Forged By Flame, Tempered By Blood

I, Gruumsh, the Lord of Battles, stand atop the smouldering ruins of yet another conquest. Here, the earth quakes under the weight of countless footfalls, and the sky darkens with the soot of a million fires. Such is the price paid for the glory of war, and I, the Bringer of Ruin, reap the rewards with unmatched zeal.

Amongst the wreckage, my scythe, Grond, gleams like molten lava, dripping with the essence of those who challenged my dominion. With every strike, their souls join the eternal furnace, forged into ever stronger weapons to aid me in my crusade.

Though some whisper of peace, of tranquility, they do not understand the allure of violence. They cannot comprehend the ecstasy of combat, the raw, animalistic pleasure that surges through my veins during the heat of a great battle.

For what is existence without struggle? Without the adrenaline rush of spilled blood and the piercing cry of the defeated? To live merely to exist is a pitiful state, and I, the Unmaker, will see to it that the worlds remain awash in the red tide of war.