Waaaaaaagh-hammer

The aging dwarf pulled out his old pipe and put it to his lips, flicking the small toggle on the side to ignite the powder inside. Taking a long, luxurious drag on it he unslung his longrifle from his shoulder, carefully propping it upright on the small clockwork turret nearby.

Avoiding the bright green ichor and chunks of flesh that were splattered on the crates in front of him, he sat down on the makeshift barricade and glared out across the murky swamp at the ramshackle orc redoubt. It was barely visible through the mist and the flies buzzing around the multitude of large, green corpses strewn across no-man's land.

Taking another puff, Drugan Thunderbrew - proud engineer of the Oathbearer's, cast his mind back to when he had first been station in this thrice forsaken mire. Of course, he understood why the High King required the dwarfs to wrest control the Marshes of Madness away from the entrenched greenskin horde; the Oathgold veins that run underneath the area were required if they were to win this war.

No Oathgold meant no Doomstrikers and no doomstrikers meant the dwarfs would have no way to hold back the greenskins and retake the captured dwarf mountainhold of Karak-Eight-Peaks.

Drugan had sworn an oath to the High King himself: to do whatever was required of him to renew the steady supply of rare materials required to forge each of the magical weapons that held the key to dwarven survival. He'd rather die than see his honour tarnished by failing to hold the line.

A great warcry went up across the body-strewn field and the old engineer grimaced, once again picking up his rifle. Determined to hold back the green tide.