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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
