Count Dirge (Clovis to his friends, of which he has none) has been the lord and master of Fort Dirge ever since the death of his father Beauregard at the nasty little hands of a skaven raiding party, fourteen years ago. In that time, Clovis had held back the marsh and its worst inhabitants, patrolled the main roadways and maintained some level of sanity in the place: considerable achivements, in the circumstances.
Fort Dirge belongs to him: the galleries of mouldy tapestries, the impressive collection of broken clocks, the battlements and stones themselves. Through the hovels inhabited by marsh-sifters and the froglodytes, to the reeking wetlands themselves, Count Dirge's word is law. At least, in theory: outside the endless hallways of the castle, the creatures of the marsh are ruled by their own hunger and fear. Most lethal of them all is the sly and vicious marsh-dragon, which has accounted for innumerable skaven and Clovis' right leg.