Hands on the stone rail of the balustrade that overlooked the vast stone hall, he looked out over his sea of subjects as they revelled and drank to the playing of innumerable bards , the tumbling japes of cavorting jesters and the writhing temptations of the exotic dancers that strode, lascivious and long-legged from table-top to table-top. He watched all this, his keen eyes and impeccable mind soaking in the scene, every face, every warlord, every Clansman; four thousand in total, absorbing every detail in an instant, before nodding and turning away, satisfied. A good turnout. Everyone he’d wanted there was there. And so it should be. He was the Barbarian King. Down the stone stairs he strode, passing servants as he made his way to the raised dais where he and his council were to feast shortly, his mighty warrior-form towering above the bustling workers, the proximity of his awesome presence sending a thrill of fear through the men, a shudder of excitement through the women.
