The air in the grand hall was thick with the scent of roasting meat and the sharp, metallic tang of blood, a mixture that clung to the walls like an unholy perfume. Massive stone pillars, carved with the tales of jötunn victories and sacrifices, loomed over the room, casting flickering shadows in the firelight. The hall itself, wide enough to house hundreds of warriors, vibrated with the sound of laughter, drunken boasts, and the heavy thud of tankards crashing onto wooden tables.

At the center of it all sat Dhrak Xako Waruk, the Warlord, the Bloodfist, larger than life in every sense of the word. His enormous figure was sprawled across an elevated stone throne, carved from the bones of fallen foes—its back adorned with the skulls of chieftains and human kings who had dared to challenge him. The firelight danced across his dark, scarred skin, illuminating the ritualistic tattoos that spiraled across his muscled frame like ancient runes of war. He was the epicenter of the celebration, the eye of a violent storm.

Dhrak tore a massive chunk of meat from the roast before him, juices dripping down his thick fingers and into his beard. His warhammer, still smeared with the dried blood of his enemies, rested casually against his throne, always within arm’s reach—a constant reminder of the battlefield that defined him. His wild mane of hair, matted with dried blood and dirt from the day’s slaughter, hung in loose strands over his broad shoulders, giving him a savage, untamed appearance. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste of victory as much as the meat itself.

Around him, his warriors feasted with reckless abandon. They were a rowdy, brutal lot—covered in fresh scars and blood-streaked armor, their eyes still burning with the adrenaline of battle. Some laughed as they recounted their kills from the day’s raid, slamming fists into tables to punctuate their stories, while others brawled playfully in the corners, sending tankards and plates flying. The hall echoed with the energy of a warband intoxicated of ale.