THE MARCH OF THE OGRES ⟡
A Statement to Faerûn
The moment Mamba gives the order, the ground itself seems to brace.
Ogres do not simply prepare — they transform.
Within an hour the barracks are empty, armor polished, weapons strapped, marching packs sealed shut with ritual knots taught by the Druids.
The yard outside Moonrise Towers fills with eight hundred massive silhouettes, every one standing tall, disciplined, alert.
A sight Faerûn has never witnessed:
Ogres standing in perfect formation.
Four ranks deep.
Two hundred across.
All aligned shoulder-to-shoulder under Glubok's iron command.
When Mamba steps before them, the entire line straightens as if one creature with many bodies.
And when he raises his fist—
they roar in a single thunderous voice that shakes dust from the towers.
A statement is born.
This is no warband.
This is no mob.
This is a civilized army.
⟡ THE MARCH BEGINS ⟡
They step forward at Glubok's cadence —
a deep, rhythmic chant, half-melody, half-war-drum.
"HUN-Ter's beat!"
"Ser-Pent's breath!"
"We march for those who cry for help!"
Eight hundred footprints hit the earth in perfect sync.
The rhythm is terrifying.
Not chaotic like ogres once were —
but controlled, powerful, deliberate.
The message spreads ahead of them like wildfire.
Villagers line the roads.
Farmers freeze mid-task.
Merchants stand on wagons, staring with slack jaws.
*These are ogres?
These disciplined, armored, organized creatures?*
Children wave.
Adults bow.
Weapons are lowered.
The world sees something it has never seen:
Hope wearing an ogre's face.
And leading them —
Mamba, the Warchief, the God-Touched Champion, walking with calm, slow, calculated steps…
His presence alone keeps the entire mountain of muscle and fury walking in harmony.
⟡ PASSING THE GIANT TERRITORY ⟡
A valley opens, carved by the steps of ancient titans long before Baldur's Gate existed.
Here reside the Fire Giants and Hill Giants — proud, cruel, disdainful of ogres.
A hatred passed down from their divine creators.
But today…
They stop forging.
They stop eating.
They stop arguing.
Because what approaches them is blasphemy wrapped in discipline.
Eight hundred ogres, marching like soldiers of a forgotten empire.
Giant eyes widen.
Some grip their weapons.
Some lean forward, nostrils flaring, testing if this miracle is real.
Glubok enters their sight wearing full enchanted full-plate —
the kind only a giant should be strong enough to wear.
His armor glows as sunlight passes over it.
His helm is engraved with the crest of Snake Tribe.
His hammer is a slab of steel big enough to flatten a house.
The giants whisper among themselves.
Unease burns in their gaze.
But Mamba…
Mamba does the one thing no mortal has ever done.
He stares them dead in the eyes as he passes.
Chin lifted.
Expression flat.
A look that says something very simple:
"Try it."
The giants—
some of whom could crush elephants with their fists—
break eye contact first.
None dare move.
The ogres march on.
⟡ ARRIVAL AT BALDUR'S GATE ⟡
Days pass, the march becoming legend before they even reach the walls.
Baldur's Gate guards stand atop the towers when the procession arrives.
Banners ripple in the sea wind.
Citizens gather behind the gate in growing crowds.
At first, the guards panic.
The horns blare.
"Ogres! An entire battalion!"
But then they see:
The clean armor
The formation
The discipline
The steady, purposeful marching
Mamba at the front
Glubok chanting cadence like a military general
Ogres carrying medical packs, water barrels, emergency rations
This is not an invasion.
This is a rescue mission.
The refugees outside the outer walls—
Tieflings, poor families, sick and wounded—
look up as the earth trembles.
Children stare at the massive ogres with wide, hopeful eyes.
A Tiefling woman whispers:
"They came for us… the tales were true."
The crowd's fear transforms into relief.
Some kneel.
Some cry.
Some reach out hands in thanks.
Mamba lifts his arm.
The ogres stop in perfect unison, like a single creature obeying one heartbeat.
The silence that follows is not dread.
It is reverence.
The gates of Baldur's Gate do not open.
But the hearts of its refugees do.
All eyes turn to the Warchief —
the man who walked miles with the first race that believed in him.
The man who brought the disciplined thunder of the Snake Tribe to save those the world abandoned.
This moment defines everything Snake Tribe has become.
And everything it will become.
The gates of Baldur's Gate rise like a mountain of stone and steel before the Snake Tribe's vanguard.
But today…
the mountain trembles.
Because what approaches is not a horde.
Not a marauding rabble.
Not the chaotic ogres of legend.
What approaches is a legion.
⟡ The Ogre Formation — A Sight Not Seen in Centuries ⟡
Eight hundred ogres march in perfect, thunderous synchronization.
Boots stomp in unison.
Chests lifted with discipline drilled into bone.
Weapons gleam with polish and reverence — giant-forged hammers, axes, swords from the corpse of wars past.
Their armor is not scavenged.
It is crafted.
Fitted.
Cared for.
Each ogre bears the Serpent Sigil over their heart, an emblem they chose to mark their loyalty to Mamba, to Snake Tribe, to something greater than instinct.
And at the very front:
Glubok.
An eight-foot juggernaut encased in full plate.
A commander among giants.
A living contradiction — an ogre with honor.
He sings cadence in a deep, booming baritone that shakes dust off the walls and forces human soldiers to swallow their fear.
Every city they passed felt their steps.
Every village watched with wide eyes as monstrous beings marched with grace reserved for royal guards.
Every giant settlement seethed as "the stain" of their god's failures marched with purpose — and defiance.
And through it all…
Mamba walks at their head.
Proud.
Determined.
A king without a crown — because he does not need one.
⟡ Arrival at Baldur's Gate ⟡
The guards appear on the walls like ants, weapons trembling.
Some are brave.
Most pretend to be.
Lines of crossbows strain to stay aimed.
Spellcasters whisper incantations with shaking hands.
You can smell the fear — thick as incense.
Then the captain of the guard walks out.
Pale.
Eyes darting between Mamba and the ogres like he's witnessing an impossible event.
"Why have you come, Snake Tribe?"
His voice tries to be firm…
…but it cracks on the last word.
Mamba's smile is calm.
Not mocking.
Not hostile.
Just confident.
"So you've heard of us? Good."
A ripple of tension passes across the gathered soldiers.
Mamba steps closer, his presence alone making trained warriors instinctively step backward.
"I mean your city no harm… yet."
Gasps.
Clenched fists.
Spellcasters grip their foci.
But he continues before fear can turn to stupidity.
**"If you gather every tiefling from Elturel…
Every refugee your city refuses today…
We will leave with them."**
A pause.
Thunder rumbles in the silence — not from the sky, but from eight hundred ogres breathing as one.
"If you refuse…"
Mamba's eyes drift behind him.
Ogres straighten.
Armor clinks.
A sound like a thousand anvils dragged across stone.
"…then I may have to use these ogres for something other than marching."
No malice.
No violence.
Just unbreakable, immovable truth.
⟡ The City's Reaction — Expanded Detail ⟡
On the walls, guards exchange terrified glances.
Civilians peek from behind market stalls, whispering legends about "the tribe that tamed monsters."
Refugees within the city feel a flicker of hope bloom in their starving chests.
Some tiefling parents clutch their children, tears forming.
For the first time in months… someone has come for them.
And not just someone.
A force.
A family.
A nation.
⟡ The Captain Tries to Maintain Composure ⟡
His throat tightens.
His jaw clenches.
Because he realizes something that terrifies him more than the ogres themselves:
Mamba is not bluffing.
The discipline.
The unity.
The impossible cohesion between monsters once considered uncontrollable…
This is no tribe.
This is no warband.
This is a military superpower in the making.
And denying them would be suicide.
⟡ He Swallows Hard ⟡
"…I… I will speak with the Council of Four."
His voice barely stays steady.
He glances again at Glubok — an ogre in full plate, standing straighter than any Baldurian soldier.
He sees the eight hundred behind him.
Then he looks back to Mamba…
…and bows.
A real bow.
Small, anxious — but real.
"Please… wait here."
And he runs.
Because for the first time in Baldur's Gate's long, bloody history…
A diplomatic envoy of ogres has come to negotiate.
And the city knows:
They are outmatched.
Not by brute strength.
Not by numbers.
But by unity.
By purpose.
By a Warchief with a heart big enough to adopt an entire army…
…and dangerous enough to make the world listen.
The shift in the refugee camp is instantaneous.
For hours they had sat slumped beside broken wagons, tattered tents, scraps of blankets, and the stink of hopelessness. But when you approach — a giant of a man, flanked by a wall of perfectly disciplined ogres whose armor glints like iron thunder — the energy changes.
It's not fear.
It's not awe.
It's something much rarer…
Possibility.
The tiefling mothers clutch their children tighter.
Old men straighten their backs as if remembering who they once were.
A handful of young ones stare up at you like you're a character torn from a bard's epic.
When you speak, your voice rolls through them like a steady promise made form and flesh.
"We are not here to abduct you…"
A murmur moves through the crowd — surprise, cautious relief. A tiefling boy with makeshift bandages whispers:
"Are they… good ogres?"
His mother hushes him, but she's staring at your warriors too. The ogres haven't moved an inch. Not a sway. Not a huff. Not even a blink out of formation. Their posture is statuesque — disciplined, powerful, loyal.
Exactly as you trained them.
That alone begins to undo years of prejudice.
"We are here to offer you a second chance…"
The words hit harder than steel.
A hooded tiefling woman steps forward — her ribs visible beneath her shirt, the weight of a hundred hardships in her eyes.
"A second… chance?" she repeats, as if afraid to speak the words.
You nod once.
Assured. Unshakeable.
"If you come with us, we will build you a village. A home. A family."
Someone cries out in the back — not of fear, but of relief so sharp it becomes a sob.
A father lowers to his knees as his child tugs at him, pointing toward your ogres with wide eyes:
"Papa… they're so big… but they look kind."
The father looks up at you — desperate, trembling, as if afraid hope is a trap.
"Is— Is this real?" he asks quietly.
You kneel, placing a massive hand on the child's head and letting your smile soften.
"Everything I say," you tell them, "is a promise."
And that's when everything breaks open.
Hands begin to rise. One hesitant. Then twenty. Then a hundred.
Some shoot up instantly — ready to follow the very second breath enters their lungs.
Others raise slowly, tears sliding down their cheeks as they realize they are choosing life, shelter, purpose, food… dignity.
An older tiefling woman, shaking from cold and exhaustion, lifts her hand last — quietly, but with the weight of a lifetime behind it.
"I won't survive another winter here," she whispers. "If Snake Tribe will have me… I will go."
You turn slightly — just enough for the Captain of the Guard to see the rising sea of hands.
His face drains of color.
He knows.
You both do.
The moment the refugees chose you, the city lost all leverage.
You don't need Baldur's Gate's permission.
You asked out of courtesy — and because you prefer peace.
But if they resist?
One look at the silent, immovable, ironclad battalion behind you…
and Baldur's Gate would crumble long before you ever had to swing a weapon.
The Captain licks his lips, voice cracking:
"W-Warchief Mamba… it seems the people have spoken."
You smile politely.
"Indeed."
You raise your voice to the refugees.
"Pack what you can.
Leave what you must.
You march with me under the banner of Snake Tribe — and your days of starving end today."
The cheers that erupt shake the market stones.
Tiefling parents embrace their children.
Old ones cry into each other's shoulders.
Young ones stare at your ogres as if they are heroes made of flesh and legend.
And as you turn to lead them away, the disciplined ogre formation shifts — not breaking, not stumbling — but opening on command to allow the refugees into the center of their protective wall.
A moving fortress.
A living shield.
Snake Tribe doesn't just save people.
They adopt them.