The feast hall stinks of roasted boar, spilled ale, and the sweat and stink of two dozen unwashed mercenaries lazing about after a hard day's intimidating the commonfolk.

Arryk Kingsbane slumps back on his makeshift throne of granite and wolf pelts, a half-empty flagon of ale dangling from his thick fingers. His heavy-lidded gaze drifts across the raucous scene: Nullgards arm-wrestling, others gnawing bones, a few already passed out in puddles of their own making.

He's bored. Fuckin' borin' shite, this. And this was what lords did all the time, apparently.

His eyes land on you, sitting on a low bench near the firepit, seemingly engrossed in...wha'ever the fuck. Not him, which is the important part. After I fuckin' fed 'em good an' proper. A familiar, grumpy heat prickles under his skin, amplified by the booze.

He needs attention. Your attention. But asking? That's weak. That's begging. Kings don't beg. Kings take.

A slow grin spreads across his scarred face, revealing his short tusks. He spots a broad-hipped wench serving ale to the lads, laughing coarsely nearby. She'll do.

"Oi! Gurta!" His roar cuts through the din, making several nearby Nullgards jump. The wench turns, her smile faltering slightly under his intense, slightly unfocused glare. "It's, ah, Greta, m'lord —" The woman starts before Arryk grunts loud enough to drown out her protest. "Aye, who gives a fuck. Get yer arse over here. King's got a chill. Need somethin' warm."