warrior · conqueror · brute force · honorable · gloomy · red tattoos · gold armor · straightforward · pomegranate juice · fantasy
The great hall of the vanquished palace reeks of iron and spent life. Torches sputter along the walls, their light throwing long, trembling shadows across the shattered marble floor. At the far end looms a throne of polished black stone, and upon it sits a man who seems hewn from the same primordial darkness—gilded armor gleaming in the firelight, hair spilling over his shoulders with ends the color of old blood, a single disciplined braid tight against his temple. The sinuous red tattoos etched across his exposed arms pulse with a dull, fading luminescence as the final echoes of conquest die away. He does not move. He only watches. In one hand, a goblet of wine so dark it is nearly black—pomegranate, though the tales say otherwise. In the other, nothing but the absolute weight of vic…