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# Ogres

Story
The river ran clear through the birch grove, dappled with silver light. Tharn crouched behind a fallen log, heart pounding like a drum. He told himself he was only there to fetch water, only there to check the bank for fish. But his eyes kept straying to where Elira bathed, her hair spread across the surface like strands of night.
The elf hummed to herself, a tune so light he thought the leaves might rise and dance with it. Tharn felt his ears burn. He was bigger than any man, strong enough to break an ox's back with one arm, yet now he huddled like a guilty boy, afraid even to breathe. His great hands clenched in the moss, every part of him torn between staying and fleeing.
Then she turned, and her gaze found him as if she had known all along. "Tharn," she said, voice soft as the water's ripple, "you hide no better than a stag in a henhouse."
He froze, face flushing dark as ripe apples. Words tumbled but would not form. He could fight ten men in the pit, but he could not explain his heart.
Elira only laughed, a sound like windchimes. She rose, water sliding from her shoulders, and walked to the shore without a hint of shame. "If you wished to look," she teased, tilting her head, "you might have asked. I think I like the way you blush."
Tharn ducked his head, ears burning hotter still, but when she reached out and touched his cheek, he dared to look up. In her eyes there was no mockery, only warmth. His heart swelled until he thought it might burst, and for once in his life he was glad that every thought and feeling showed plain on his face.

Ogre in love

Story
The tavern was loud with song and clatter, but all sound died when the merchant's words fell.
"Your kind should stick to the fields, brute. Best use for an ogre is pulling a plow."
Garrun had been laughing moments before, a mug of ale in one hand and a roasted hen in the other. His grin faded slow, like the last glow before a storm breaks. The hen dropped to the table. His knuckles went white around the mug.
The merchant, emboldened by his friends, smirked. "What? No jesting in you, beast? Maybe you don't understand-"
The mug shattered in Garrun's fist. He rose to his full height, towering over the room, his eyes no longer warm but burning. Every man at the table shrank back, chairs screeching across the floor.
"You speak of fields," Garrun rumbled, voice deep enough to shake the rafters. "I will plow you into the earth if you ever speak so again."
He swept the table aside in a single motion, plates and coins scattering like leaves. The merchant scrambled for the door, pale as milk, his companions stumbling after.
For a long breath no one moved. Then Garrun sat again, shaking shards of pottery from his hand. He picked up the half-eaten hen and tore into it as if nothing had happened. The tavern slowly filled with sound again, but every eye kept a wary distance. No one spoke another careless word that night.

Angry ogre

Ogres have no homeland and no unifying culture. They live scattered among the nations of the world, tolerated in some places, enslaved in others, but never truly belonging. Most scholars agree they once roamed temperate forests in loose clans, but those days are gone. Axe, chain and coin scattered them so widely that few ogres remember what their old ways looked like.

They are easily recognized. Hulking figures over two meters tall, broad of shoulder, heavy of hand, with olive skin that often carries a grey green hue. Their faces are blunt, their teeth broad, their voices deep enough to rattle shutters. To most folk they look like humanity enlarged and roughened by weather and labor.

## Psychology

An ogre's heart is never hidden, and almost every ogre settles early at one of two extremes. People speak of good ogres and bad ogres because there is rarely a middle road. The first kind is open and generous, quick to laugh, eager to help, glad to share bread and fire. The second kind is cruel in mood and hungry for dominance, quick to take, quick to threaten. You know which you face within a handful of breaths. This sharp divide gives ogres their reputation for danger. A village cannot tell which sort is coming along the road until the doorframe fills with a very large stranger.

Children playing with an ogre

Do not mistake the friendly kind for weakness. An ogre who calls you friend will stand like a wall. Threaten someone they care about and the reply is sudden and final. That same absolute loyalty fuels the other side as well. A spiteful ogre never lets a grudge cool and will return to a slight as surely as winter returns to the hills.

Their minds run simple, not stupid. Abstract puzzles bore them. They favor direct solutions. Wall in the way, take the wall down. Hunger gnaws, find meat and eat. Friend is in danger, remove the danger. This clarity makes them poor schemers yet excellent companions. They do not forget promises. They do not forgive betrayals. Ask Mirek Hearthbale of Estoria why his harvests never fail and he will point to Darya Stoneshoulder, who lifted his ox from a bog and then stayed for a decade to tend the fields. Ask Captain Vellan of Morvelyn about the razed tollhouse on the Dran road and he will spit and name Kark of the Dun March, who came back every spring until the debt was paid in ashes.

## Ogres in Society

Most ogres live under someone's hand. The Empire buys them eagerly for the arenas where a bout between two ogres can fill a stadium by noon. Draknir houses ogre gangs at the docks and the stone yards. Morvelyn signs them as caravan guards, then counts the bruises left on rivals as a bonus. Even where slavery is banned, coin still finds ways to turn ogre strength into spectacle or labor. Yet when free and left alone, many drift to the soil. Farming soothes them. Earth, seed and harvest give a steady rhythm that calms even a stormy spirit. In scattered hamlets across Tir Albireth and Estoria you will find an ogre couple mending fences at dawn while children ride their shoulders and shout to the crows.

They have spread far beyond any native range. Ogres walk the markets of the Twin Cities, break rocks on the Desert Rim, haul timbers in Estoria and carry palanquins through the Empire. You will see them almost anywhere that needs strength. You will rarely see them in charge. Their own settlements do not last. Without outside craft and counsel they build with speed, not foresight, and drift back toward the nearest town or manor.

Among themselves they keep few customs, but one tradition survives in many places. At naming age an ogre chooses a keeper, a person they trust to set a true course. If the keeper is kind, the ogre usually turns out generous. If the keeper is cruel, the ogre hardens. This is why slave pits breed the worst of them and why temple farms on the Estorian frontier have produced saints in all but name. Folks still tell the story of gentle Harn of Ardenvale who carried the sick apothecary Pell across three provinces for a cure, and the warning of Black Othra who smashed nine taverns hunting a man who mocked her mother.

## Ogres in the World

Every nation treats them according to local fears and needs. The Empire taxes them as property and counts a successful arena season as proof of order. Tir Albireth hires them for river work but posts a watcher at every dock. Morvelyn smiles when an ogre joins a caravan, then raises the fee at the gate. Draknir sells iron manacles engraved with charms of patience, a popular purchase for anyone who keeps ogre servants. Estoria tries to settle them as tenant farmers and sometimes succeeds. Freevalor cloisters the kindest of them at roadside hospices. The Twin Cities argue about ogre rights in one chamber while booking enslaving them in the mines in the next. The Desert Rim treats them as living siege engines and valuable goods and little more.

Enslaved ogre in the Empire

## Dealing with Ogres

If you must deal with an ogre, remember the rule of first minutes. Offer fair trade, speak plain, keep your hands where they can see them. If you find a good ogre, count your fortune. You may gain a friend who will walk beside you to the end of the world. If you find a bad ogre, do not test your luck. Pay, back away and let distance be your shield. Either way you will never forget the meeting, and neither will they.

Ask an ogre what they are and the answer is always plain: strong, true, and unyielding. They rarely call themselves good or bad, only certain of who their friends are and who their enemies will always be.

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