Mawgrim, as he came to be known, was ancient. Bowed by time but standing still. Standing strong. Though his back was bent and his knees were crooked he began a journey of discovery after all of his enemies had fallen, but not before they'd dubbed him the Terrible.

Long ago he had worshipped at the foot of the mountain of a great dragon, as his tribe had done for before him, a line of his people back to the beginning. In the dragon's lair it recieved what humble tribute they could offer and dispensed it's wisdom and favour. Capricious and foolish, as most lads were only more so, he'd snuck into the lair of their guardian, their god, and there recieved a blessing beyond anything he could have dreamed of. For their protector was feeling generous because she was about to leave on a great migration to another plane.

Without her, bitter rivals and petty kings sought to raid deep into the heart of the mountain and take the grand horde for themselves. Sacriledge that would not be brooked.

After many years of intercine warfare, Mawgrim stood above the mound of skulls that had become his throne and testament, as well as his curse, and saw nought but enemies on the horizon.

That was when he wondered... was this the best of his life? Was he nothing more than a force of destruction. For once, he simply sat. He sat and pondered his meaning, the depth of his resolve and the source of his conviction. He was no great philosopher and after many days and nights of contemplation he could reach only one conclusion. He didn't know enough, and he needed to venture out on his own great migration. Into the empire. Into the world. Into the very stars themselves.

Now he journies as an old man, lithe and fit, white eyed with golden scales adorning him, marking the blessing of his mother.