Ogre Kingdoms

"The new mountains gave shelter. We made fire in their mouths. We killed many beasts. The tribes grew well. The tribes split the lands. The Tyrants roared and fought. There were many kingdoms. It was good for many winters. The tribes grew and grew too much. Now we follow the sun once more..."

- The Saga of the Ogres, as interpreted by Yohan the Honest (declared eaten)



The Ogre Kingdoms is the rightful and sovereign domain of the large and brutish Ogre race. Wandering hordes of Ogres can be found wrecking their way across the globe, erecting many strongholds and plundering far off and exotic lands the likes of which no man will ever see in their lifetime. Yet no matter how far away they may be, all Ogres refer to the scattered tribal kingdoms that dominate the slopes and river valleys of the Mountains of Mourn their rightful, hard-earned homeland. It is here, amongst the frozen peaks and blistering blizzards that mighty Tyrants rule over their own brutal realms, warring amongst each other, looting and ransacking all before them as a tribute to their own gluttonous appetite and their ever-hungry God, the Great Maw.

They fight as thugs, bandits and mercenaries, their hulking numbers coming from a wide diversity of warmongering tribes scattered all across the Mountain range. They pick on the strong and the weak alike, battling mighty foes and powerful kingdoms many thousands of miles away all for the alluring promise of gold, plunder and meat. Even here, amongst the peaks where they hold claim to all, fearsome beast and mighty creatures dominate the dark corners of their realm, preying on all those who come to close. Yet such is the Ogres ferocious, stubborn and ever ravenous nature that they see these creatures not as a foe to cower and hide from, but as a challenge that needs to be brought down, crushed beneath their boot and eaten to fill their hungry bellies.

Armies have come and gone throughout the ages into the Mountains, but only the Ogres can truly claim to have conquered it all. It was the Ogres who brought down the mighty Sky-Titans of the upper Peaks, bringing their civilization low and condemning their children into exile or enslavement. It is they who once claimed a mighty realm within the Great Steppes of the Far East, battling the ancient Grand Empire of Cathay for supremacy before the day came that their malevolent and ever-hungry God, the Great Maw punished the Ogres for their sins and brought about the Great Migration of their race. That was many thousands of years ago, and as the Ogres grow in numbers once more, the cycle of history is set to repeat itself. Soon, nothing will stop these ravenous brutes from flooding into the lands of the Old World.

History
The Ogre race as a whole are a completely superstitious and illterate group, and thus there are very little to no recorded accounts of history within their race. What little information about their history remains can only be diciphered form ancient cave paintings or the oral stories passed down their culture from generation to generation. Though many of these accounts are extremely exaggerated and overly fantasied, there may yet be truth within the story that none would dare to believe.

Origins
"The Ogres were born long ago...
 * Big, strong and fat...
 * The little round ones by our side...
 * We ate and drank till our guts filled..."

- The Saga of the Ogres, as interpreted by Yohan the Honest (declared eaten)

Where exactly the Ogres come from and how they fit in with the other races of the world is a question many scholars have asked. Of course such questions never occur to the Ogres themselves, for they are not scholarly in the least, being unable to read or write. Ogres do value legends — often exaggerated tales of bravado told around campfires — and they do record major events with their cave drawings, but to an Ogre, history means their last meal and ancient history is the feast before that. They are far more concerned with obtaining their next dinner than with debating how or why they came to be.

Elven loremasters believe that the Old Ones, the mysterious beings who shaped so many of the creatures that walk the world, made the Ogres to join the fight against the rising powers of Chaos. However, the Elves theorise that quite a bit was left unfinished with the race when the polar gates collapsed, ushering in a tide of Chaos powers to the world. To the Elves, this explains the crude and intolerably vulgar nature of the Ogres, and hence the graceful rulers of Ulthuan generally disdain them as a lowly and dim-witted race. Human scholars, led by the strangely prophetic Imperial philosopher Albrecht of Nuln, believe that Ogres are close kindred to the race of Halflings, perhaps coming from some common stock, but somewhere in time splitting into two divergent species, perhaps through some foul mutation. There are many similarities: both races are resistant to the effects of Chaos, both have a comparable and all-consuming need to search out their next meal, and both bear unusual behavioural traits — for Ogres the need to smash and eat everything, for Halflings the compulsion to swipe anything not nailed down.

A Peaceful Existence (-5700 to -2749 IC)
"Then came the plains and the tribes...
 * Beast, sun, grass, wind, earth...
 * The Sunrisers gave us fire...
 * We fought for them and ate their young..."

- The Saga of the Ogres, as interpreted by Yohan the Honest (declared eaten)



For many thousands of years, the Ogres lived far to the east, in an area of great sweeping steppes. On the borders of far Cathay was a fertile grassland that spread endlessly across the horizon, and there the Ogres thrived and multiplied. They lived in tribes that followed the plentiful grazing herds of Gnubeast and lumbering Yak that roamed that open country, providing an ever-replenishing supply of fresh meat and milk. It is said that Ogres learned the secret of fire and basic metalworking from their neighbors in Cathay and there were no conflicts along their shared border for many generations. With no natural barriers to divide their kingdoms, they lived a nomadic existence, trading almost as much as fighting. Soon, the Cathayans began to recruit the most intelligent of the Ogres and indoctrinated them into the Grand Imperial Army.

Yet as more and more tribes stalked the steppes for food, it was only a matter of time before Ogre raids entered into Cathay and some Ogres have already begun to prey upon their neighbours. Before long, the simple peasant children working in the rice fields began to go missing and the Ogre race began to take the liking of Cathayan flesh. With the peaceable relations eroding away, the Celestial Dragon Emperor, His Most Excellent Majesty Xen Huong of the Imperial Empire of Cathay had finally had enough of the Ogres.

Whether Xen Huong's coven of ancient astronomers had anything to do with the catastrophe that befell the Ogres remain speculation. Not long after bones began to litter the paddy fields that a great burning light appeared in the sky. It increased in brightness and size with every passing day until it eclipsed even the great spheres of Morrslieb and Mannsleib. Over the weeks, it grew to be a baleful, glowering orb that crackled and spat above the plains, turning night into day and driving the wildlife of the steppes mad with fear. A corona of sickly green light came into focus around the comet as it grew ever closer, and fanciful observers even claimed that this new celestial body had a face, or more accurately, a mouth.

The Great Maw
"A great tooth comet came...
 * It grew closer by the day...
 * Fire roared in the sky...
 * Killed the night and drove the beast mad..."

- The Saga of the Ogres, as interpreted by Yohan the Honest (declared eaten)



One fateful night, the comet slammed into the Ogre homelands with such force that it was felt half the world away. All life around the impact site was obliterated in an instant. Two-thirds of the Ogre population was extinguished as if smote by an angry god. Only those near the edge of the plains escaped immediate destruction. The raging firestorms that followed the comet's fall incinerated everything for miles and distant witnesses said that it seemed as if beasts of living flame hunted the lands. Should any have been close enough to peer into the massive crater, they would have seen that the comet had burrowed deep into the heart of the world. Not all the Ogres were destroyed — those farthest from the impact survived, but for them the worst was yet to come.

The once vital plains were reduced to a searing desert of howling sandstorms and toxic mists. The grasslands were gone, the beast herds were dead and there was nothing in this wasteland to provide nourishment, so the remaining Ogres soon fell to starvation. Cannibalism quickly set in and an unnatural hunger gnawed away at the once-full bellies of the Ogres. Perhaps the whole disaster was engineered by the Dragon Emperor's coven of astromancers, or perhaps it was some ill turn of fate that crashed the comet directly into the heart of their homeland. But to the Ogres, it seemed that a vengeful deity had fallen upon them, a great and terrible maw that existed purely to feed. Thus, the insatiable and merciless god of the Ogres was born.

The remaining Ogres were greatly reduced in number, but the survivors proved to be the strongest of their species — for the weak did not last long. With bellies aching from hunger, desperate tribes wandered the barrens seeking any kind of sustenance, while keeping wary eyes on the sporadic storms that scoured the empty plains. Those without the muscle or fortitude to make it were soon eaten by their own tribes. Yet no matter how much the Ogres gorged, they could never fully satisfy their eternal appetites. Mired in the barren wastes with no food and suffering endless hunger pangs, there was little choice for the survivors but to move elsewhere. A great cloud of poisonous vapours hung over the comet's wake, blocking all eastward routes towards Cathay, so the Ogres were forced to travel into the unexplored west.

The First Prophet
"The Maw was born from the fire...
 * The earth shook at its coming...
 * The flames ate many tribes...
 * To the mountains some fled..."

- The Saga of the Ogres, as interpreted by Yohan the Honest (declared eaten)



Ogre legend tells of Groth Onefinger, a prophet amongst his kind who, before departing the old lands, dared to lead his tribe on a journey across the deadly desert to look upon — and offer sacrifice to — this new and powerful god. It was no easy matter travelling to the collision site. Hunger, flesh-tearing cyclones and nameless monsters plagued Groth and his tribe. As they neared the impact zone, the fierce winds suddenly changed. Instead of swirling aimlessly, the wind now rushed inwards towards the crater's hole. So strong was that pull that the Ogres had to fight for every step, lest the intake suck them into the great pit. When Groth and his tribe reached the edge, hunkering down and gripping the edge for dear life, what they saw was astounding, and has since been depicted on countless gut-plates and banners, and is forever etched into the consciousness of the Ogre race.

The gaping hole that stretched before Groth was immense, like some newly grown inland sea, except there was no water within, only empty and plummeting blackness. Its edge was filled with ridge upon ridge of jagged teeth and rippling, convulsing muscle that stretched down into vast nothingness. Here was a gullet so bottomless it could swallow the Ogre race into oblivion and still hunger for more. Groth and some few survivors returned with tales that filled the remaining Ogres with awe. Thousands of years have since passed, but many Ogres still follow the footsteps of Groth, for the Great Maw exists there still, a vile pulsing god visited upon the world by the vengeful heavens. Not all who take that journey return, for the trip is deadly. Where once vast herds grazed, now giant razor-limbed insects lurk, waiting to burst from under the wasted land to attack unwary prey.

Large carrion birds ride high on the thermals above, keen eyes searching for their next meal. Most deadly of all, however, is the Great Maw itself, for it still hungers. The presence of the Great Maw writhes in the minds of all Ogres, beckoning them to return, to stand upon that mighty precipice. So Ogres have become a restless race, forever seeking to escape from that whisper in the back of their minds that pulls them back to their gluttonous, yet insatiable god. Some Ogres, those that have travelled around the globe, even claim that there is another Maw in the ocean on the far side of the world — a vast, fanged whirlpool that devours any ship that strays too close. Yet no distance is great enough to escape the pull and lure of the Great Maw, no ritual or feast can fully appease its eternal appetite and, whilst it hungers still, its barbarous sons will feed and feed and feed until they consume the world.

The Big Migration (-2745 to -2720 IC)
The tribes that were not destroyed in the coming of the Great Maw at first remained in their homeland, but with naught but each other to eat in a land wracked with unnatural storms, many Tyrants chose to lead their tribes away. The Ogres headed westwards, beginning their ascent into the mountain ranges known now as the Ancient Giant Lands. The going was hard, for the Ogres had to contend with frigid weather, avalanches, howling ice storms, and always the steep and precarious climb. It was the beasts of that land, however that proved the most dangerous. For long years the Ogres had enjoyed the bounty of the plains below, where fat herds proved easy hunting and, of the few predators, the Ogres were by far the largest and most fierce. This was no longer true in the high places of the world. During those gruelling and steep marches, those Ogres who straggled or fell behind were never seen again. Sabretusks, enormous hunting cats with long tusks for eviscerating prey, waited in ambush to pounce upon the unwary.

Herds of shaggy Rhinoxen and overly belligerent Stonehorns wandered the slopes, all too willing to flatten anything that strayed too close. During the frequent snow squalls, vision was reduced to only a few strides ahead. In the relative blindness it was not unusual to hear the sounds of a great mauling just a few feat away, although further inspection would often reveal only bloody smears in the snow, a path of gore indicating the direction in which an Ogre had been dragged off. At first, the cave openings seemed a welcome relief to the Ogres, for even their tough hides could not withstand the endless cold of such high altitudes. However, though they longed for refuge, they soon learned to give the rocky fissures a wide berth, as more often than not they proved to be the lairs of great clawed bear-like creatures, the dreaded Mournfangs, or if the Ogres were especially unlucky, an enormous Cave Drake or Chimera.

A Feast of Titans
Those Ogres who made it past the first few peaks made a fateful discovery. The upper mountaintops were permanently wreathed in mists, but once that cloud cover was breached, it could be seen that those mighty mountains soared higher still, surely standing as the highest and steepest range in the world. There, far above the clouds, the Ogres first observed the Sky-titans and their vast herds. The Sky-titans were an ancient race, much taller (and far more intelligent) than the Giants of today. The Sky-titans had hewn vast fortresses into the mountains themselves —blunt, megalithic citadels that overlooked shimmering seas of clouds, pierced by great islands of rock on which stood other castles.

Hermitic by nature, the Sky-titans had long ago forgotten about the other races of the world, for they were content in their reclusive realm, hidden from others by the sheer inaccessible nature of the peaks and their shrouding cover of cloud. The Sky-titans rarely descended below the treeline, save only to tend their herds of cave-beasts and enormous mammoths. It was these gargantuan beasts that the Ogres first encountered, and the ravenous Ogres at first thought that they had reached some golden realm of plenty, a veritable promised land of red meat. They were utterly unprepared for herd animals as fierce and dangerous as these, however, and many Ogres found that, instead of a gluttonous feast, they were instead gored by mighty tusks, or stomped to death beneath thunderous hooves. The Ogres swiftly learned that the only way to pull down such creatures was to work together, separating a single beast from the pack — much as they had observed the giant wolves hunting the snowy slopes.

Noting the growing losses amongst their herds, the Sky-titans were soon made aware of this ugly new threat that had climbed the mountains to assail them. Although alarmed, the Sky-titans were far from helpless, and they unleashed lightning storms and avalanches, slaying many Ogres and driving others off the mountainside to fall to their doom. Thus began what the Ogres call the War in the Heavens, pitting the last surviving Ogre tribes against the Sky-titans. Always the attackers, the Ogres surrounded and besieged each peak while the Sky-titans defended their castles with enormous cannons, their largest and most loyal herd beasts and, finally, their vast bodies — stomping upon Ogres or snatching them up and hurling them great distances so they plummeted through the clouds and fell many miles to their deaths.

Although their population had been drastically reduced, the Ogres still outnumbered the Sky-titans by hundreds to one and, what's more, the Ogres attacked together in tribes whilst the Sky-titans lived alone in their fortress-like peaks, too solitary to ever unite under a single banner. The war was a bitter one, but with every victory, the Ogres grew stronger, as every battle provided an absolute glut of flesh. One by one the isolated mountaintop keeps fell and bloody feasts took place in their colossal halls. The more fortunate victims were already dead when the eating began, but by no means were all so lucky. As the Ogres rampaged further into the mountain range, they noticed that not only did the mountains tower ever taller, but that the Sky-titans also grew larger and larger.

The most ancient of that long-lived race grew to enormous sizes, yet over the great ages of their lives the Sky-titans become ever more sedentary, until finally becoming like the mountains themselves. Many Ogres believed that the final peaks they climbed in the Ancient Giant Lands were not mountains at all, but instead the eldest of the Sky-titans, now permanently enthroned in living stone. If this was so, they were the last of their kind, for the Ogres could find no more and they reckoned that they had devoured the entire race down to the last finger bone. There was rumour of the final few Sky-titans unfettering their mountaintops and sailing away on the clouds, but if this were true, none could say to where the refugees fled or if they ever arrived there safely.

A New Homeland
Not content with destroying their foes utterly, the Ogres slaughtered their herds of beasts and rampaged across the peaks, toppling castles into the valleys below. Today only a few shattered stone shells and a wide scattering of immense ruins on the valley floors give any evidence of the once-proud race of gentle giants and the amazing heights they had reached with their architectural marvels. For a while, the Ogres were content to stay put, sprawling out atop the shattered halls of the Sky-titans and dining on the dwindling and now shepherdless creatures. Yet there, on the very roof of the world, the Ogres began feeling the ill effects of living at such heights.

Great clouds of debris from the explosive coming of the Great Maw continued to be carried upon the wind from the east and it fell heavily onto those highest peaks. At night the skies shimmered with an unnatural aurora and, instinctively, the Ogres knew they must press onwards. Some few foolhardy ones stayed, choosing to live high up above the clouds despite the premonitions many felt. Although Ogres have proven particularly stubborn to the mutating effects of Chaos, they are by no means immune. Over the centuries, the Ogres that stayed to eke out a living amongst the dust-tainted sky-castles regressed in nature until they became feral and bestial. They evolved white shaggy fur and long talons and a new affinity for the harsh cold in which they lived. Thus was the mountaintop race of Yhetees born, and although rare, the abominable creatures have spread to many other high places of the world, where they prey on all who dare those frosty realms.

As the majority of the Ogre tribes descended the colossal mountains of the Ancient Giant Lands, they headed further westwards into the range known as the Mountains of Mourn. There the Ogres found the air more wholesome, for the unnatural storms and their mutating effects spent their fury on the taller slopes they had left behind. The peaks and valleys of the Mountains of Mourn were rich hunting grounds, harbouring a dizzying profusion of creatures. The Ogre tribes settled in, establishing lairs and campsites amidst the craggy valley floors. Although there were many battles to drive out monstrous creatures, and full-scale wars with tribes of greenskins, Skaven clans and even a few far-flung Dwarf mines that needed to be broken into and given a good scouring, before long the Ogres came to dominate the lands so fully that the area became known as the Ogre Kingdoms.

Stories of Legend (-2720 to 590 IC)
Given their voracious and nomadic nature, it is little wonder that the Ogres have fought so many battles across so many different realms. By dint of their size and strength, Ogres feel they should have anything they want and are always looking for a chance to throw their weight around, consistently taking what isn't theirs. Wherever Ogres march, violence and warfare are sure to follow. Truly, for the Ogres, opportunity knocks with a very large club. Here are recounted some of their most recent major battles.

War for the Challenge Stone
Past the northernmost peaks of the Mountains of Mourn a hulking stone monolith juts out of the snow-covered plains. This landmark has long been established as a boundary between the Ogre Kingdoms and the many barbarous tribes of men that roam the savage wastelands of the north. Yet this marker is more of a provocation than a warning to would-be invaders, it is a symbol by which victors can proclaim their might and display their glory. To the men of Chaos, the monolith is not just a symbol of triumph, it is a towering icon dedicated to their dark gods. Whilst the great stone is in their possession, it is the site of debased rituals and gruesome sacrifices, its slab-sides washed with blood until its age-worn surface writhes with the foul symbols of Chaos. The base of the edifice is covered in Ogre skulls stacked high — both an offering to the gods, and a promise to their oversized enemies of what will happen should their idol be defiled.

To the Ogres, the ominous rock is known simply as the Challenge Stone — and to claim it as their own they must first smash aside any army that encamps there. The Ogres do this as a test of strength and a chance to show their dominance. When their foe is defeated, the Ogres feast on the remains, and so there is no confusion about who has done the deed, they scrawl their own tribal marks into the stone's rough surface. The tribe that has its mark on the Challenge Stone is known throughout the Ogre Kingdoms, for it is a worthy feat. They are honoured with prime seats at the tables of the Great Feast, and their victories are well rewarded by Overtyrant Greasus Goldtooth. Over long ages the Challenge Stone has been claimed and reclaimed many times. Each time, as the victors crudely hack their tribal marks into the stone, the eldritch rock shudders, showing the previous marks etched in balefire, visible like scars blazed into the ancient edifice. The stone reforms until only the current ruler's symbols are visible. At present, the Challenge Stone bears the mark of the Bloodmaw tribe, for it was they, led by their Tyrant, Folg the Mauler, who drove off the armies that gathered to defend it in an epic fight during a raging storm.

Battle of the Blizzard
From out of the Northern Wastes a horde of fur-clad men gathered around the Challenge Stone, erasing the marks made by the cave-dwelling Glutmonger tribe. Many rituals were held under the stone's shadow, but the barbarians were not so foolish as to think their actions would go unnoticed. Unafraid, they shook their weapons and fists at the snow-capped mountains to the south. They invited attack — baying for blood and shouting oaths into the steel-grey skies. Yet as their fell leaders gazed over the massive army, they felt sure that this time the Ogres would not dare meet their challenge. Folg, the Tyrant of the Bloodmaws, assembled his tribe even as storm clouds gathered. The tribe's best Hunter, Targh the Impaler, predicted a heavy snow, claiming all the wild beasts, save for the frost-loving Thundertusks, were hunkering down, a sure sign of foul weather.

Folg did not mean to shelter from the storm, but instead to take advantage of it. Just as the winter tempest unleashed its icy fury, the Ogres marched out of the mountains to war. Although they could not yet be seen, the heavy tramp of Ogre feet could be felt. The forces of Chaos rushed to form battle lines, fur-clad barbarians, iron-encased Chaos Warriors and hulking Dragon Ogres gazed into the swirling snows, seeking the lumbering forms they knew must soon come looming out. Under cover of the howling snowstorm, it was the Yhetees who drew first blood. Loping forward, the white pelts of the beasts made them all but invisible. To the men it was as if the blinding snow had suddenly grown long and wicked claws.

Even as the Yhetees disappeared back into the foul weather, dragging their screaming victims with them, the advancing Ogre army loomed out of the storm. On they came, crashing upon the Chaos lines and driving them back. So fierce was their impact that many of the barbarians were crushed or sent flying by a tide of flesh and muscle. Into the center of the enemy line rode Targh, his Stonehorn flattening the foe with every grinding stomp. Not even the black, spiky armour of the Chaos Warriors could withstand those pulverising blows. The largest formation of Bloodmaws was led by Folg himself and they smashed, punched and bullied their way deep into the enemy's midst searching for the Chaos leader. The Chaos Lord's blood red armour stood out like a beacon, seeming to glow from some internal furnace of purest hatred.

He rode atop a Chimera, a three-headed monster that was considered fierce even by Ogre standards. Three times did Folg swing his maul, a massive club weighted at the end with a boulder. Each blow was accompanied by a mighty grunt, and followed with the pulping sound of one of the Chimera's heads being split asunder. Thus did Folg earn the title of Mauler. It was afterwards said that the Chimera's great canine head was indistinguishable from that of the reptilian or avian head —all were reduced to a crimson mush. The Chaos Lord, half pinned beneath his fallen beast, was trodden to death. There have been many battles over this spot, yet none have been so devastating to the enemy. Tales of the wholesale slaughter of the vast and powerful Chaos army has spread far and wide across the northern wastes. Such a challenge cannot go unanswered and it can only be a matter of time before the Gnoblar lookouts left to watch the monolith spy sinister forms marching out of mists. Then the bellows and war horns will once again echo from the mountains as an Ogre tribe marches down to meet this new challenge.

Slugfest at Stirpoint
The Empire's Stir River is swift and deep and has few safe crossing points. By seizing control of the ferry that operated at Stirpoint, the Ogres of the Rockeater tribe were able to demand a fortune in tolls while stockpiling plenty of mutton and manflesh to eat. It was the good life the tribe had been seeking and over the course of just a single season, the Ogres had been enormously successful, piling in food and riches in equal measure. The fact that they had crippled all trade across a major artery of the eastern Empire didn't raise any alarms with them, for they were hard-fighting, but never especially bright. They intended to milk the lands for all they were worth and it was a disappointment to them when the Elector Count of Stirland interrupted their accommodating situation. He arrived with the rising of the morning sun, a large host of soldiers marching in great columns behind him.

In haste, the Ironblasters were hitched to their Rhinoxen and rushed to stave off the Empire advance. Once deployed, the multiple cannonballs of the Ironblasters made gaping holes in the human lines. Several Empire formations halted, taking up firing positions and soon the rolling reports of Empire handguns echoed across the battlefield. Guffawing at the tiny pops and cracks from the puny enemy handguns, the Ogres called upon their Leadbelchers. Named for the scrap-packed cannon barrels they carried, the Leadbelchers advanced into range and responded with a thunderous reply, their shrapnel-filled shot tearing through the densely packed Empire troops. Undaunted by their losses, large blocks of green and yellow-clad soldiers advanced to pit their halberds against the Ogres' clubs. Much blood was spilt on both sides, but by mid-day the superior numbers of the Empire soldiers were making the difference, and the Rockeater tribe + was forced to give ground until, by nightfall, their backs were against the docks of the Stir River.

Preferring to fight by daylight, the men of the Empire retreated to make camp, safe in the knowledge that their foes were trapped. At first light they would wipe out the last pocket of Ogre resistance. They were even expecting reinforcements to arrive by river during the night, all but assuring that tomorrow would see the annihilation of the Rockeater tribe. Trees were chopped down, gunlines were established and strong picket lines were set — if the doomed Ogres attempted to bull-rush out of their predicament, they would be mown down.

The end of the Rockeaters seemed inevitable, but fortune gave the opportunistic Ogres an opening. A contingent of the Stir River Patrol, a ship-borne branch of especially toughened Empire soldiers, was meant to land north of the Ogre position to strengthen their lines for the final assault on the morrow. Yet somehow they got their orders confused and failed to land to the north, instead dropping anchor at the ferry docks. In the dark they did not notice they had landed in the midst of an Ogre camp. Led by a unit of mercenaries and their young captain, an Ogre named Golgfag, the Ogres stormed across the docks. Before the Stir River Patrol could disgorge their own troops, they found themselves attacked and their ships boarded. All the Ogres were soon aboard, and some even had seafaring experience, having plied the high seas as pirates. Although the Ogres had to abandon their remaining Ironblasters and entire herds of confiscated sheep, they captured enough ships to escape. The remains of the Rockeater tribe sailed safely downstream, taking with them what remained of their ill-gotten gains and all of the pride of the Stirland forces.

Treasures of Karak Azorn
Ogres are a grasping, greedy lot and once they fix upon a target they are brutally single-minded. The assault on the Dwarf stronghold of Karak Azorn is a bloody testament to Ogre destructiveness and the driving power of their gluttony. For ages, Dwarf expeditions have struck eastwards into the Mountains of Mourn, seeking the fabled Mountain of Gold. While they have yet to locate it, they have found many sites rich with gems and precious metals. The few mines and fortresses they have established in that hostile region have entrances cleverly hidden amongst the peaks and rock faces, for the Dwarfs rightly fear discovery by the Ogres. The second largest Dwarfen outpost in those lands was discovered by a far-ranging Ogre Hunter who took word of the settlement back to Thogub Smashclub, the Tyrant of the Angry Fist tribe. Thogub, an immense slab of an Ogre, rubbed his meaty hands together at the news, fair chortling with joy. He had learned first hand of the riches stored within such strongholds and he remembered well his own fondness for roast Dwarf meat from his adventuring days in the Worlds Edge Mountains. Gathering his large tribe about him, the Ogres of the Angry Fist marched for war, aiming to break the gates and plunder the riches within.

Breaking into a Dwarf stronghold is a task easier said than done, though. Karak Azorn was a small Dwarthold, yet the Ogres could not crack it. They braved volleys of handgun and cannon fire to batter at the stone gates, they sent Sabretusks sniffing around the mountainside to track down the many secret entrances and sally ports, and the Angry Fist tribe even dragged their Ironblaster to fire at point-blank range, but still the rune-inscribed doors stood. A few gains had been made — Gorgers had squeezed into a drainage tunnel to terrorise the lower workings before being slain and some headway had been made into a side passage before the Dwarfs collapsed the tunnel, burying many from both sides. The siege dragged on, months turning to long years, until at last the Stonehorns came.

With all the artillery the Dwarfs could bring to bear from their cunningly wrought stone towers, a single Stonehorn might not have survived an assault on the front gate — but three were captured for the job. A trio of such goliaths proved unstoppable. It was short work to turn the previously invulnerable gate to rubble and to enlarge the entrance so that an army might advance into the halls beyond. The Dwarfs defended every step, but were driven ever backwards by the sheer weight of the assault. With the end nearing, the remaining Dwarfs rallied around their thane and prepared to make their stand in the treasure hall. There, amidst piled rubies the size of a Dwarf's fist, giant mountain pearls, piled gold ingots and more, the Dwarfs waited. But the Ogres, having gutted the upper levels had found their real treasure — keg after keg of Dwarfen ale. A great bonfire was made amidst the gutted great-hall and there the Ogres roasted Dwarfs and swilled ale by the barrelful. Thogub let the remaining beardies leave, for the feast was on. Besides, the stunties aren't renowned for their speed, and Thogub reckoned that, once the feast was over, he'd soon catch up with them — he'd need the exercise, and a headstart was only sporting.

The Rise of Goldooth (590 to 2521 IC)
Amidst the constant warfare of the Ogres, one battle stands out; a defining moment where a conglomerate of tribes was forged into a mighty nation whose tread shakes the world. The Great Battle at the Fire Mouth not only galvanised the Ogre Kingdoms, but also roused their dormant volcano god. It began with a great Black Orc invasion. Since the days when they first escaped the enslavement of the Chaos Dwarfs, many Black Orcs have settled within the Mountains of Mourn. Since that ancient time, Ogres and Black Ores have fought many battles, but for all their brawn, the Ogres can never fully eradicate the Orcs from their midst. So it has gone, back and forth, for over two thousand years, both sides growing to respect their foe's fighting prowess.

An Inevitable Clash
Urk Ironskull rose quickly to become the greatest Black Orc Warboss of the Mountains of Mourn. Under his rule, the Black Orcs expanded further than ever, pushing far out from their stronghold of Mount Black Fang. Urk understood how to defeat the Ogres, destroying many tribes n the process. As Urk Ironskull's onslaught gained momentum, it swelled to a Waaagh!, an invasion that attracted greenskins from all over, including many Wolf Riders tribes from the Dark Lands and Night Goblins from Mount Grey Hag. With each new battle, Urk's legions grew and the disjointed Ogres could not hope to stand against the overwhelming greenskin attacks.

At the time Greasus Goldtooth had only recently claimed the title of Overtyrant — the ruler of all Ogre tribes. While he dominated the kingdoms nearest his own, more distant tribes, particularly those to the north, were not yet convinced of Greasus' right to rule. Greasus had performed feats of strength that carried his name across the Ogre Kingdoms, slaying the great Ice Drake Jaugrel (earning him the title `Drakecrush'), breaking open the stone gates of a Dwarf mine (hence the moniker 'Gatecrasher') and eating an entire herd of gruntalope (earning indigestion, it was simply too many hooves in one go), but he had never fully gathered the Ogres under his command. When Greasus heard of Urk Ironskull's army, he knew it was the challenge he had been seeking. If he could crush the Black Orc invasion, none could fail to recognise his greatness, or dispute his title.

The voluminous Overtyrant travelled to many valleys to gather support. Under his demand, the Ogre tribes all along the Ivory Road and as far south as Gnoblar Country answered his summons, until an army the like of which the world had never seen was assembled. So great was that Ogre host that the valleys quaked as Greasus led the host north. Uric Ironskull had not been idle. More Tyrants had fallen before him as he penetrated deeper into the Mountains of Mourn. When word of the new Overtyrant and his coalition reached Urk, he planned to confront them at a place of his choosing. With his vast horde surrounding him, Urk Ironskull assailed the Fire Mouth, driving off the strange flame-breathing Ogres that ruled there and planting his war trophies onto the slopes of that smoking volcano. Urk knew this was his chance to wrest control of the entire territory — and he planned to deliver the Ogres' defeat while standing upon their living god, so that the brutes would know true fear.

Urk Ironskull reckoned the simple bull-rush tactics of the Ogres would lead them straight into his trap — attacking up a steep slope against superior numbers. The Ogre surge would bog down against a sea-like mass of Goblins. Urk held little regard for Goblin fighting ability, but their great quantity would slow down his foes and buy time for the jaws of his trap to close. Massed Orcs stood ready to close onto either Ogre flank while Uric unleashed his deathblow — an assault by legions of armour-clad Black Orcs, who would charge downhill into the weary Ogres. To amuse himself while he waited, Urk ordered his last prisoners thrown into the hissing lava pools of the volcano.

The Power of Greasus
Urk had correctly judged the hot anger of the Ogres upon seeing the great Fire Mouth occupied by a mocking foe. Yet for all Urk's cunning, the Warboss underestimated the iron rule of the Overtyrant. Urk was used to fighting disparate Ogre tribes, not a vast host fighting as a single army. After a forced march, the Ogres entered the blackened valley and in the early light of dawn they saw Orcs and their trophies upon their volcanic deity and each Tyrant roared to be the first to storm the slopes. No other Ogre save Greasus could have halted that charge — yet by bellowing orders that shook the valley, he stilled the battle-hungry tribes. With a signal, Greasus called for the Tyrants to gather for an impromptu war council.

The pride of each tribe stepped forward, yet each leader was dwarfed beneath the colossal Overtyrant. Greasus recognised the trap the Black Orcs had set, yet he was not of a mind to back down. If Urk Ironskull wanted to charge down the Fire Mouth and surround the Ogres then so much the better, it would save a lot of marching. Aiming to teach the Orcs not to bite off more than they could chew, Greasus told the assembled Tyrants his battle plan. Several Tyrants scratched their heads, but most grasped the brutal potential. Once the new formations were assembled, all were impressed with the Overtyrant's plan.

The crux of Greasus' plan was for the great war beasts and Mournfang Cavalry that accompanied each tribe to be massed into a single wedge at the front of the battle line. As there were scores of different Ogre tribes, the monstrous herd was quite large, containing Stonehorns, Thundertusks and other beasts from that primordial land of ice and snow. Behind the formidable front rode a phalanx of Mournfang Cavalry followed by the rest of the Ogres.

Battle of the Slopes
Although Urk Ironskull had prepared his minions for the Ogre onrush, what surged up the volcano slopes was like nothing the greenskins had encountered before. The ground shook at their approach, and the unmistakable rumblings of the Fire Mouth were heard, the great volcano stirring as if in approval. The living wall of beasts stampeding towards them panicked swathes of Goblins, who, at best, loosed a few volleys of arrows before fleeing. Urk's plan of wearing down the Ogre impetus began to look shaky, but he still had hopes for his second wave, the large mobs of Night Goblins. As the monstrous herd churned up the mountain, dozens of mushroom-drugged loonies were launched out of the black-clad masses, each whirling a heavy iron ball.

The shaggy beasts did not pause, stamping the Fanatics underfoot and routing the Night Goblins utterly. Without breaking stride, the hulking creatures and gore-splattered Mournfang Cavalry crashed into the Black Orcs beyond. Despite the onslaught, the Black Orcs held, although a third of their number were flattened. Using great axes, the Black Orcs chopped furiously, hacking out trunk-like legs so that some beasts tumbled back down the steep slopes, crushing a path through the oncoming Ogres. Although they halted the stampede and were destroying it, the Black Orcs were pinned in place and could not fulfil Urk's plan by joining the rest of the army as it closed on the onrushing Ogres.

Goldtooth Surrounded
Further down the slope the jaws of the greenskin trap closed, the Orcs outnumbering the Ogres by more than six to one. Had the Black Orc centre been able to join the assault then it may have been all over. As it was, the Ogres were hard-pressed. Amidst the fury of the great bloodletting, the Fire Mouth itself spoke, shaking the ground and sending thick plumes of smoke skyward. The midday sun was obscured behind falling ash, and the slopes were eerily lit by the glowing streams of lava or the occasional flame gouts spouted by the Ogre Firebellies, the priests of the Fire Mouth, who had eagerly joined Greasus for the fight. Despite the press of greenskins, the Ogres dug in their heels and were starting to push back when the momentum shifted again. Having finally brought down the last of the great beasts near the summit, Urk and his Black Orcs at last joined the main fray. Their charge smashed into the Ogres and it was only the incomparable will of Greasus Goldtooth that held the Ogres in place. The Ogres gave ground, consolidating into a knot of resistance.

The Ogre centre remained rock solid, for there fought Greasus himself, surrounded by his bodyguard of Ironguts. The bedrock of the Ogre line, Urk realised that to break the resistance, he must break its heart. The most hardened veterans of either side pounded at each other, giving it all they could. Double-handed club strikes crumpled Black Orcs, while the great choppas of the greenskins cracked gut plates and were embedded deep in round bellies. It was here, in the slaughter-filled epicentre that the battle would be decided and both commanders knew it — for they personally pushed to the front, carving paths of carnage as they came.

Feast Atop the Firemouth
Around their leaders the two armies fought like a pair of raging cave-beasts locking horns atop a mountain peak and heaving with all their might. Disembowelled Ogres strove to smash one last greenskin even while their guts uncoiled from gaping wounds. Black Orcs, their helmets caved in and leaking brain matter; fought to deliver one more axe blow. Greasus swung his diamond-studded sceptre in sweeping arcs that smashed aside ranks of Black Ores at a time. A grand uppercut from Greasus' club-like sceptre caught Urk's personal banner bearer, snapping his totem and sending the Black Orc flying upwards.

It was a prodigious shot of heroic proportions, and for a moment the battered body seemed to hang in the air above the rim of the volcano before plummeting into the coiling smoke. Surviving Ogres still talk of the distance and height of that majestic blow. Seeing the Ironskull's banner pole snapped and its bearer sent skywards, the greenskin battle line wavered. Howling in rage, Urk sliced his way through a wall of Ironguts to stand before Greasus on the slopes of the Fire Mouth. It was his battle to win and no Ogre was going to stop him. For the first time during the fight, a smile creased the many jowled face of Greasus, and he bared his bullion teeth. Laying down his colossal sceptre, the Overtyrant grabbed at the Black Orc Warboss. Urk's twin axes bit deep into his foe's meaty chest but, undaunted by his own free-flowing blood, Greasus snatched up his opponent with both hands.

and squeezed and squeezed, then squeezed some more. The sound of Urk's armour buckling and snapping under the massive pressure was audible even over the cacophony of the battle. So too was the wet cracking that followed. For long minutes Greasus strained until his bulging arms visibly shook at the effort. The crushed and twitching thing that the Overtyrant finally dropped was unrecognisable, for Greasus had literally squeezed all the fluids out of the lifeless husk. The Ogres cheered, their hoarse bellows answered by geysers of flame erupting from the volcano. This sight was too much for the remaining greenskins, who turned and fled. The Ogres regrouped and, as directed by the Firebellies, gathered the slaughtered for a feast.

And what a feast it was — each and every Ogre had to himself a heaped mound of greenskin dead to devour. Greasus Goldtooth had, in one massive stroke, broken the Waaagh! and made absolute mush of its leader. Under the smoky gaze of the volcano god, Greasus had cemented his title of Overtyrant, for even those Ogre tribes that were not at the battle were soon talking of that great triumph and its monumental victory feast. At the end of the week-long celebration, as the Fire Mouth vented molten anger into the sky, foretelling of yet greater battles to come, Greasus gave what to the Ogres amounted as a long-winded speech. To the cheers of the assembled Ogre Kingdoms, Greasus bellowed; "Today the Ores, tomorrow the world. Let them all tremble...".

Tribal Hierarchy
"He's the boss. That's that. You'll do what he says like the rest o' us. We all do. You try and give em' lip. He'll pull yer arms off and eat 'em before you've shut yer trap!"

- Ogre Bull



Dominance within Ogre society is often regulated by two things; power and guts. The stronger and fatter an Ogre is, the higher up they are in their brutish tribal hierarchy. The largest and most powerful Ogre within the entire kingdom is known as the Overtyrant, the current ruler being the infamously obese, Greasus Goldtooth. Below him stands a large collection of lesser tribal leaders known simply as Tyrants, and are typical the leaders of their own tribe or petty kingdom within the Mountains of Mourn. They naturally rise to rule and do so with an iron fist (literally, for Ogres commonly wear bladed gauntlets just for this purpose. The next largest Ogres under the Tyrants rule are known as Bruisers and these contenders for tribal power assume lesser command duties.

Dissension within a tribe (or without for that matter) is handled with sudden and predictable violence, and any who question a Tyrant's decisions must be prepared to fight the leader in a match to the death. Before such a duel, each Ogre removes his gut-plate — an ominous sign, as the victor in such a contest is expected to feast on the guts of the loser. Ogres refer to this traditionally as a "guts out" challenge. Ascension to tribal rule is not entirely hereditary, since all an Ogre has to do is to defeat the current Tyrant, yet it does follow a similar if not gruesome line of ascension. As the most powerful Ogres tend to sire the strongest offspring, a Tyrant's fiercest challenges come from his own progeny.

Thus begets a generational cycle of violence where a Tyrant eventually faces his most ambitious son in a challenge, and to remain as ruler, he must beat down and eat his own rebellious offspring, or be eaten in turn. Ogres being what they are, find this normal and speak proudly of relatives who put up a good showing. Ogre Tyrants are bullies of the first degree and unleashing abrupt violence helps them keep an iron rule over their tribe. A common tradition amongst Tyrants is to pull a limb or two off anyone who offends them — such as those who speak too much or any Ogre that accidently eats one of the Tyrant's favourite Gnoblars. The commonly used phrase 'that will cost an arm and a kg' stems from this practice. The arms or legs in question are most often eaten, but some Tyrants use them to bludgeon the offender. The Ogre Tyrant Malbob Mountainsmasher even earned the name "Bigarm" after pulling a Giant's arm out during a friendly dispute. From that day on, Malbob used the massive limb as a club. Until it started to go off, that is... then he ate it.