They came from old fey-touched stock shaped less by grace than by impact. Where smaller bodies learned stealth, speed, or clever hands, theirs answered the world by becoming harder, larger, and more difficult to stop. Hunger, violence, harsh territory, and constant threat carved them into creatures that could survive what should have flattened anything softer.

Their earliest groups formed around simple truths: the biggest could take more, the strongest could hold more, and the fiercest could keep rivals away from food, shelter, and breeding rights. Hierarchy grew from that pressure, not ceremony. Leadership belonged to whoever could endure challenge, break resistance, and remain standing when the shouting ended.

Over time, they scattered into clans, lone dens, hunting ranges, and rough territories where survival depended on muscle, instinct, and fear. They learned to raid when hunting failed, scavenge when raiding cost too much, and follow the leader most likely to keep bellies full and enemies cautious. Their lives rarely favored patience, but they rewarded toughness with brutal honesty.

Now they remain feared wherever their heavy footsteps are heard. They are blunt, dangerous, and often cruel by neglect rather than strategy, yet they are not empty beasts. Beneath the rage and ruin is a primitive awareness that keeps them alive: the body knows danger, the skin refuses death, and the hands know exactly how to make a problem stop moving.