The Porcine are dense, brutal creatures, built from blubberous fat layered over iron-hard muscle. Despite their size, they move with startling speed when the scent of stored food hangs in the air. They create nothing of their own. They do not build, refine, or preserve. Instead they prowl the edges of civilisation, watching for weakness: a lone wagon, an unguarded store, a settlement that has lingered too long.

When they strike, it is sudden and careless violence. There is no formation and no caution, only a surge of flesh and iron driven by hunger that dulls fear and pain. Crude blades and stolen tools rise and fall in a chaotic press, and the raiders take wounds that would drop lesser foes. Thick hides and heavy fat turn aside small weapons, making them a nightmare for common travellers who can do little but brace behind splintering wagons.

They do not fight to secure victory. They fight to eat. Even as battle rages, they tear open packs and carts, gorging on grain, flesh, and offal alike, then vanish back into wild country leaving only ruin, waste, and silence.