It is said that a centaur’s path is covered with the corpses of the fallen. For the one called Warrunner, it has been a long thoroughfare indeed. To outsiders, the four-legged clans of Druud are frequently misguided for simple, brutish creatures. Their dialogue has no written form; their society lacks pictorial traditions, creation of music, celebrated religion. For centaurs, war is the perfect expression of thought, the highest term of self. If murder is an art among centaurs, then Bradwarden the Warrunner is their supreme artist. He rose to supremacy on the proving lands of Omexe, an ancient arena where centaur tribes have for millennia congregated to execute their gladiatorial rites. As his fame expanded, onlookers came from everywhere to see the great centaur in action. Always the first to step into the arena, and the last to leave, he creates a masterpiece in each guttering spray, each plunge of blood-slickened blade-length.