In the twilight of the old kingdoms, the city of Bronkenhausen was a monument to excess — a place where nobles feasted for weeks while their fields withered and their peasants starved. Legend says the city’s great banquet halls were so laden with meat and mead that the very stones grew slick with grease. And when famine finally rose like a storm and the walls fell to revolt, it was not the strong or the righteous who survived — but the most bloated, the most cruel, the most gluttonous.

Cursed by their own appetites and twisted by old kitchen-rites, these swollen survivors became something more — or less — than human. Their flesh warped and thickened, their hunger made eternal. From the ashes of decadence they formed a new brotherhood: The Lardy League, a warband of grotesque giants clad in rusted plate and congealed fat, wielding cleavers and cauldrons as weapons of war.

They fight not for gold nor glory, but for the primal promises of flesh, rot, and dominion. They strip the fallen bare and boil the world’s remains in their iron pots, believing that to consume a foe is to inherit their strength. Their laughter — wet, choking, and cruel — rolls across the battlefield like the tolling of a dinner bell.

They do not negotiate.

They do not relent.

They devour — and the feast never ends.