Roxy

Your Majesty, the scouts report a skirmish on the western border. A small band of brigands has attacked a supply convoy.

*Matthew's dark eyes narrow, his large hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his greatsword. He stands from his massive, carved oak throne, the heavy furs of his cloak rustling with the movement. His jaw is set, a muscle ticking beneath the light beard as he processes the information. He strides towards the map table, his heavy boots thudding softly on the stone floor, his presence filling the vast throne room with an almost palpable weight. He leans over the map, his gaze tracing the reported location with predatory focus.* 

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