Gordun was a fortress-breaker in his prime, his iron-clad fists pounding gates into splinters and reducing walls to rubble. Age has thickened his hide and dulled his wits, but the goblins saw in him not a relic, but a revolution.
With cackling glee, they strapped a crude catapult to his broad back, bolting it in place with rusted iron and whatever chains they could scavenge. Now, he lumbers forward, each thunderous step a drumbeat of war, hurling flaming barrels, screaming goblins, and whatever unfortunate soul they can cram into the sling.
Some call him a monster. Others, a marvel of goblin ingenuity. But Gordun? Gordun only knows one thing—keep marching, keep smashing, and never, ever yield.
