[center][h1][b][i]BEASTMEN OF 
THE FIREBREATH[/i][/b][/h1]
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With the words of the great Alphagor Varkex resonating in their vengeful hearts, more than a fair few warherds looked at the dwarves with longing of death of the stunties. For too long the tiny bastards had looked down upon them from their mountain keep and with the herds on the move, many a beastmen believed that the great holds of the dwarves could use some “redecorating” with a new paint scheme and interior décor options.

“Onwards beastmen! Burn their holds and spill their damned blood!” the Alphagor bellowed as his gors of all variety cheered around the nightly bonfire in their camp. Tarkur FIrebreath raised his cannon high in the air with two hands, his third wildly throwing around skulls on a stick. Tarkur was an interesting breed of beastmen, a so called “mutant alphagor; on his left side, he had two arms, one growing out of his side giving him quite the monstrous appearance. Needless to say this third arm has served him well and allowing him to weild his signature weapon: a stolen dwarven cannon.

It wasn’t quite as much “stolen” as many would think but more like “beat the cannon crews with their own artillery piece before taking it not realizing he hadn’t killed one of the crewmen (crewdwarves?) but only broke his spine and most of his limbs”. The cannon was the reason why he now has the name of Firebreath and also the reason why some brave if not fool hearty dwarves have tried to kill him. Retaking the cannon for honor or something, Tarkur honestly never understood the motivations of the lone suicidal dwarves that sometimes wandered close to him other than that their livers tasted good after being grilled. Just the liver though, the rest of dwarf was a bit too tough and chewy for his taste.

Stuffing his cannon full of looted powder and pitch along with scrap metal and weapons of fallen enemies, Tarkur let out a might roar that was echoed and amplified by his warherd as they set out to stamped over the dwarven lands. With his massive amounts of Blackhands fire bombers, the herd marched, war horns and drums bellowing in the wind as they dashed through the forests, driven by the scent of blood and powdered