Josef Bugman

Josef Bugman brewed the finest ale the world has ever known — and on this point there is no argument, for dwarfs argue about everything and have never once argued about that. His brewery in the borderlands of the Empire sent barrels along the trade roads to hold and city alike, and a single keg of Bugman's XXXXXX could settle feuds, seal treaties, and reduce Longbeards to happy silence.

Then, while Bugman was away delivering his wares, the greenskins came. He returned to ash: the brewery burned, his kin and workers slain or dragged away. Bugman gathered the survivors of his caravan, took up his axe, and walked out of his old life entirely. Ever since, he and his Rangers have haunted the wild roads of the Old World, running every goblin they can find into the ground — the longest tab in history, being settled one raid at a time.

No army knows when Bugman will arrive; they know only that he appears when dwarfs stand in need, shares out a measure of ale that veterans describe in the language of religious experience, fights like the wrath of the ancestors, and is gone by morning. Among dwarfs he has become something between a hero and a folk saint — small, stubborn proof that what is lost may yet be avenged.