Ogor Mawtribes – Warscrolls

The Bloodpelt Hunter is not really that interested in getting food for their tribe, though they do so nonetheless. Truly, all they care about is glory. They are concerned only with the largest and flashiest kills, ranging ahead on the mawpath to slay the best of the beasts and take the choicest cuts of meat before the rest of the tribe can get there. A Bloodpelt Hunter will sometimes keep parts of their kills to wear as trophies or to use as tools. The roughly cut-off heads of drakes and megadons are worn around the waist and stuffed with the barbed bolts fired by their ballista-sized crossbows. The pelt of a cave bear forms a hardy cape to be drawn against the hostile elements. The antlers of great elk are strapped to the head to convince myopic prey, when downwind, that the approaching shape is a herbivore rather than a grisly, ravenous omnivore who stalks them with a killer’s eye. In battle, these glory hogs will go after the choicest targets, bloodily slaying enemy heroes and warbeasts to the disappointed groans of their kin in the main battleline who had hoped to make the big kill for themselves.

The holy ogors of each warglutt are known as Butchers. These grunting, sweaty monsters act as the tribe’s cooks, but more importantly, their connection to the art of ingestion makes them expert gastromancers, shamans whose spiritual link with the Gulping God allows them to call upon uncanny powers. It will come as no surprise, then, that their powers are summoned through the act of eating things. Each of the Butchers’ recipes hinges around the consumption of something with a potent spiritual component, using a resonant magic to impart the strength of the thing being devoured to themselves or those around them. Such materials range from strings of troggoth intestines filled with vitriolic bile to iron-hard rocks that must be eaten whole. So hastily are these ingredients scoffed down that they can cause internal damage, not only because of the sheer mass or density of the feast but also because of the magical energies unleashed. The gruel of blood and magic that roils in the Butcher’s throat heals more often than it hurts, though, the ever-hungry shaman growing strong on their invocations as their wounds close up with a ruddy sheen of health.

The flame-obsessed shamans known as Firebellies maintain that the true form of the Gulping God is the Sun-eater. It is said that during the Age of Myth, Gorkamorka reached up into the heavens and grabbed the Hyshian sun that loomed over Aqshy, cramming the glowing orb into his mouth. As he gulped it down, he felt its white-hot flames course through him and unleashed a great belch of molten fire. The Firebellies insist that this event birthed the lava rivers of Aqshy or, indeed, the Realm of Fire itself. Most ogors have brains enough not to argue with them for long, as being turned into a smouldering pile of ashes is bad for one’s health. A Firebelly makes it their business to eat the spiciest and most flammable of foodstuffs to kindle their volatile gut in order to channel the Sun-eater’s fury. They will walk through fire and devour molten slop to such an end, pushing through the resulting pain. In war, Firebellies are able to breathe great plumes of flame and manifest mantles of burning magic that scorch the flesh from foes. To witness a furious Firebelly in all of their splendour is to witness a true child of the inferno – and usually to burn to death soon afterwards.

There is no ogor more capable in the arts of survival than the Icebrow Hunter. They roam the most hazardous lands across the Mortal Realms, taking on not only hungering beasts of the wild but also frozen lakes, precipitous climbs and blizzards that would flay a lesser explorer to the bone. To them, extreme cold is no more impediment than a light summer rain. Some Hunters even revel in drinking the blood of Yhetees and Frost Sabres in order to exhale bone-chilling clouds of icy mist that leave thinling enemies paralysed and helpless before the blows of their clubs. Icebrow Hunters make excellent trackers, leading their tribe to fertile hunting grounds in the most remote of places. Having such a huntsman as part of the tribe can be the difference between life and death, for ogors are always ravenous, and one who can guide them to a supply of fresh meat is worth their weight in realmstone. Though they are formidable warriors, the Hunters do not fight as part of the greater mawtribe but instead tend to operate alone and at range. They gravely wound their prey with hurled spears and metre-long crossbow bolts before swiftly closing the distance to deliver the killing blow.

Those Butchers at the top of their craft are known as Slaughtermasters. These are veteran shamans, gastromantic leaders and even masters of their own warglutts, growing ever more massive over their tenure until they can haul their iron cauldrons to war behind them via thick chains embedded in their backs. Such is their connection to the Gulping God that Slaughtermasters often sacrifice their own hands to the ignoble art of butchery, affixing the hacking tools of their trade to their arm-bones in a demented act of worship. This devotion does not go unnoticed by the Gulping God, who rewards them with powerful spellcasting abilities. Even in the thick of battle, a Slaughtermaster hurls chunks of meat – usually their still-twitching enemies – into their cookpot, there to be stirred into a bubbling morass by their pet Gnoblars. The magical steam and froth that boils out can empower their allies or eat away at the flesh of the foe – but such power can come at a price, for in the wilds of Ghur, sometimes even a freshly cooked meal will eat you right back.

The leaders of the warglutts are known simply as Tyrants. That title is well earned, for they rule with an iron fist – often quite literally. Every one of them relishes the act of beating those who challenge them and eating the remains; no ogor stays on the top of the gigantic, fleshy heap for long without committing egregious amounts of physical harm. Sometimes they just roar, compelling those around them to do their bidding with bellowed threats and blasting them with foul-smelling breath. In battle, a Tyrant holds the line with their meaty, grasping arms as much as with any kind of tactical ability. The weapons used by Tyrants are usually as heavy as their owners. The thundermace is a great example: a giant black-iron tenderiser so imbued with the earthy magic of the ogors that it can send tremors through the ranks of the foe. There is also the long, stout polearm called a beastskewer glaive, often nicknamed a ‘Big Spike’. This giant spear is capable of slashing open the guts of a Ghurish monstrosity; often a Tyrant will rush under a lumbering behemoth and slice it open along its length before feasting on the drizzling innards and offal that falls into their waiting mouth.

The Ogor Maneater Gorlok Blackpowder made his reputation roaming the Penumbral Sea and plundering ships wherever he went, ever accompanied by a retinue of hangers-on. While the Maneater seeks out worthy adversaries to add to his boasting-tally, his crew loot everything they can get their hands, claws or beak on.

Hrothgorn is a particularly foul-tempered and cruel Icebrow Hunter with a keen nose for fresh meat. He favours snaring his prey with a crossbow-launched mantrap that shatters bones with its iron jaws. Hrothgorn tolerates the constant jabbering and bickering of his Gnoblar companions only because they are useful for carrying weapons, setting traps and carrying out whatever tasks the Icebrow Hunter considers beneath him.

The ground shakes and turns white as if in fear as the Frostlord’s massive steed lumbers forward. Even over the howling gales, the roaring, bellowing voice of this great-bellied champion booms out, shaking icicles from the overhangs of nearby cliffs. They are the most cold-hearted and stony of all the Beastclaw Raiders, and at their command are cities cast down and former paradises frozen over. Any Frostlord worth their salt will have conquered a massive, hairy beast of the mountains with which to lead the charge. They have a natural affinity with Stonehorns and Thundertusks – both breeds so powerful they can stamp an ogor into the ground. The Stonehorn is a monster with a skeleton of living stone. Its skull-like face has most of the flesh and skin battered from it before full adulthood, and its granite-tough horns are bladed and edged like knapped flint. The Beastclaw ogors make great use of Stonehorns as linebreakers and battering rams. They value them not for the king’s ransom of jewels that can be found in their guts but simply for their raw and undeniable stompiness.

The ground shakes and turns white as if in fear as the Frostlord’s massive steed lumbers forward. Even over the howling gales, the roaring, bellowing voice of this great-bellied champion booms out, shaking icicles from the overhangs of nearby cliffs. They are the most cold-hearted and stony of all the Beastclaw Raiders, and at their command are cities cast down and former paradises frozen over. Any Frostlord worth their salt will have conquered a massive, hairy beast of the mountains with which to lead the charge. They have a natural affinity with Stonehorns and Thundertusks – both breeds so powerful they can stamp an ogor into the ground. The Thundertusk is a true force of destruction. Its enormous, jutting tusks, already formidable even before plates of spiked metal are bolted to their edges, are strong enough to batter apart a cogfort. The beast’s signature attack, however, is the spherical blast of ice it spits from its gullet, a boulder-sized projectile that can freeze enemy warriors solid in an instant. This is highly gratifying for the ogors; not only is each blast a decisive blow against the foe, but it also leaves their cadavers frozen and ready to be retrieved at leisure.

All across the realms, the people of the mountains have learnt to fear the Huskards, for they bring with them a snowstorm so merciless that it can devour the sun and tear flesh from bone. When the Everwinter rages, Huskards pray to its arctic sentience, channelling an aspect of the Gulping God’s power. The roaring of the blizzard then intensifies, surrounding the chanter with a swirling white aura. Creatures of the Everwinter lope to join them, a fell light glowing in their eyes. The wind drives the Huskard’s beasts on and lends them a fierce primal strength. Even the storm joins in the violence, head-sized chunks of ice raining down to hammer and pulverise those who earn the Huskard’s wrath. The Stonehorn is a monster with a skeleton of living stone. Its skull-like face has most of the flesh and skin battered from it before full adulthood, and its granite-tough horns are bladed and edged like knapped flint. The Beastclaw ogors make great use of Stonehorns as linebreakers and battering rams. They value them not for the king’s ransom of jewels that can be found in their guts but simply for their raw and undeniable stompiness.

All across the realms, the people of the mountains have learnt to fear the Huskards, for they bring with them a snowstorm so merciless that it can devour the sun and tear flesh from bone. When the Everwinter rages, Huskards pray to its arctic sentience, channelling an aspect of the Gulping God’s power. The roaring of the blizzard then intensifies, surrounding the chanter with a swirling white aura. Creatures of the Everwinter lope to join them, a fell light glowing in their eyes. The wind drives the Huskard’s beasts on and lends them a fierce primal strength. Even the storm joins in the violence, head-sized chunks of ice raining down to hammer and pulverise those who earn the Huskard’s wrath. The Thundertusk is a true force of destruction. Its enormous, jutting tusks, already formidable even before plates of spiked metal are bolted to their edges, are strong enough to batter apart a cogfort. The beast’s signature attack, however, is the spherical blast of ice it spits from its gullet, a boulder-sized projectile that can freeze enemy warriors solid in an instant. This is highly gratifying for the ogors; not only is each blast a decisive blow against the foe, but it also leaves their cadavers frozen and ready to be retrieved at leisure.

One of the most destructive races to have ever lived, the Drogrukh were centauroid warriors who built a great nation in the Realm of Beasts. From their number rose a champion so powerful that he ascended to godhood: Kragnos, the End of Empires. Having led his people in warfare against a draconic empire that left the Drogrukh all but extinct, Kragnos was sealed away for the protection of the realms – only to be freed centuries later. Though he currently wages a protracted war in the Realm of Life, Kragnos can still be drawn to battle by the most ferocious fighting, his arrival announced by the smashing of enemy lines and the crushing of foes under his thunderous hooves. Already a natural disaster made manifest, Kragnos’s rampages are further augmented by his legendary armaments. The shield Tuskbreaker is said to have been cast aside by Gorkamorka himself, deity of the orruks and other brutish beings. The spells of enemy mages break instantly upon its surface, supposedly due to the residual divine essence that suffuses it. The Dread Mace, Kragnos’s massive studded club, is powerful enough to shatter walls of solid rock. Legends say that Kragnos retrieved the weapon’s head from an ancient geomantic nexus, and that it is infused with Ghur’s own destructive animus.

A Frost Sabre is far more than a big cat, for it is blessed by the Everwinter and has ice magic in its blood. These great felines do not exude heat, and they can pursue prey for hours without exhaling so much as a single telltale puff of condensation. This, combined with their natural stealth and cunning, makes them excellent hunting companions for the ogors. They are capable of outpacing even an Ymetrican stallion over short distances, and they are strong enough to drag down a juvenile rhinox. Once they have sunk their claws in a meal-to-be, their distinctive, curving tusks finish the job, sinking into the prey’s jugular or other vulnerable spot. Icebrow Hunters often train one or more Frost Sabres, usually from birth, to aid them in their more challenging hunts. Some of the most ambitious ogors make use of entire prides of such creatures, using them to shepherd prey into the path of their tribe. Of course, training these animals to give up their kills is often the biggest challenge of handling them – more than one incautious ogor seeking a greater share of the meat has been ripped apart by these beasts once their hunger has been stoked.

The main body of a Beastclaw Raiders tribe rides to war on hulking Mournfangs. These monsters have tusks long enough to disembowel a mammoth and are somewhere in form between bear, snow tiger and Andtorian yak. However, Mournfangs have been bred by ogors to have longer and ever more impressive tusks – so much so that they obscure its forward vision. This constant discomfort has instilled a tendency in the creatures to charge first and respond to commands later. Mournfangs are hardy creatures capable of surviving weeks without food, and only the most grievous wounds will put a stop to their rampages. Typically, Mournfangs will only accept a rider after they have been pummelled over the head for long enough to accept dominance. However, to ensure they ride only the fiercest and most capable of these beasts, the ogors favour taking or breeding whelps, putting the litter into a fighting pit and waiting to see which rise to the top of the food chain. This harsh upbringing sees adult Mournfangs fight with a tenacious ferocity, goring chunks out of foes even as their riders hack down rival cavalry or those who seek to pierce the creatures’ thick, shaggy flanks – a significant challenge in itself.

A Gnoblar is a type of grot – small, weedy and green with an outsized nose, wide ears and an overdeveloped sense of spite. Unlike their sneaky cousins, these creatures rely on their ingenuity on the battlefield, as well as their talent for jury-rigging the ogors’ blackpowder weapons. On their own merit, a Gnoblar is unlikely to survive for long. By entering a loose symbiotic relationship with an ogor, they at least have a fearsome creature to hide behind. Moreover, an ogor tribe generates a colossal amount of waste: weapons too small to use, pieces of torn armour, and sometimes even treasure. There’s nothing a Gnoblar likes more than a bit of looting, as all too often the ogors pass over something of genuine worth in their haste to eat the flesh of the fallen. Long ago, after an era of war at the hands of the orruk warclans, the Gnoblars allied with the ogor race – as long as the Gnoblars did all their dirty work for them, the ogors promised not to eat them unless they were really hungry. It was a one-sided bargain, for the Gnoblars work tirelessly yet still get thrown around and stuffed in the cookpot. However, it has seen these little horrors thrive – they are now present in nearly every ogor mawtribe across the realms.

It takes a great deal to scare the brutish ogors, who can carve through thinling foes as easily as an axe through flesh. Yet as they sit around their cookfires, they trade hushed warnings of what happens to those who dare anger the Gulping God. Should an ogor fail to pay gory tribute, they will find their body fat wasting away and all feelings of satiation evaporating into bottomless hunger. This affliction is known as the Empty Belly curse, and those who suffer from it are known as Gorgers, so desperate is their unending desire to feed. Gorger Mawpacks trail behind their ogor brethren on the hunt, ripping apart and slurping up discarded offal like rabid hounds. Their curse has devolved them into slavering creatures that communicate in grunts and howls. Many exhibit fingernails that have long since distended into claws, allowing them to attack with quick, wide swipes that cut straight to the bone. They often struggle to tell friend from foe; to them, anyone who competes for their prey is an enemy – leading them even to consume other Gorgers. The only beings these creatures seem to listen to are the ogor Butchers, for these gastromantic shamans enjoy feeding the Gorgers everything from leftovers to bold new recipes.

In the depths of the blizzard, long-limbed creatures howl. These are the Icefall Yhetees, monstrous, shaggy-furred humanoids whose affinity with arctic climes runs so deep that their blood is icy and their breath freezing cold. For time immemorial, these strange beasts have loped alongside the ogor tribes, especially those of the Beastclaw Raiders. After all, both breeds prize the act of glutting themselves on meat as often as possible. It is rumoured that Yhetees are ogors who long ago adapted to the conditions of the harshest regions of the Mortal Realms to become a new species entirely. Some ogors maintain that they clamber from the hearts of the greatest glaciers, born from the icy bones of the realms themselves. Whatever the truth, the Yhetees will not speak of it, preferring to hunt in silence. When the enemy seeks to escape or outflank the ogor battleline, it is the Yhetees who suddenly leap from the swirling white mist to fall upon them. Whether slashing and gouging with icy claws or swinging their ice-encrusted weapons wildly, the creatures wreak havoc among the foe.

Should an ogor survive long enough, they will eventually amass enough status and equipment to rise through the tribe’s ranks. Provided they earn the favour of their Tyrant, these chosen few become Ironguts, their leader’s dedicated bodyguards. These are the biggest, hardest and gnarliest of all the warglutt’s ogors save the chieftain himself, and each is a veteran of more battles than they can count. While ogors are not much good at counting, those who insist that an Irongut prove their right to the title soon find that one good wallop is all it takes to straighten the matter out. The weapons of choice for these battle-scarred veterans are usually at least as long as they are tall: twelve-foot clubs of stone and iron, battered and blunted scimitars that can fell a gnarloak with a few swipes, and billhooks perfect for slicing open the bellies of mammoths. The gut-plates they wear tend to be more ornate than those of the Gluttons, and it is common practice for Ironguts to strap shields and bucklers taken from their downed foes to their torsos. These trophies are a welcome sign to their allies should a battle be going badly – for when the Ironguts smash into the press of battle, they can turn the tide of a fight all by themselves.

The cannon is a weapon that speaks deeply to the ogor soul – it is heavy, blunt and fully capable of splattering someone’s guts across the ground with a single shot. No one really knows when ogors first picked up the cannons of their enemies, let alone how they learned how to fire them. Gnoblars were likely involved in teaching the finer points, or perhaps a leap of destructive genius was gifted to them by the Gulping God. Whatever the reason, a certain breed of ogor soon became besotted with the sheer carnage they could cause with their new toys, and they came to be known as Leadbelchers. Whenever a town or settlement is sacked, Leadbelchers hog as much blackpowder as they can. Finding actual cannonballs proves a lot harder, for handguns are a lot more common than artillery in the armies of men and even duardin. To make up for this, Leadbelchers stuff discarded weapons into the barrels of their cannons – when the blackpowder detonates, these are fired with terrific force into the ranks of the foe, often causing even more damage than a cannonball by shredding a wide spread of victims. Better yet, once the powder has run dry and the ogors have closed in, those cast-iron cannons make for excellent clubs…

There is, in the heart of all ogors, a desire to travel the realms and scoff down as many interesting types of grub as they can find. Those who succumb to this urge are known as Maneaters. They are the explorers of their kind, those who left the Mawpath of their kin and went their own way – sometimes with a couple of likeminded ogors in tow – to make a pilgrimage across the lands. As they let their gut lead them hither and yon, they will usually offer their services as mercenaries to those forces they encounter upon the way, fighting alongside a wide variety of nations and tribes and often adopting the fighting styles of their new-found paymasters in primitive cultural mimicry. Eventually, they will return home as their realm-spanning wanderlust leads them full circle – though they never stop trying to kill as many different types of enemy as they can. Many of the oldest Maneaters are considered to be all talk, their boasts of ravaging the lands and seas of every realm highly unlikely – but lay such an accusation at their door and you might just find a pistol barrel the size of a chair leg ensuring you lose your head a hair trigger after they lose their temper.

The blubbery mass of each ogor warglutt is composed of Gluttons. These ravenous warriors have a very straightforward approach to warfare, in that they usually just barrel straight forward and meet whatever is in front of them head-on. By banding together into one vast, stinking scrum of flesh, their mass is roughly that of a herd of rhinoxen. They ensure the enemy is knocked reeling even before they bring their clubs, fists and heads to bear. The ever-useful gut-plate plays a big part in this, for with the weight of the ogor concentrated behind a stout metal disc, the effect of a charging Glutton is much like that of a rampaging bull. Even if they are charging a spear-wall, they will still barge forward without hesitation; an ogor’s skin, fat, muscle and bone is so dense that most polearms will break in two rather than impale them. When Gluttons hit home, their foes are crushed bodily into the ranks of their fellows. The ogors capitalise on their crashing charge, staving in ribcages with their clubs and hacking clean through limbs with their oversized, rust-pitted blades. Should any be left standing, the Gluttons will lunge forward to crush enemy skulls with one almighty head-shattering bite.

The Stonehorn is a monster with a skeleton of living stone. Its skull-like face has most of the flesh and skin battered from it before full adulthood, and its granite-tough horns are bladed and edged like knapped flint. The Beastclaw ogors make great use of Stonehorns as linebreakers and battering rams. They value them not for the king’s ransom of jewels that can be found in their guts but simply for their raw and undeniable stompiness. It is common for a pair of ogors to tie ropes, timber and animal furs to a Stonehorn’s back so that it can carry them into battle atop a double throne of sorts. Owing to their looming vantage point, the riders usually either hunt with spring-jawed chaintraps, which they use to grab their prey and haul it up to be eaten; harpoon launchers the size of artillery pieces; or trained blood vultures that soar forth to peck at the eyes of the ogors’ foes. All Stonehorns are prized by the ogors – any creature that can barge through a duardin hold or shatter the bones of a Mega‑Gargant with a single charge has to be worthy of serious respect.

The Thundertusk is a true force of destruction. Its enormous, jutting tusks, already formidable even before plates of spiked metal are bolted to their edges, are strong enough to batter apart a cogfort. The beast’s signature attack, however, is the spherical blast of ice it spits from its gullet, a boulder-sized projectile that can freeze enemy warriors solid in an instant. This is highly gratifying for the ogors; not only is each blast a decisive blow against the foe, but it also leaves their cadavers frozen and ready to be retrieved at leisure. The ice magic that runs in a Thundertusk’s veins gives it an aura of cold that will numb anything without a robust constitution merely through proximity – enemies fumble their swords from frostbitten fingers even as their breath catches ice-cold in their lungs. Sitting astride one is well worth the cold-deadened buttocks that follow, for the creature gives its rider – or riders, if more than one dares the climb – a great vantage point from which to pick their next kill. Better yet, with its flanks so cold, the creature can be strapped with stowage to keep raw meat and choice cuts frozen for as long as needed.

The Scraplaunchers favoured by groups of Gnoblars are haphazard constructions of wood, horn and metal hauled by angry rhinoxen. The concept behind these peculiar catapults is to sling a barrelful of loot and weaponry taken from previous conquests – after all, the weapons of humans, aelves and duardin are too large for Gnoblars to wield and too small for ogors to do anything more than use them as backscratchers. Thus, the Gnoblars ‘give ’em back’ in the most violent way they can by launching them at high speed towards the enemy. It is not only weapons that are fired from a Scraplauncher but also shields, horseshoes, cutlery, jars of poison, bits of armour and even the odd captive. The entire mass is flung high into the air before dropping down amongst the enemy to impale, sever and score the odd kill. At first glance, the horde of Gnoblars that ride these Scraplaunchers are a rowdy mob of pint-sized idiots wielding broken bottles, blunted hatchets and the odd sharpened implement. Yet one should not underestimate their good aim when it comes to the business of pelting the enemy with scrap metal, or their ramshackle, underdog ingenuity.

The titanic artillery pieces known as Ironblasters dwarf conventional cannons. The earliest examples were scavenged from the remains of a Ghyranite empire that hovered over the Scabrous Sprawl – these were the creations of the Sky- Titans, a race of gargants who made their home upon the metalith known as the Great Green Torc. Ogor legend has it that an ancient mawtribe climbed up to the Torc from the swampy lands below and declared war on the gargants they found there. The cannons of the Sky-Titans roared their wrath, their owners wading in with blade and fist, but in the end, it was not enough. One by one, they were toppled and devoured by those ancient ogors in a war above the clouds. The ogors have found that loading Ironblasters with conventional cannonballs – by the dozen, if possible – yields impressive results, with pillars of flame shooting from each discharge as heavy metal shot thunders in a devastating column of destruction. The gunners who crew these outrageous weapons are usually deaf, and so they watch like a hawk for their moment to discharge their prized artillery. Any who decide to attack the cannon before it can be reloaded are charged in turn by a badtempered rhinox and a roaring, indignant ogor.

To the ogors, the act of cooking is sacred. It makes the flesh of their victims into a true feast for the body and soul. Because of this, the most prized of all the tribe’s possessions is its Great Mawpot, a vast iron cauldron that is lugged around after the tribe and set up upon the battlefield so the Butcher can do their work. Shrine and cooking tool both, the Great Mawpot emanates waves of gastromantic magic when it is bubbling full of the meaty slop the Butchers call battlebroth. Enemy corpses swill amongst gallons of hot blood, the gizzards of Corpse-rippa Vulchas, spicy hearts of Seraphon spitter-beasts and much more. Thrumming with the power of Gorkamorka, the cauldron can even trap supernatural creatures made of ectoplasm. In times of battle, the Great Mawpot is set up behind the battleline and anchored in place. From here, the Butcher will send bowls of battlebroth via attendant Gnoblars to their mawtribe. The healing and invigorating effect of such a treat is undeniable: wounds reknit, torn blood vessels writhe back into place and even broken teeth sprout anew, ready once more to sink into the flesh of the foe.

When the mawtribes march out to battle, looking to sate their bloodlust as well as their hunger, the theatres of war are suffused with gastromantic magic. When the desire to consume reaches a fever pitch, the ground itself opens ravenously in response. The resultant Mawpits are living mouths that many Butchers believe to be a sign of the Gulping God’s favour. All are ringed by yellow-brown fangs and rancid flesh that constantly seeps a thick, gooey drool. Long, leathery tongues flick back and forth, tasting the air or whipping out to ensnare a passing morsel. Mawpits are omnivorous in the extreme and can grind up any material, be it flesh, bone, wood or metal. Yet such is their appetite that they soon devour everything within reach, at which point they begin to screech and howl like starving dogs – an unnatural sound unlikely to ever be forgotten by those who hear it. Mawpits require a never-ending tribute of fresh meat, and if they do not receive it, they will eventually return to the stone and mud from which they emerged. It is for this reason that ogors strive to ensure that the Mawpits are hurled lavish amounts of newly slain victims on a regular basis.

Of all of Behemat’s spawn, Gatebreakers are the most sinister, filled with the need to destroy. More specifically, these gargants harbour considerable ill will towards the metropolises raised by Sigmar’s folk. The sight of a glorious city, with its proud spires and resolute walls, awakens a bitter fury within these creatures. With a bellow of hate, a Gatebreaker advances on an enemy settlement without fear, shrugging off panicked arrows and cannon fire with little more than a malicious chuckle. Across the Prime Innerlands of Shyish, the name Big Drogg Fort-kicka is dreaded. Admittedly, this is as much for the Gatebreaker’s grievous halitosis – a side effect of eating decomposing corpses – as his skill at destroying cities. Drogg is known to many undead tyrants, who willingly offer him a portion of their servants to consume in return for his aid. Yet Drogg’s true goal has always been to get close enough to Nagash to clobber him in a show of strength. The Great Necromancer’s shattering at the hands of the Lumineth has set this plan back. Taking this as a personal insult, Drogg has vowed revenge. He eagerly hires his services out to any undead wishing to fight the aelves – and he has no shortage of clients.

Grikk swears that the massive, jagged bolt that buried itself in the back of his boss’s Vulcha steed had nothing to do with him. Few believed the treacherous Big Shot, so Grikk quickly took leave of his clan, accompanied by a handful of crossbow-toting lackeys and some grots to drag his beloved killbow across the realms.

Braggit Big-Talka is a grot with many tales to tell. Some of them even contain a grain of truth. The Rabble-Rowza and his mates (not to mention their squiggly companions) are an unpredictable menace, arriving without warning in search of shiny bottles to snatch and pour their fungal potions into.

Kraken-eater Mega-Gargants are irascible old souls who have seen it all. They find just as much satisfaction in watching the sun rise while seated atop their favourite rock as they do in destroying a village, and they crave the relief that only the sea can provide – as well as the bounty that washes up on its shores. Bundo Whalebiter is a legend along Ghur’s Coast of Tusks. He is that rarest of things, a gargant known for both brain and brawn, and has been ever since an encounter with ocean-dwelling aelves near the Icefangs. While pursuing the aelves – for the sight of their sea creatures flying about out of the water irritated him to no end – Bundo was distracted by a Fangmora Eel to which a glowing lantern had been attached. The gargant throttled the creature and took the trinket, hanging it from his ear as a fetching accoutrement. The aetherquartz in the lantern worked its magics upon Bundo, heightening his intellect such that he can now converse with shocking clarity for a gargant. As a result, Bundo has won many mercenary contracts by arguing the value in having colossal aid to call upon.

Unlike most undead, the Ossiarchs are willing to compromise – provided their tithe is not waylaid. Though they bear little trust for the forces of Chaos, a desperate or cunning general may be able to direct them towards a mutual foe. After all, the Bonereapers will happily harvest the corpses of both sides…

His Endrineering commission revoked after repeated accusations of ‘unsanctioned resource sharing’, Gronn Ymorsson took matters into his own hands by bribing some Skywardens and stealing a Gunhauler, then fleeing the sky-port authorities before they noticed. He follows armies who can open the way to worthy treasure, swooping down to claim the loot when the coast is clear.

The beasts known as ogroids were once the Goroans, a race of Destruction that fell to Chaos after orruks sacked their capital. But not every Goroan clan spat upon Gorkamorka; some stayed faithful, and they occasionally emerge to fight alongside their old kin. Their gifts of ‘flashy choppas’ is usually enough to banish any suspicion.