Big Mama Sur, born Suriah, is the kind of woman the underhive learns to recognise a second too late. Vast as an industrial saint and twice as dangerous, she carries the scars of slavery openly - brutal augmetic arms built to lift freight and break bone, prison tattoos inked across a body that speaks of hardship endured rather than beauty denied, and the calm, measuring stillness of someone who has spent a lifetime watching for weakness in the systems that caged her. Her red hair is kept with a stubborn, almost defiant care, her swagger is unhurried, and her warmth towards her boys sits side by side with an iron authority. To strangers she is an impossible sight,  part matriarch, part labour engine, part folk-devil of the sump-edge, but to those who belong to her, Big Mama Sur is shelter, judgement, food, justice, and home.

Grint, known among the gang as The Wit, is proof that an Ogryn does not need to be educated to be clever. Broad-shouldered and scarred by the same machinery of bondage that shaped them all, he bears a brutal arc welder fused to the stump of one arm, a tool of labour turned into a weapon that spits fire and judgement in equal measure. Grint watches the world with a sharp, sidelong intelligence, always counting exits, weaknesses, hinges, habits and lies, and though his speech is rough and his pride in his own cleverness often outruns his actual polish, there is no mistaking the mind working behind his heavy brow. Where Big Mama Sur is the gang’s centre of gravity, Grint is its unlikely schemers - observant, cunning, and quietly vain about being smarter than anyone expects an Ogryn to be. He is the sort of brute who notices how the door locks, where the power runs, and which fool in the room thinks he is safe.

Porrig Duff is a Ratling who wears charm the way other men wear armour.  Once a famed marksman in the Imperial Guard, he carries himself with the easy bravado of a bon vivant who refuses to admit how far he has fallen, speaking with warmth, wit, and just enough theatrical flourish to keep others off balance. Yet beneath the laughter and good manners lies a colder instrument entirely, a patient sniper’s mind, always measuring distance, motive, weakness and reward. Porrig sees people as clearly as he sees targets through a scope, and what makes him dangerous is not merely that he can put a round through a man’s eye at range, but that he knows exactly which man needs killing, which needs flattering, and which can be turned into an ally before the first shot is fired.

Barley Bladd is the youngest of the Ratlings and still carries something perilously close to the posture of a soldier, as if drill and discipline might yet impose order on the chaos of the underhive. Barely out of boot camp before desertion swept him into Porrig Duff’s orbit, he has not yet learned how to wear cynicism comfortably, and there remains in him an earnestness that the others have long since traded for caution, humour, or hard experience. He defers more naturally to Milo than to Porrig, trusting steadiness over swagger, and though he lacks the reputation, polish, or killer instinct of the older Ratlings, he watches, listens, and tries very hard not to be the weak link in a gang of outsized personalities. Young, hungry, and not yet fully formed, Barley is still caught between the obedient soldier he was being made into and the harder, stranger creature Necromunda will eventually require him to become.

Bruv is the broadest kind of loyalty made flesh: an Ogryn of immense strength, simple appetites, and a heart so openly worn that even his violence feels almost honest. Marked by servitude and rebuilt in part with a heavy augmetic arm meant for labour rather than dignity, he moves through the world with the patient solidity of a freight engine, enduring more than most and asking for less, so long as Big Mama Sur is there to give the next order and the next meal is not too far away. He speaks little, but when he does it is usually to call someone “bruv”, the word carrying in his mouth a rough, indiscriminate affection that has become both habit and name. Others may mistake him for witless muscle, but Bruv possesses a quieter quality rare in the underhive: uncomplicated faith. He trusts his Mama Sur, follows his group, and when the moment comes to hit, he does so with all the terrible certainty of a man who never learned the luxury of doubt.

Milo Gaskin is the oldest of the Ratlings and the one least interested in performing for anyone. Grizzled, deliberate, and worn thin by years of soldiering, he carries himself with the hard economy of a man who has long since learned that survival depends less on flair than on steadiness, timing, and knowing exactly when to speak. Where Porrig dazzles, Milo endures; where Norrie strains towards legend, Milo remains anchored in discipline, habit, and the unromantic craft of staying alive. He watches from the edges, says little, and misses less, his sniper’s patience lending him the air of a man who has already considered the worst outcome and adjusted for it. Among the Ratlings he is the rock, older, sterner, and quietly authoritative, and even in a gang built around outsized personalities, Milo’s word carries weight because it is never spent lightly.

Norrie Pott is the young, not green enough to be harmless, but still hungry enough to believe reputation can be seized if he only shoots straight enough and stands close enough to greatness. A Ratling sniper with sharp eyes and sharper ambition, he lives half a step behind Porrig Duff in admiration and half a step ahead of himself in his own imagination, forever straining to become the sort of marksman whose name travels faster than his bullets. Where Milo is steady and Porrig is effortless, Norrie is all restless energy and upward reach, eager to prove he belongs among harder men and bigger legends. That hunger makes him a little vain, a little reckless, and entirely alive to the possibility that the next shot, the next hunt, the next lucky break might be the one that turns him from hanger-on to name worth remembering.

Red Rumm is violence held on a fraying leash. Large even for an Ogryn and fitted with a brutal augmetic arm built for labour and repurposed for ruin, he carries himself like a riot waiting for permission, all twitching suspicion, wounded pride, and barely contained appetite for damage. He hates being treated as a fool, senses mockery even where none is meant, and answers fear or confusion with the same instinctive solution: break the thing in front of him until it stops being a problem. Yet beneath the hair-trigger temper there is something almost childlike in him, a desperate need to be useful, to be respected, and above all to be kept in the good graces of Big Mama Sur, whose word is one of the few things in the world capable of halting him mid-fury. To strangers, Red Rumm is a nightmare in motion. To Mama’s Boys, he is the gang’s most dangerous question mark, a wrecking force of loyalty and rage that can smash open a path to freedom or bring the whole world crashing down if left untended.