Mogra Bramblegut - The Hill Giant

Role in Its Society:

Mogra is a roaming catastrophe on the ragged edge of civilization—too large to be challenged lightly, too unpredictable to bargain with safely, and just observant enough to learn which wagons carry grain and which barns keep smoked meat. She doesn’t hold court or claim a throne; she wears regions down through relentless, ugly necessity—one smashed granary, one stolen herd, one terrified village at a time—until the locals either flee or start leaving “offerings” in desperate hope she’ll pass them by.

Appearance Description:

Mogra is a towering mass of mottled muscle and heavy-set bulk, her belly hanging like a packed sack of wet clay beneath a ribcage that rises and falls with hungry, impatient breaths. Her hair is a filthy braid-mat threaded with burrs, twine, and chicken bones, bound in places by strips of torn canvas. One tusk is cracked near the base and her jaw sits slightly off-center—“Muckjaw”—giving her a permanent, drooling smirk that reads like contempt. Her forearms are corded and scarred, knuckles blackened with old bruises, and her feet are always caked in mud as if the ground refuses to let go of her.

Backstory:

Mogra once traveled with other hill giants along the wet hills and boglands, surviving by brute foraging and casual violence. Then came a lean season—hard frost, thin game, frozen roots—and hunger rewired her into something sharper and meaner. She lived by eating what others wouldn’t: rancid carcasses, old hides, half-rotten tubers, stones warmed in firepits to trick her gut into feeling full.

When the “family” grew weak, she grew ruthless. Complaints became nuisances; slowness became theft. She left them behind and followed smoke and livestock scents like a hunting hound follows blood. In Mogra’s mind, villages aren’t homes—they’re food stored in boxes, and smashing the boxes simply makes the eating easier.