Hippo-Headed Mercenary

These hippo-headed mercenaries (often just called hippo-heads) have thick, flat, pillarlike legs, a broad humanoid torso and arms, and a hippopotamus head whose crown and snout are capped by flexible chitin plates that act as a natural helmet. Hide runs from black through gray to rich gold, and many are covered in tattoos recording past victories. They speak their own tongue and Common.

Their prized armor (AC 2) is elaborate, with full helms crested with monster figures and ivory and bone inlaid along the big plates. Repairing it is a beloved hobby.

Military to the core, they form units from squad up through corps and larger. A "platoon" can be two hippo-heads guarding a gambling den or more than a hundred storming a mind reaver stronghold. Each carries a personal arsenal of blades and clubs for handling troublemakers.

Their true passion is firearms. Each has a 20% chance of owning an arquebus with smoke powder for 2d4 shots. Misfires bother them little, since the odd death is expected; the boom, flash and damage are the point. Bare-handed they are still dangerous, as strong as hill giants (+7 damage). They join brawls for sport, flinging fighters from both sides around, but once a blade is drawn the rules are gone and it is a fight to the death. A head-butt charge deals 2d6.

They have some magic resistance and distrust magic, wizards and enchanted gear.

Every hippo-head, male, female or child, holds a rank that only a superior can change, subdivided into subranks marked by badges and colors. Whoever ranks highest commands and the rest obey, however foolish or suicidal the order. A near-mystical creed says each thing has its place and theirs is obedience, and this makes them deeply happy. They prefer their own kind, finding giants threatening and smaller races flimsy, and next best like armies with a firm chain of command.

Brokers, local or among the void merchants, vet employers' ability to pay; the leaders then weigh the risk and the glory. Pay is barter, mostly smoke powder, though arms and armor are accepted: one hippo-head for a standard week costs seven charges, one per day, and more where powder is plentiful. Aboard ship they demand their own quarters and bring heavy guns, especially bombards and Greek fire projectors, blazing away whether or not it makes tactical sense.

They have no spellcasters and are so magically inert that even mind reaver series helms cannot draw on them, so they rely on others' ships and sell their service for passage and weapons. Their insult for life-draining starships is "a wizard's way to die." Both sexes serve and fight equally. Children are raised gently until they can survive an exploding arquebus, then join the platoon. They refuse to fight each other: two units forced to meet on a battlefield withdraw for a day or more of drinking while they settle who outranks whom, and usually both quit their contracts, though 10% of the time one absorbs the other.

Sages think they arose on a world with no other thinking species, the standard example of what such isolation produces. No living hippo-head has seen the homeworld. Legends variously claim they destroyed it and were rescued by void merchants, traded it away for starhelms they could not use, or that it lies just beyond reach, a land of warrior races that exiles its losers. They describe it as steaming jungle and swamp full of mangroves and fruit, with a few mountains rich in metal, hidden weapons and smoke powder.

They live about 70 years and age badly. As they slow down they grow obsessed with proving their vigor, usually in battle, so very few grow old.