The Maneaters

Most ogres never leave the Mountains of Mourn. The Maneaters have never stayed. These are the wanderers of the ogre race, warriors who took ship and road to the far corners of the world as sellswords and came back (those who came back at all) outlandish, scarred, and unspeakably dangerous. An ogre who has fought in the war-junks of far Cathay, the pirate isles of the south, and the frozen courts of the north has seen every way there is to kill a thing, and has usually eaten one of each.

They return home wealthy and set in foreign habits, each Maneater a law unto himself: one wears the silks and stiff courtesies of a distant empire, another the war-paint of savages, a third the plundered armour of three dead kingdoms worn all at once. What they share is experience no home-bound Bull can match, and a price to match it. Tyrants pay dearly for even a handful of Maneaters, for a knot of these travelled killers is worth a mob of ordinary ogres.

In battle they fight with cold, professional relish, deploying tricks and weapons the enemy has never seen and the ogres beside them do not understand. They have been everywhere, killed everything, and found nothing yet that could not be improved by eating it.