Dragon ogors are elder things, old when the beastherds were young: vast creatures with the scaled, four-legged bulk of a drake below and the armoured torso and axe-arms of a giant above. In the deepest past their race traded its death away in a bargain with the Ruinous Powers, and they have been paying for it ever since — deathless, sleepless in any way that matters, waiting out the centuries beneath mountains with the patience of stone.
Only the storm still reaches them. Lightning calls dragon ogors up from their torpor like a name half-remembered, and they stride into battle wreathed in it, storm-forged weapons crackling as they fall upon whatever the tempest has marked. The beastherds hail them as omens and follow them gladly, though the dragon ogors barely notice; after enough thousands of years, one more war is simply weather.
Order of battle
