Maneater Champion Lore
The Red Crusade drove hundreds of thousands of Orcs, Lizardmen, Skinwalkers, and Ogryn from the shores of Anhelt. Of these, most fled to the Sorrowlakes. The one called Maneater was among them. This massive Ogryn arrived in the company of near-strangers, who did not know his name, only the crime he had been accused of in his former home of Arnoc — murdering Humans and eating their flesh. And thence he earned his name. It was the only one they had for him, for Maneater was unable to share his own – his tongue had been cutout by his accusers. Furthermore, he was illiterate, and when others tried to teach him, nothing got through. Maneater settled in a Lizardmen village, remaining an enigma. He was a hard worker, quick to volunteer, and more than able. Decades went by, and despite his fearsome physical appearance did not harm a soul. He preferred his own company, fishing when not toiling alongside his neighbors. What’s more, he did not seem to age.
When the Gaellen Warclave was founded and recruiters came to the Ogryn’s village, they assumed that someone called ‘Maneater’ would be eager to sign up. He refused, and later the Gaellen Pact’s ships sailed off to Anhelt without him. Those like him who remained watched the ships go with fear in their hearts. They could only imagine what horror those aboard might see and experience, and what would happen if the armies failed.
Less than a decade later, new sails appeared on the horizon. Elves and Humans – from Aravia, Kaerok, and Frostheim — invaded the Sorrowlakes, coming for revenge. When Maneater’s village assembled a hasty militia to stand against the Telerian League, they assumed that Maneater would refuse. To their surprise, Maneater joined. When the enemy came he stood with his fellows, heavy mallet in hand. The foe were warriors from Order of the Conquerors, sick madmen carrying the guise of honorable knights, wielding axes and fueled by hatred.
When the Conquerors fell upon the ragged militia’s battle lines, the defenders buckled under their onslaught. The Conquerors were veteran soldiers, filled with a desire for vengeance, while the Lizardmen were armed with only determination and crude weapons. But they did not break. Not one even died. Even those whose throats were cut returned to their feet and fought on — not a drop of blood oozing from their wounds.
In the midst of it was Maneater, humming a wordless chant. He fought hard, but never pressed the attack. Those who watched him carefully saw that he did not suffer a single injury at the enemy’s hands, but still wounds split open on his skin, blood running down his body from his jaw. He gradually weakened, but still he hummed, and still his fellow militia fought on.
Horrified by the supernatural events unfolding before them, the Conquerors fled in disorder. Too exhausted and relieved to pursue, the militia turned to Maneater – whose name finally seemed to fit him, as the blood dripping from his mouth made it appear as if he had consumed his enemies’ flesh. But it was his own blood. He surely had worked a spell. The militia brought Maneater back to the village, and while he recovered, the people tried in vain to learn his secret. He could not tell them, and could not write, and so they never truly learned – they could only suspect. Nevertheless, they knew they were saved because of him, and were forever grateful.