycle, semi-formal sports form the third pillar of Ogre society.
From brutal pit-fighting to the classics of face-cracking, fist-splinter,
belly-barging and the visceral guts-out, Ogres are known to love sports almost as much as food.
As with all ogre challenges, the losers of such contests -if they survive at all- are forced to
offer parts of themselves for consumption so that the victor may gain their strength and reputation.
Any feast worthy of the title will be organized around a Maw Pit, a deep hole filled with broken
weapons and rotting meat, where these contests are held to the bellowing cheers of onlookers.
Just as its facsimile forms the heart of an Ogre feast, the Great Maw sits at the
center of Ogre religion, for it is seen as the source of both magic and the Ogre’s own
unending hunger. Anyone familiar with Ogres even in passing will recognise the rounded,
toothed sigil of the Maw that adorns every Ogre banner and bellyplate.
The Great Maw itself is a thing of mystery, a vast pit filled with straining muscles and a terrible
whirlpool of razor sharp teeth. It rests deep within the old Ogre homeland, centered in the
crater where the ruinous comet struck many thousands of years ago. In those dark days
it was found by Groth Onefinger who, determined to look upon the cause of his people’s downfall,
ventured with his tribe back into the wastes of their homeland.
When he and the few survivors returned they were changed, filled with reverence for
the Maw and an understanding of the catastrophe that had befallen them.
They became the first Firebellies, spouting the faith of the Great Maw to the desperate survivors
of their species. Many accepted it for the tale of this immense god who could swallow so many tribes
and still hunger for more appealed to the Ogre’s own appetites. The faith spread quickly amongst
the Ogres and persists to this day. Firebellies can be found in every tribe, bellowing praises
to the Great Maw and channeling magic into great torrents of flame to display its relentless power.
Thanks to their aptitude for work as mercenaries and pirates, Ogres can be found fighting in small
bands in every corner of the world, often adopting the tactics and wargear of their employers.
It is a rare sight for an entire army of Ogres to gather, but when they do, it typically involves
a tribe undertaking a migration or several tribes working under the heel of the Overtyrant.
When gathered en masse they are like a mountain descending on the foe,
annihilating everything in their path and leaving ruin in their wake.
Every member of Ogre society is a capable warrior, making their armies an undisciplined
yet formidable mix of individuals. From the common Bulls with their simple clubs to the
thundering Leadbelchers, the hardened Ironguts and the veteran Maneaters, the daring Mournfang
and Rhinox riders, to even crude warmachines like the Scraplaunchers and Ironblasters,
the Ogres practice an uncomplicated brutality in war that suits them perfectly. A small band
of Ogre mercenaries may be led by a Butcher or a Slaughtermaster, their orders enforced
by ruthless Bruisers, whilst larger groupings will be led by the Tribe’s Tyrant themselves.
For an Ogre, a battle is only ever as great as the feast that follows it.
Taking the enemy’s supplies and baggage train is only a small garnish compared to
the glut of meat available from the bodies of the fallen. All of the greatest battles
in Ogre legend are marked by immense feasts, such as the great plundering of Karak Azorn
and the Feast Atop the Firemouth that marked the cementing of Overtyrant Goldtooth’s rule.
All across the world, many people have grown accustomed if not comfortable to the presence
of Ogres. Even the greatest cities of the Empire host whole groups of this savage race, working
as mercenaries, hired muscle and bodyguards in every industry. Yet their society is far greater
than merely the small bands of adventurers that the average denizen of the Old World might see.
With the Ogre Kingdoms, the might of this species is slowly being gathered. Great Feasts uniting
every tribe, once rare, are now commonplace. Under the iron rule of the Overtyrant Greasus Goldtooth,
the Ogres have once again soared in numbers not seen in generations. The tribes growing
ever larger as food and gold is exchanged for services with the outside world. Whilst their
raids on the great Caravans that pass from Cathay into the Old World have begun to slow, leading
some to believe that their place in the world is waning, their true strength remains hidden.
For the Overtyrant knows the true purpose of his people. He remembers the tales of the war with
the Sky-Titans, the great deeds the Ogres did in ages past, and he knows that the world they see
now is merely a small thing, there for the taking. The Ogres are no mere mercenaries, no simple
beasts lurking in the wilds: they are a mouth, slowly opening to swallow the Old World whole.