Warrunner defeated warrior after warrior, until the arena boomed with the cheering of his name, and he found himself alone, the uncontested champion of his kind. It is the poetry of blood on steel, flung in complex patterns across the pale sands of the killing floor. Always the first to step into the arena, and the last to leave, he composes a masterpiece in each guttering spray, each thrust of blood-slickened blade-length. As his fame spread, spectators came from far and wide to see the great centaur in action. He rose to dominance on the proving grounds of Omexe, an ancient arena where centaur clans have for millennia gathered to perform their gladiatorial rites. If killing is an art among centaurs, then Bradwarden the Warrunner is their greatest artist. For centaurs, combat is the perfect articulation of thought, the highest expression of self. Their language has no written form their culture lacks pictographic traditions, structured music, formalized religion. To outsiders, the four-legged clans of Druud are often mistaken for simple, brutish creatures. For the one called Warrunner, it has been a long road indeed. It’s said that a centaur’s road is paved with the corpses of the fallen.
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