Dragon Ogres are older than the gods' human worshippers, older than the Empire, older than most of the map: centauroid giants of scale and muscle who struck the first bargain any mortal race ever made with Chaos. They traded their souls for exemption from death, and the Powers, amused, have honoured it — Dragon Ogres do not age, they only grow, and the eldest of their kind are mountains that walk. Between wars they sleep beneath the peaks, dreaming through centuries, until a storm great enough shakes them loose.
Lightning is their sacrament. Dragon Ogres wake for the great tempests and drink the strikes like wine, and when the tribes see the storm-herds descending the high passes they know the gods intend more than a raid. In battle they wade through regiments swinging forge-blackened axes the length of a man, thunder answering every blow, and the warbands that march beside them treat each one as a walking omen: proof that the oldest bargain still holds, and that the gods remember their debts.
Order of battle
