You can take the minotaur out of the maze, but you can't take the maze out of the minotaur. Like just about every other member of his race, Ghnaarugh lives in perpetual confusion and rage at a world that an unholy synthesis of human and cow was never meant for. His eyes are too forward for the part of him that's a raging bull and his body's too big for the part of him that's a crazed man. Meat tastes horrible to the cow, and grass tastes terrible for the man. There are only two things he can agree a good idea, but only one of which they can agree on in practice; the man thinks the bull's taste in women is disgusting, and the bull thinks the man's attracted to the sick, dying, and horribly mutated. So hitting things is the order of the day.

The Banjo Brothers did not find Gnaarugh. Gnaarugh found them. Sleeping it off, helpless, in a forest. And as the beast pawed at the earth, waiting to charge, the only vaguely conscious bandmember remembered an old story about music soothing the savage beast.

Anyone with the tiniest smattering of woodlore would know for a fact that all such stories were dead wrong. However, on the grand list of Things Vikings Are Remotely Cognizant Of, woodlore comes in at a respectable six thousand, eight hundred and twenty-four.

Gnaarugh was not soothed by the drunken twanging. But he was intrigued. And when one of the band gave him a banjo, he was not above trying to figure out how this thing worked.

His relationship with the band is a tempestuous one; he more or less plays percussion by systematically destroying his instrument over the course of a performance. Any criticism he can even vaguely suspect will earn the band a tantrum that leaves intestines hanging on the walls. But as long as he's let into practices, he'll hang around. And as long as he is given regular Blood Bowl matches to play in, his tantrums are kept minimally homicidal.