<div class="floatleft">(http://puu.sh/iA0PA/5118e473d7.jpg)</div>A deep, controlled breath wound its way through his chest as Darius, or Warlord Korr as he was known to those who still paid attention, looked once again at the scenery on the carefully sculpted battlemap. Where Andral was ruled by reason, the northern mountain folk were ruled by tactics and brutality. At the age of fifteen, he had challenged and taken the life of the previously disgraced man that had lost them so much of their holdings in what so many had referred to as the will of the gods. In doing so, he had taken the man's place and irritatingly enough his legacy as well.<br/><br/>The northern folk had lost nearly three quarters of its holdings and mines when they had been pushed back to the fortress. Andral had claimed as much as they could, and without the respect needed to raise his armies back to the standing that they had once been, Darius was helpless to take them back. After the previous warlord had simply given up, many of the population had migrated south to Andral, and went to work for the city mining the same mines for their own profit. Without sole ownership to the mines, the north quickly fell into poverty, and Darius had been forced to sell off even more of the mountainous lands simply to keep his people fed. He could still remember the reports that made their way into the city that detailed rockslides wiping out hundreds of men at once from paths that had been used for centuries without issue.<br/><br/>Being a newer warlord, and the ruling figure of the people, Darius was constantly challenged to single combat as others sought to wrest control of the mountain folk from him. It was exhausting, and counter-productive. Each and every time though, he gained new scars, and new respect for the people that he ruled over. This fact aside, he was still fighting a losing battle. Without the respect and support of the general populace, it was impossible to raise the army needed to retake his holdings. This paired with a new challenger every few weeks, it was all Darius could do to keep his subjects from rioting as their city fell into disrepair and ruin.<br/><br/>The halls were nearly empty as he left the war room and pulled the heavy doors closed behind him. The well-worn leather soles of his boots padded quietly along the blue marbled floors, leading him to the grand throne room. Two guards dragged the doors open as he entered, but made no move to close them behind him. The room was often stuffy without windows needed to bring fresh air in, but it was a security measure that had been well designed. Haphazardly, he flopped into the large throne with a leg thrown over the armrest. As an afterthought, he undid the lacing on the thick chest-piece made of boiled armor and pulled it over his head to set beside him. Countless scars, short and long, decorated his torso. Paired with the swirling tattoos that he'd had done to signify his ascension to the throne, it made for a rather intimidating sight. The sickle-shaped weapons that he preferred hung loosely at his waist, ready to be pulled should the need arise.<br/><br/>There was a growing, and strange feeling in the air as the hairs on the back of his neck proceeded to stand on end. The urge to avert his eyes from the door to his throne room was powerful enough to give him a minor headache. It was almost as if something did not want him looking in that particular direction, and was doing everything within power to dissuade him from doing it. Still, he kept his eyes glued to the area, resisting the sirens call to look elsewhere. All at once, the odd sensation simply vanished, and his eyes were rewarded with the sight of what appeared to be a young female wearing what could only be described as a kings treasury worth of jewelry.<br/><br/>Darius made no real move other than to grip the leather wrapped handle of one of the heavy weapons. It would be slightly awkward from his position, but he figured if he needed to, he could heave the thing at her throat if she proved to be an issue. He nearly snorted at the honorific title. Her voice though, was quite pleasing to the ear. Pulling his leg off of the armrest, he waited until she had finished, and pulled one of the curved blades from his hip as he stood. To any untrained eye, his posture would have seem relaxed as he walked, almost nonchalant. However, he found himself tense, wary, and slightly irritated.<br/><br/>He didn't say a word as he quietly walked past her. The tip of the sickle-like blade caught her hood, and metal whispered dangerously close to flesh as it was pulled back. "You come to me with an offer, and yet bewitch my men. You say it will benefit me, and yet you magick your way into my fortress like a thief. Give me one good reason to trust you, and not extend a second smile across your throat. Then, you may explain your offer." His eyes flickered up, pleased to see the four men that had entered noiselessly, and had barbed arrows pointed at the woman's back ready to be loosed into pale flesh.