Grognak The Wizened lumbers through the wasteland on four muscular legs, each one ending in bright red sneakers that stomp and shuffle across scorched earth. His body is a shaggy storm cloud of cannabis fur, bristling with eight glowing eyeballs that swivel independently, forever watching in every direction. Grognak has no god and no masters. The priests who tried to tame him were devoured; the kings who tried to ride him were trampled into the dirt. He bows to nothing but his own hunger. If it grows, he eats it. If it breathes, he considers it food. Trees, flesh, stone, smoke—it makes no difference to Grognak. His jaw snaps and the world obeys. Legends say he was born from a thundercloud struck by jealousy and lightning. Others say he is the nightmare of a forgotten deity, left wandering when its dream was abandoned. But ask Grognak who he is, and he will not answer—he only laughs through broken teeth and chews the scenery. Grognak carries strange passengers at times: fools, wanderers, or beings who think they can tame him. Most don’t last long. The lucky ones simply fall off; the unlucky ones become meals. Yet some whisper that if you can sit astride his back through a full moon, Grognak might share a secret, one of the ancient truths he keeps buried behind those eight burning eyes. Until then, he roams. Smoking. Eating. Watching. Grognak The Wizened. The free beast.