Dwarf Troll Slayer
Gromnir had placed his first born into a freshly cut rock grave with tears rolling down his eyes. His honour, his clan, his throng, really his whole Karak demanded the he slay the child, as it was born a Nubungki. Gromnir had raised his axe and cleaved the abomination with one precise strike. Then he had called on Grungni to care for his son, now that Gromnir himself could never hope to enter the great halls of his ancestors.
The shame of begetting a Nubungki was irrevocable. He could never go back to his beloved life as keeper of the Ancestor Gate, indeed he could never hope for a continued life in Karak Azgaraz – gone was all his Gnollengrom he had so justly earned as opener and keeper of the Ancestors’ gate, which through the many years had shaped him into a formidable Dawi of brute strength and legendary stamina.
But after he had returned from the Battle of Hugeldal, everything had gone wrong in Gromnir’s life – it was as if the Plague Father himself had put a curse on not only Gromnir, but the whole of the Black Cloaks company of the Fearless Axes. In the months that followed Gromnir laid sick for a whole seven days and exactly 7 Morrslieb cycles from the battle his wife died giving birth to a sickening Nubungki – the greatest shame to befall a clan and a hold.
Now most of his beloved throng called him “a Werrit” or "a Wanaz, there were even some who dared whisper “Skruff” when he would go around the Keep looking for rubbish and food scraps to bring to his new outcrop “home” in the flooded shaft. Sleep never really took him anymore and whence it did it brought no rest, only nightmares. One night, whilst lying all alone in his cave, Gromnir awoke by his own scream of “noooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!” – enough was enough – no way Gromnir, The Splitter of Groins, was gonna linger in a damp, beer forsaken cave with no prospect of ever venturing to his ancestors and join them at their high table for endless songs, pork and beer.
He had to leave Karak Azgaraz and he had to walk in the path of Thorin so he could find a death so glorious that the ancestors would bring him to their halls. With the edge of his axe he carved the Rune of Thorin deep into his chest, while he uttered the oath of the Slayer King, promising to thread his path to the Chaos Wastes and back if necessary, and to uphold the Dawi relationship with Sigmar and the Empire, when in the umgi lands. He stayed in the mountains for a month committed to prayer and ritual scarification in the name of Grungni and Grimnir untill Gromnir Groinsplitter finally collapsed and all went black.
The next thing Gromnir remembers is him fighting as a frothing psychopath in the Battle for Schlüsselschloz adorned in blue’ish coloured scaring tattoos and with a bright orangey Mohawk of hair spikes, held up with the fat of a pig’s ass. Sporting two axes and fuelled only on stolen ranger’s ale, Gromnir felled countless orcs, but did not find death. But that is all the same, because it seems Gromnir has finally struck some luck.
According to rumours there is a mighty company of heroes in the area. The stories go that not only are they adventures and therefore seek out horrors and monsters on purpose, but they should also be “Champions of the Empire”. Sounds like a group for Gromnir as he will need to find, not only, a suitable number of horrors and monsters to stage his glorious death, but he will also need, a just as glorious audience that can tell the world about it.