Portly Cannoneer

Stocky even by dwarven standards, Gundric Stonebrew moves like a keg tipped off a cart: loud, lumbering, and unstoppable. He hefts his cannon onto his shoulder with casual ease, squints down the barrel, and waits for the fuse to burn low.

When it erupts with a thunderous boom, he staggers back a step, peers downrange, and surveys the damage.

“Right, then,” he mutters, lowering the cannon to reload, as calmly as if he’s lighting a pipe.

He follows Fithe Bladestone because they fought side by side against the mycelic brood in Grimbardun’s tunnels and the Chaos legions at Solace’s gates. They are brothers, forged in blood and battle.

Now, in the scorched valleys of the Great Lowlands, Gundric loads iron into the breach while Oridum Graybrow’s firestorms rage across the horizon. He knows the truth. The odds are grim, and the dwarves’ numbers are thinner than his hairline.

But he holds the line, firing thunder and iron. Because like Fithe, Gundric believes reinforcements will come.

And until then? Boom.

“Right, then.”