The square channels cut through the rough rock in the ceiling allowed four pillars of diminishing light into the dank antechamber. It was a bitter reminder of the daunting task that lay ahead after the sun had set and the blessed connection to the world above had vanished. The only luminescence would be from the crackling braziers that lined the flagstones and the occasional glint of an overly curious glow worm. 

Amidst the discarded iron weapons and splintered bone sat the hulking form of Bruma Talltongue, chief tyrant of the Gravewarden clan and tamer of Gargants. His pale skin appeared almost translucent under the splinters of light which gave him an ethereal quality, more at home across the belly of a fish than a battle seasoned Ogor bull. He bore a neatly clipped beard and a shaven pate above a set of brooding eyes arched by thick eyebrows. A thick cowl of fur draped around his shoulders was one of the few reminders that he had not always dwelt in catacombs and had in fact hailed from the mountains that cracked the sky.  His thickset bulk was framed by a purple tabard and a leather cape. His deft hands busied themselves with the mundane, yet important task of honing an edge on his gnarled broadsword, pausing only to sip from his tankard. They made quick work of working the whetstone over the nicks and worn edges caused from the work of the previous evening. Several hours passed as he worked, he efficiently tested the rest of his equipment, cleaning the barrel of his blunderbuss of carbon powder and oiling the perishing leather straps of his armour in preparation for the coming toil. 

A trumpet call echoed across the stone tiles, a shrill warning that cut through Bruma's senses, warning him that he needed to prepare himself for the task at hand. He began the arduous process of climbing into the ice cold touch of his chainmail hauberk before strapping his hefty shoulder pad over his right arm. The thick metal plate he wore upon his shoulder bore the icon of his two faced god and had deflected more blows than he dared count. A rumbling began echoing through the halls. It started in the stone, working its way through his feet and reverberating deep within his bones until it shook his very essence. It was a feeling unlike any other and one that he had never grown accustomed to. Deep within the flesh of the earth an abyssal terror had awoken, as it had every night, to claim the souls of the damned and set them to work. Bruma rose from his makeshift throne and tested the weight of his weapon, assuring himself in his duties. He stretched his mighty limbs as he swung the blade, feeling each sinew bear the weight of the pig iron weapon. Confident in its quality he nodded to himself and drained the remaining mead from his tankard. As he rested the cup on the cold floor the bones around him began to reverberate with ethereal energy. His grip tightened around the leather handle of his sword and gritted his teeth as he prepared for another night of servitude...