The Steading of the Hill Giant Chief

WIfe to Chief Nosnra. Cunning, vindictive and deeply superstitious.

Her voice is raspy and bitter, filled with venom even when speaking casually. She hisses insults and belittles her enemies, questioning their bravery.

A ghastly hill giant looms before you, hunchbacked and twisted. Chains drag behind him like a mourner’s train.

His skin is stretched tight and waxy over sharp bones, tinged the hue of rotting parchment.

A grossly fat and thoroughly despicable creature, sly and vicious, loving ambush and back-stabbing. His skin is ruddy and weathered like old leather, his beard matted with food and smoke. He laughs often, usually at others’ pain.

Varg the Beastmaster, he looms close and sniffs people like animals. A legend amongst the hill giants, he disdains a leadership role, preferring the simplicity of the hunt.

Some foul magic has merged beast and giant. Varg’s body is hunched, half-covered in matted fur, with claws where fingers should be.

He can’t speak clearly anymore, only snarl. His eyes burn yellow in the dark.

The wooden door is bound with moldering bands of bronze, and a heavy bronze bolt secures it. The walls of this collapsed corridor bear faded murals depicting figures clad in violet robes. The figures march solemnly toward a chamber at the far end.

This dark room is strangely free of dust and lined with green stone veined with purple. Pillars of similar colored stone are carved to resemble knots of tentacles that unfurl and spread across the vaulted ceiling.

Giant-sized weapons and armor lie scattered along the walls of this hot and smoky room. A large iron stove serves as a forge, and in front of it stands a giant with flaming-orange hair and charcoal-colored skin.

Savage hill dwellers surviving by hunts and raids. Beastmen bully the weak and despise being ordered around, but will fight for powerful masters if bloodshed and treasure are assured.