The old adage “you are what you eat” is made grotesquely literal in the Manhounds. Among the Man Eaters, competition for the choicest cuts is fierce, and those too weak to claim their share are left with scraps, rank offal, bile-slick intestines, and other wretched remains. This foul diet warps both body and mind, reducing them to something less than human.
Driven past the brink of madness, they abandon upright movement altogether, bounding on all fours through the hunting pack, snarling and snapping at anything that strays too close. Their fingers tear at the dirt, their teeth blacken from perpetual rot, and their eyes gleam with feral desperation. They do not speak as men do, only growling and howling as they chase down prey, the stink of their breath enough to turn the stomach.
Some among the Fleshmad take these wretches as their own, commanding them in a twisted parody of the nobility’s hunting parties. A Manhound will obey its master only as long as it is fed, but should the scraps run dry, its leash proves meaningless. In the end, hunger is the only law they follow.
