The Snow Eaters were not always few.
Once, their Alfrostun thundered across the realms as a living wall of horn and hunger, led by a mighty Frostlord whose Stonehorn broke cities as easily as ribs. That age ended in blood. In a battle now spoken of only in snarled half-truths, the Snow Eaters hurled themselves against a foe too vast, too stubborn to be devoured quickly. The fight lasted days. The Everwinter howled. When it ended, the ground was layered with broken ogors, shattered beasts — and the corpse of their Frostlord, trampled into the ice.
What remained was hunger, sharper than ever.
Now diminished, the Snow Eaters roam as relentless hunters rather than a mindless stampede. Under new leadership, they no longer waste themselves on endless slaughter alone. They pursue the greatest prey — monsters, champions, living symbols of power — feasting not just to survive, but to prove that even near extinction cannot starve them.
Villages are still crushed, fields devoured, walls reduced to splinters. But these are means, not the goal. The Snow Eaters follow the trail of the fattest kill, the hardest hunt, the meal worth bleeding for. And in Ghyran, where life itself refuses to die, they have found prey that fights back — and feeds them well.