The Myaghan of the Bloodskull Heights

This is the new gnoblog for the Ogre army I've put together for a new Lustria campaign.  I'll update with army lists and pics as time goes by.  Enjoy.

The story of the Myaghan of the Bloodskull Heights begins with their former tyrant, Tsagadai.  Tsagadai was a mighty and imposing ogre, but also something of a lazy one.  He would meet challenges to his rule with remarkable ferocity but had no ambition to expand his holdings or improve the lot of the ogres that languished under his iron boots.  Tsagadai might have been undone on more than one occasion by more cunning ogres but the secret of Tsagadai’s longevity lay in his bride – the infamous Maneater, “Ma” Oghul.  She had plundered much of the Eastern Steppes and had returned home to find that the only bull she’d ever given a second glance to had become Tyrant, if somewhat shiftless.

Tsagadai and Oghul’s marriage was, putting it mildly, stormy.  It was made no less so when Oghul had the poor judgment to give birth to twins.  Tsagadai had been determined that a strong young boy would have made a fantastic dessert following a mighty feast, but two was more than he was ready to eat just then.  Accusing his formidable bride of attempting to make his belly burst, he hurled both children off the side of the mountain.  One of them tumbled into a cave, falling into the dark caverns where the gorgers made their putrescent homes.  One of them rolled all the way to the base of the mountain.  Oghul cracked her husband’s skull and nearly challenged him to a guts-out challenge for the position of Tyrant.  It was Jubei, Oghul’s shadowy lieutenant, who convinced her to take her fellow Maneaters and return to the world of men.  To this day, no one knows why Jubei gave such counsel (popular opinion is that Tsagadai bribed him to do so) or why Oghul accepted (popular, but terribly quiet, opinion is that she and the Ogre ninja were lovers), but Oghul departed and Tsagadai, once again, ruled the Bloodskull Heights uncontested.

At the base of the mountain, the ogre infant wailed with such a noise that it shook the small valley where he had landed.  It also brought the hunters of the Kuj tribe of the Hung.  The khahan of the tribe was a slight and cunning horselord, called Khabul.  Khabul’s wife picked up the ogre newborn, currently the size of a human toddler, and asked her husband to allow her to care for the child.  It was a decision that would bring both weal and woe to the Kuj.

The Kuj had encountered ogres only sporadically and having one in the camp began as a nightmare.  The young ogre was forever hungry and looking at anything and everything as a potential meal.  Khabul eventually named the child Burilgi, meaning “destroyer” in the tongue of the Hung.  Burilgi grew rapidly and his growth and hunger were quickly transforming him into an ever more accurate representation of his name.  At his wit’s end, Khabul decided to see what the boy, now a spry eight years old and nine feet tall, could do in a raid.

The results were spectacular.  Burilgi shattered the feeble fences of the other tribes and, with a club in hand, shattered skulls with a swing of his massive arm.  This kept the young ogre fed for another five years and raised the Kuj to the point that they verged on a mass uniting of the tribes as had been once or twice before in history.  Khabul taught Burilgi to read and write and the fundamentals of warfare.  Though the growing beast could not ride the small steppe ponies, his long legs and tireless muscles could keep up with a horse army on the march.  It was a rough sort of living but one that was well-suited to the growing eating machine.

Unfortunately, subject-tribes were able to complain about the ravenous ogre in ways that enemies could not and Khabul had to weigh his growing political power against the might of his adopted son.  Political reality won out and, after Burilgi devoured the quite marriageable daughter of a neighboring khahan, Khabul banished the young ogre, horsemen whipping him towards Cathay.  It would prove to be an ill-fated decision as the other tribes, realizing that Khabul’s monster was gone, fell upon the Kuj and slew every last male of the tribe.

The Cathayans have a long memory and recalled when the ogres used to roam the steppes and devour their own children; as a result, Burilgi was hounded everywhere he tried to stop in the lands of the Celestial Emperor.  Even the rough-hewn, frontier version of civility began to fall away from Burilgi and he inched closer and closer to the monster of legend.  If it were not for a chance encounter with a monk a very long way from home, he might have degenerated to the level of Chaos Ogres, living only for slaughter.

Kashima Shinsai was a Nipponese monk, spending some time in study with the Imperial Astronomers of the Celestial Court.  When he heard that a “monster” was assailing the countryside, he went to investigate.  The potent force of Shinsai’s inner peace had an odd effect on the nearly feral young ogre and, for the first time in months, he addressed a creature he had encountered with something other than bellows and attacks.  Shinsai and Burilgi spoke long into the night and, by morning; the ogre had pledged himself to the protection of the monk and to rediscovering his sentient soul.

Shinsai realized that he could not keep an ogre as a companion in Grand Cathay – the old fears were just too strong, so he and Burilgi sailed back to Nippon.  The land of the samurai entranced the fierce young ogre, who learned to read the strange calligraphy of the land and studied the way of the warrior.  Shinsai was a popular monk at court and the ogre was forced to learn to restrain and direct his most ferocious urges.  The memory of his exile from the Kuj burned brightly in his memory and he went to his mentor for guidance.  At Shinsai’s urging, Burilgi joined the army of a popular daimyo, adding the same devastating combat power as he had to the Kuj, but he now tempered himself to only devour his enemies.  The prospect of being eaten alive by a ferocious oni (The Nippon warriors were quite convinced that the daimyo had tamed a demon) made peace break out like a plague. 

Burilgi came to understand the political infighting of the Nipponese clans, but it grated on him terribly – the bloody truths of the Great Maw spoke to him, though he had never heard the words: the strong take from the weak and there are no consequences save victory for the strong and a bloody end for the weak.  He found himself salivating as he walked through the cramped capital city and knew that he would not be able to control his hunger forever.  Another exile was averted by, of all things, the theater.

Burilgi enjoyed the kabuki plays of the Nipponese, especially since many times they were held out of doors beneath a palatial tent that Burilgi could enter without squeezing or walking doubled over.  As Burilgi watched the tale of a young, superhuman hero called Kamakura Gongoro Kagemasa.  The hero showed the cretinous villains his wisdom by virtue of his prowess and might.  He defended the weak but slaughtered them as well.  He was a force unto himself and Burilgi knew he had found the way out.  He commissioned a vessel to carry him back to the mainland and went to Shinsai one last time.  The monks were masters of tattooing and body modification.  Burilgi would never leave Nippon.  Gongoro would return to the lands that had spawned him.

Back in the Bloodskull Heights, Tsagadai’s reign had gone from bad to horrid.  The ogres fought almost constantly among each other, in many cases because the only food to be had was one’s neighbor.  Tsagadai ruled by dint of cunning and his massive tenderizer: a huge club forged from a caravan wagon axle and the metal from a Reiksguard Knight.   He had run off the tribe’s main hunter, Subutai, and he kept hearing rumors that his estranged wife was wandering the hills around the Heights, collecting the many ogres he had banished.  The stress had rendered Tsagadai into an incredibly paranoid tyrant, but no less deadly for all that.  His last night in the Old World came the night of Cometfall.

The night that the comet, heralding the rise of the Great Maw, fell to the planet and forever changed the lives of ogres everywhere is as close as the ogre kingdoms get to a national holy day  (No one actually knows when that day is but the ogres generally agree it would’ve happened at a time convenient for a feast).  Tsagadai sat at his meager feasting table when he heard fighting approaching his stronghold.  Taking hold of his tenderizer he walked to the cave entrance to see a line of ogres working their way to the door.  He saw his hunter and his wife.  He also saw his son, though he did not immediately recognize him.

The massive ogre’s skin had been bleached as white as the snow that caps the Yhetees’ peaks.  Wild streaks of red and black crosses his face like shadowed blood.  He led a handful of ogres but he smashed bulls and ironguts alike aside with mighty sweeps of his club.  When Gongoro stepped into the door of his former home, Tsagadai had backed up to near the maw pit, placing a number of bulls between himself and his son with the demon’s face.  Gongoro sneered, his voice rumbling like thunder, though it seemed almost subdued.

“Hello, Father.  I’ve come to end you.”  Gongoro stripped off his gutplate and hurled it like a discus at the bulls acting as a fleshy shield for their Tyrant.  Two of them lost their heads for their trouble and the rest decided their Tyrant probably deserved what was coming and got out of the way.  Father and Son strode into the Maw-pit, the gore of the feast welling up around their boots.  Blood splashed high and bones crunched as they collided with the force of a volcanic eruption.  Tsagadai was full of old cunning but Gongoro had learned treachery from doing battle with the perfidious hobgoblins of the Eastern Steppes.  Tsagadai tried to taunt his son, but Shinsai’s lessons had turned Gongoro’s rage into a leashed sabrecat, flying forth only when the young ogre willed it.  Desperate, Tsagadai attempted to overpower his son, but he was an old and weak tyrant and Gongoro felt the might of heroes surge through his thews (heroes, it should be noted, who had no problem with devouring young women, but we are discussing ogres).  Gongoro lifted his massive father into the air and brought him down across his knee, the older Tyrant’s spine shattering with a terrible cracking that recalled a tree splitting from rot.

When Gongoro did not immediately kill his father, the other ogres were aghast – to not kill your victim was a violation of ogre custom.  Mongo, Gutlord of the Kurultai, the Tyrant’s “advisory council,” declared that, if Gongoro did not take his rightful place, Mongo would lead an insurrection then and there.  “Ma” Oghul hefted her club/rolling pin with a snarl that indicated how that might go for Mongo.  Before more bloodshed could break out, Gongoro raised his hand, still stark white, but now stained with red gore.

“This foolish failure of a Tyrant shall not live.  But it is time for this clan to leave this place – it has left you weak and soft.  I am here to tell you that there are lands who cannot hope to resist the thunder of the ogres.  You hide up here and murder each other – that way leads to the strongest ruling but they rule alone.  I will lead you into the lands of men and none will stand against us.  The Hung have a word – Myaghan¬ – it refers to an army of 10,000 men.  I tell you that you are as mighty as any 10,000 men and we will take our might from this place and grow fat and rich.”  With that, Gongoro lifted his broken father into the air again and stood over a cave that led to the lair of the gorgers.

“Give my regards to my brother, Father.”  The old ogre’s screams became quite high pitched as they echoed through the mountainous caverns.  Eventually, they were drowned out by animalistic howls and the sounds of feasting.

The Myaghan of the Bloodskull Heights traveled through the Dark Lands and through the Old World, killing, plundering, and feasting their way through the lands of dwarfs and men.  In Tilea, Gongoro heard tales of the gold to be had in distant Lustria.  It took some convincing to get his cousin Yhetees to get on a ship and even more convincing to get the ship captain to let them on.  The vessel sailed with a crew of twenty and arrived with a terrified pilot as the last human alive on-board.  He was the celebratory feast when they made landfall.

Gongoro’s tribe set into the jungle and established a stronghold for themselves around a new sacred maw-pit.  “Ma” Oghul and several of the ogres still wander the lands, collecting loot and fighting for themselves but “Ma” has promised that, should the boy prove himself, she will rejoin the clan in time.  For now, Gongoro leads his terrible forces in search of treasure.  Sometimes he is the hero and sometimes he is the villain but, whatever role he is playing, the force of Gongoro Deathcheater and his terrible horde gives pause to any who can hear the thunder.

Army List Time!  I hope to pull them out this weekend and do some imaging for posting.  EDIT:  More Changes as I cut back on the IG and drop the Gorger to add some Maneaters.

Heroes:

Gongoro the Corpulent, Ogre Tyrant & Army General: Heavy Armor, Tenderizer, Greedy Fist, Wyrdstone Necklace, 2 Sword-Gnoblars & 1 Luck-Gnoblar.  311 pts.

Guyuk, Ogre Butcher: 2 Dispel Scrolls, 2 Tooth-Gnoblars & 1 Luck-Gnoblar.  195 pts.

Core:

The Kurultai, 3 Ironguts: Great Weapon, Heavy Armor, Gutlord, Bellower, Standard Bearer (Gut Standard).  219 pts.

Arbat Negan, 3 Ogre Bulls: Ironfists, Ogre Clubs, Crusher.  140 pts.

Arbat Qoyor, 4 Ogre Bulls: Ironfists, Ogre Clubs, Light Armor, , Bellower, Crusher.  202 pts.

Arbat Gurban, 4 Ogre Bulls: Ironfists, Ogre Clubs, Light Armor, Bellower, Crusher.  202 pts.

Special:

Arbat Dorben, 4 Yhetees: Ice Weapons, Greyback.  280 pts.

Rare:

"Ma" Oghul and the Boys, 3 Maneaters with Great Weapon, Cathayan Longsword, & Ogre Club.  264 pts.

ED, Giant, 175

The new setup lets me pick and choose where I want Gongoro to go - the IG makes it a very hard-hitting unit but the Maneaters and Gongoro can stand up to more robust opposition.

Cool fluff! Also looks like a fun list to play and paint.

Intro fiction for our upcoming Lustria campaign

The docks of Skeggi rang with the sounds of drunken and desperate Northmen in the humid jungle night.  The wooden barricade that surrounded the town creaked heavily in the breeze and the singing had a strange, haunted quality to it.  These men had arrived with visions of gold and plunder and had met a thousand different ways to die in the unforgiving wilderness.  That the Maiden of Marienburg had failed to arrive as scheduled meant that a dozen of them, men who had carefully hoarded the means to get themselves back home, were now living in constant fear of being torn to shreds by the envious or, worse, tossed outside the protective barricade.  But ships did not come in at night and the Northmen were attempting to drink their fears away.  As a result, no one was at the dock when the Maiden came sailing into port, smashing a small rowboat and crumpling its prow upon the dock.

Plank after plank of wood came slamming down between the sinking ship and the rickety pier.  The crash of the timbers drew some of the lesser drunks from the alehouse.  When the first figure came off of the boat, the men could not believe their eyes.  The boards of the pier cracked under the sledgehammer force of massive, iron-shod boots.  Splashes on the other side of the boat drew the spectators’ eyes to white-furred monstrosities, their strange weapons leaving ice trails in the water.  Three of the pier’s boards gave way with sickening cracks as the massive forms made their way to shore.  As their steps multiplied upon the shore, the impact of their strides could be felt all throughout the town, like a herd of Bretonnian heavy horses rumbling up from the sea.  Several of the Northmen readied axes or clubs while others waved at them to not draw the attention of the mountainous newcomers.  Finally, one set of strides, slower than the rest, shook the earth like a great hammer.  Even as each massive figure came into view, it became clear that, behind them, an even larger figure strode, each step eating up yards of distance. 

Torvald Tuddingsson was as close to a local authority as one got in this lawless campsite.  Several of the more civic-minded Northmen had dragged him from his table in the back of the alehouse and had shoved him out in front of the gaggle of raiders that made up the local population.  Torvald found that his sobriety grew rapidly as the figures, which he now saw were Ogres of the Mountains of Mourn, came into the torchlight of the main (in fact, only) street in Skeggi.  Many of them were dressed in typical Ogre fare: shirtless, dirty and dark trousers, and the iron-toed boots that, Torvald knew from bearing witness several years ago, could tear a man’s head clean from his shoulders with a solid kick.  Many of them wore the iron gloves that Ogres proved so fond of.  One surprisingly foppish Ogre, dressed in bright colors and with a massive white feather plume pierced through his forehead, came through the gathering throng and peered down at the Northmen.

“Who’s in charge here?”

Torvald swore to murder the many of his comrades that gestured in his general direction.  “I’m Torvald Tuddingsson.  How may I help you?”

The Ogre fop grinned, showing a startling number of teeth.  “Not me, Torvald.  I just needed to identify you for the Ogarlisen, the Tyrant.  Torvald blanched.  A tyrant meant that this was a tribe – but they were also clearly a mercenary force of some sort, with several Ogres rapidly unloading supplies from the slowly sinking ship in the harbor.  The ogres parted, their heads bowing respectfully, as a figure even larger than the fop, though not so large as the man-mountain that stood outside the light, thudded forward.  The sight set the Northmen murmuring and Torvald was at a loss for words.

He had to be at least 12 feet tall, with heavy metal plates rattling from his toes to the bowl-shaped helm on his head.  His gutplate was the size of an Imperial greatshield and a pair of curving Rhinox horns jutted forward from it.  Over his shoulder was a weapon that was longer than Torvald was tall and as thick around as a tree.  But that was not what shocked these men, inured to the terrors of Chaos and, even now, living with the daily threat of violent death.  This Ogre’s skin was as white as chalk, with filthy fingers indicating that this was not simply some sort of paint.  In addition, his face was marked with wide swaths of red, wildly exaggerating his eyes and mouth and giving him the appearance of some sort of angry deity.  The fop nodded his head to this freakish creature.

“Sir, this is Torvald Tuddingsson.  Torvald, it is my honor to present Gongoro the Corpulent, Ogarlisen of the Myaghan of the Bloodskull Heights.”

Torvald made several attempts to swallow, finally succeeded, then spoke, first in a squeak and then with a voice that almost did not quaver.  “A pleasure, General.”  He was both delighted and concerned that he recognized the word the fop had been using as a corruption of a plainsman word for General, “What brings you to Lustria?”

Gongoro’s painted face shifted as he broke out a half-grin.  “We heard that this was the place to make one’s fortune.”  The Tyrant looked over the ramshackle camp.  “Is this what passes for ‘Fortune’ in Northman circles?”

Several of the raiders, spurred on by liquid courage, grumbled at the insult, but Torvald waved his hands at them in panic before making a sound that sounded like a cross between a chuckle, a cough, and a sob, “No, General.  The Jungle is a dangerous place and we’re still working on driving our way deeper into it.”

Gongoro rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  “I see.  Jubei, bring me that map.”  Torvald could no longer keep his jaw from opening in surprise when a massive ogre, dressed in the cotton robes of far-off Nippon, brought a rolled-up parchment to the Tyrant.  Gongoro perused the paper for a moment and then looked back at the utterly confused Northmen.  “Men of the North, I make you this offer now.  We will go into the Jungle and make a clear road from here to the island of the Amazons.  You may use it for trade and transport and you will pay us a small fee for the privilege.  Accept and you will find your fortunes improving.  Refuse and you become our first meal in our new homes.  What say you?”

Torvald almost blurted out before Gongoro was finished, “We accept!”

The Tyrant nodded with satisfaction.  “Then open your gates.  We’ve a maw-pit to consecrate before we can bed down for the night.  Francois will be your contact for payment of tribute.”  The Tyrant gestured to the foppish ogre who grinned at the Northmen, who had collectively discovered their sobriety in the past twenty minutes.  As the gates came open, the ogres tromped out into the night, their march a rumble of thunder rolling into the jungle.

One of the other Northmen put his hand on Torvald’s shoulder, “They’ll come back to eat us too, you know.”

“Unless we make it worth their while not to.”  The Northmen considered that as they scattered to their homes, rolling thunder heading away from them.

New Fiction from the Battle with the Skaven!

The _Myaghan_ celebrated with almost a desperate fury.  They had proven victorious against the Daemonic host but the battle had shaken their collective resolve as had little before.  The very unnaturalness of their foes had left them seeking any excuse for a feast – not that they needed one, especially in light of the victory.  All the same, there hung in the air an edge, a burning need to find revelry and forget the horrors they had seen.

None of this made “Ma” Oghul any happier.  She was unable to join the fights or even the belching contests.  The daemons had struck her a dolorous blow and she was resting and recovering on a pile of skins.  Two of the Ironguts had offered to help her to the table and had nearly lost their hands in exchange.  She would not be helped and she would _not_ be seen as an invalid.  Gongoro had said nothing to her, rightly recognizing that doing so would be to acknowledge that she was injured…again.  Still, she couldn’t help but notice the concern in her son’s eyes. Such worry would be, if not the death of her, the death of her long and storied career.

Twice now, her boys had made it further than she did across the battlefield, with Jubei or Francois coming back in the aftermath to help her from the field.  Sure, she was not the youngest of Ogresses, but she was more than a match for any of the so-called ogres in this army, with the possible exception of her darling baby boy.  It was time she reestablished just who she was – “Ma” Oghul, slayer of the Reikland Cavaliers, the Maneater that knocked Duke Gasconne of Bretonnia from his Pegasus with a single swing of her pin. 

Something had to be done. 


Gongoro had not thought it possible; however, at this moment, he barely felt hungry at all.

The overwhelming stench wafting across the battlefield from the oily fur and rotting clothes of the Skaven was enough to nearly make him nauseous.  The fact that there were so many of them did not help matters.  The _Myaghan_ had barely driven off the force of daemons that had attempted to take the Spice Road and the Tyrant was concerned that his army was somewhat worn out.  He looked across the field and saw his mother hefting her bronze-bound rolling pin, a murderous look in her eyes…

“Ma” Oghul was not only hungry, she was livid.

However, she had a plan.

Ma looked up at ED, the might giant who lumbered to battle beside them.  “You know,” she said in a conspicuously loud voice, “Those Skaven are mighty small.  I’ve heard that giants have piss-poor eyesight and can barely see things that are thinling size.  Hell’s Bells, Ed there might run right through those rats and never realize he was at the battle.”  Ma’s Boys looked at their leader with a mixture of confusion and worry – Gongoro had broken ED to service.  That did not mean that ED couldn’t wallop an Ogre or three.

The Giant looked down at Ma, her blue, polka-dot dress flapping in the morning light.  “My name is ED, not Ed.  And ED can see you just fine.”  His speech was slurred from broken teeth but there was no mistaking the irritation in his voice.

Ma gave a half-smile that Francois recognized.  The other Maneaters backed up slightly.  “Is that so?” she asked.  “Well, bless my bippy, boy.  I think we may have to test that.  Can’t have you running off during the battle.  My baby boy wouldn’t like it.”

The mention of Gongoro pushed some of the anger from ED’s voice, but he was still somewhat defiant.  “I can see the little birdies and the small stones on the ground.  What sort of test you have for ED?”

The army was now forming up and Ma could see that the Skaven opposite her were, by and large, rabid and frothing at the mouth.  This was almost too perfect.  “Alright, ED.  Here’s what Ma wants you to do.”  She picked up a rock about the size of a thinling head.  “I’ll pitch this out just a bit and you run and bring it back to me.  You have to bring this one back or you fail.  Got it?”

Jubei whispered in Ma’s ear “Umm, Oghul…do we have time for this?  Gongoro is stacking the left flank; he’s clearly got some sort of pla…”

She waved her ninja lover away.  “Just let me work.”  Turning back to the giant, she smiled brightly, “ You ready, ED?”

The giant nodded and Ma heaved the stone out into the middle of the battlefield.  As the giant lumbered gamely out into the middle of the battlefield, Ma noted her son looking up in surprise.  Two mobs of rats began to howl with anger and race forward at the giant, but a third thought running toward such a massive fellow with a chain whose links were nearly as big as they were seemed a bad idea and they bolted in the opposite direction. 

Over to her left, Ma saw a veritable carpet of rats the size of Gnoblars come pouring over a hill.  The roar of the Leadbelcher cannons seemed to shake the sky and Ma blinked and the rats were gone.  Apparently, Bat had loaded the guns well today.  Ma felt the bloody-minded stirrings of a plan coming together.

The giant reached down and picked up the stone, which to him seemed a pebble and looked back at the Maneaters. 

Ma waved vigorously, “Bring it back, now.  C’mon!” 

The giant shrugged and lumbered back.  Ma looked at her boys, “Get ready to charge.”  The giant had grown enthusiastic about this game and had trouble slowing down as he approached the battle line.  With a shriek, Ma led her Maneaters through the legs of the Giant and into the advancing army.  The first whiff of the toxic vapors from the strange, hooded rodents hit their noses and the Maneaters began to choke violently.  Holding her breath as best she could, Ma swung her pin down at the rotted, furred creatures, crushing several beneath its weight.  Jubei beheaded three with a single swing of his Cathayan Longsword and Francois swung his mighty stone hammer, torn from a statue of Sigmar in Altdorf, and the bearers of the poisoned flails were no more.  Ma looked out at the field and grinned as the greenish vapor cleared.

“Francois, my darling.”  The old ogre cackled.  “Do you see what I see?”

The foppish ogre looked almost shocked.  “They’ve turned to face the bulk of the army.  Are we staring down…”

“…the flank.”  Jubei finished.  “It’s the flank of their whole formation.”

“Let’s wrap this day up.  I’m ready for supper.”  The Maneaters charged into the side of the General’s own unit and Ma grinned at the sudden flash of horror on the face of the bloated general.  She didn’t start laughing until they broke and ran.  As the Skaven flank rolled up, several of the ogres had broken through where the giant rats had been obliterated and caught fleeing rats left and right.  The battle turned into a slaughter in short order, Ma laughing like a madwoman the entire time.


The feast that night took a little longer to prepare – Guyuk proclaimed that extra roasting time was needed if the tribe wanted to avoid some serious indigestion, but he promised to liven up the roasts with what he was calling “daemonette sauce” – no one asked what he meant.

As the bulls wrestled and bellowed at one another, one voice boomed above them.  The Tyrant addressed his victorious army; that is, he addressed one member in particular.

“MOTHER!  GET UP HERE!”

Oghul’s eyes narrowed and she marched forward, standing defiantly before the boy she had birthed, who now outweighed her by a fair margin.  “Yes?”

“Mother…that was a hell of a thing you did today.  I thank you and I want everyone to know that this is my most treasured warrior, whose battle prowess is beyond doubt!”  The cheer shook the walls of the new Ogre fortress.  Ma only grinned.  If her eyes seemed to glisten a little, well, no one mentioned it. 

We just bought a new camera, so there might be photos here in the not-too-distant future.

Wow. Just wow.. Really in depth fluff there, can tell you enjoy it. Hope you're models and done as well as the story lines!

Also, haven't looked at points yet, but I personally would take a regular Giant over the Slavegiant, he' stubborn

Wow. Just wow.. Really in depth fluff there, can tell you enjoy it. Hope you're models and done as well as the story lines!

Also, haven't looked at points yet, but I personally would take a regular Giant over the Slavegiant, he' stubborn

I like to think of my paint jobs as encouragement for everyone else - surely you can do better than this!

As far as Giant-ness goes, The slave makes a hell of a bait unit since he's not Stubborn.  He's very likely to recover from a flee at Ld 10 and keeping him near the Maneaters means he doesn't panic others.  On the other hand, he can stand and take chump charges, with Terror to boot.

I like variety of other's work, and other's styles. Nice work! And only a peanut brained Skaven Warlord would give a flank other than a slave unit 

I really like the fluff except for the fact that not a single ogre got hurt in a battle with the skaven.

I really like the fluff except for the fact that not a single ogre got hurt in a battle with the skaven.

Well, that is, in fact, what happened in that battle.  The only wounds taken were 1 each to the Maneaters from the Censer Bearers (Hence the violent choking).  No one else took a wound that game.  Not a good day for the ratmen.

I really like the fluff except for the fact that not a single ogre got hurt in a battle with the skaven.

Well, that is, in fact, what happened in that battle.  The only wounds taken were 1 each to the Maneaters from the Censer Bearers (Hence the violent choking).  No one else took a wound that game.  Not a good day for the ratmen.

Wow haha, you should really take it easy when you play 8 year old girls during their first game.

Righty-o!  Time for some pictures!

Sorry for the long absence but I was sent to far away lands by my beloved government.

Anyhoo, some Ogre pics to make the rest of you feel better about your painting skills..


My beloved Tyrant:


Yhetees!


Hunter Subutai Beastkiller and his kitties...


The one and only Ma Oghul.  I do like how her tooth looks like a cigarette hanging out, just adds to the ogre-trash factor...


Last but by no means least for now, Jubei, the Ogre Ninja.


If I haven't frightened you all away with their horrid Ogre jaundice, I'll add pics of the leadbelchers and Francois, Ogre Fop.

Cheers.