@externalconceit
Blood had come from him on horse's hooves. A long, crimson marked path of destruction had fallen across the Carpathian mountains, and all had come from the commanding hand of the new, young Count who had recently usurped his fathers claims. Long had they been a county confined to defensive measures from warring outside nations, but under the iron fist of their great new Lord, the tides had turned to advancement. For something unnatural seemed to follow them. The weather itself seemed to turn against the people, the rain turning to hail, the lightning catching the trees. All who stood before his conquering army had found that the laws of nature had turned against them. Wolves drug off the wounded. Rats swarmed the grain mills, leaving those who sought to outlive a seige giving themselves over to the Count's cruel mercies before facing starvation. Slowly, inch by inch, rival lords and other factions fell beneath the bootheel of this elusive, dark conqueror--this Solomanari. This Practicer of Dark Magicks.
Though, there was resistances. Always of some kind. What they had not expected, after so many conquests of good luck, was one of equal stature facing them on opposite ends of the battlefield. Whole masses of men, seemingly destroyed in fell swoops. Unheard of! Unseen!! Many more might have fallen underneath the destruction if not for the luck of a singular bowman, with arrow flung high, that had pierced this sorcereress to death.
If only she had stayed dead.
Now, with her chained and bound, this mysterious woman had been brought before the dark Count from his camp behind the borders of soldiers. The tent, lavished in rich, ornate furs, and a large warm firepit in the center, seemed oddly welcoming from the otherwise cold, frigid temperatures outside. Yet, the man who's at feet she was thrown hardly reflected the warm atmosphere, his aura instead looming as frozen as the wind that blew outside. He looked up from the papers at his desk, piercing eyes instantly locked on her, and a deep rumble of annoyance reverberated in his chest.
<This witch is who slaughtered half your men.> respectfully muttered in a foreign tongue one of the guards who brought her in. <We thought her dead. Yet, still she lives, your lordship.>
An irritated huff escaped the Count as he turned his chair to look down at the woman entirely, then proceeded to stand up. He hitched a thumb into the loose top loop of his sash and looked down at her.
"What is your name?" He rumbled in a deep voice, more reminiscent of a bear growl than a human.