The room is cavernous. The walls are adorned with the taxidermied heads of every animal you can think of. The shelves are laden with ill-gotten gains. The Tyrant looms at the heart of this room, commanding the attention of his men without a word. His gravelly, gruff voice drones as he approaches his war trophies.

“This, my friends, is what happens when the pathetic serfs of this land rise up against me.”

An axe flecked with blood sits atop a crooked wooden stand. The Tyrant picks it up as if it were light as a feather, examining its crude design, and scoffing before setting it down again.

“I took this feeble excuse for a weapon from his own back. He whimpered. Brave in battle, but not in defeat. I took this as a favour to him, so that no one would forget his cowardice in death.”

The Tyrant’s men listen to his words, enraptured by their powerful leader, each hoping to be as feared as him one day.

Strolling over to a much longer platform, this one made of iron, he pauses, before turning around to address his cohorts.

“Do you see this? This…. stick. One of those horse-riding runts tried to throw this right at my chest.”

A rare laugh escapes the Tyrant as he picks up the long wooden pole.

“I caught it. With my bare hands. I caught their fiery spear and put it out under my feet. When will they learn that they can’t defeat me?”

The Tyrant tuts as he sets down the javelin, dropping it back into its case as if it were disgusting to the touch.

His men begin to mutter amongst themselves as he walks to the centre of the room, to his pride and joy. His favourite trophy of war.

He lifts the weapon above his head and raises his voice to almost ear-shattering volumes.

“This is what those soldiers from the East thought they could kill me with! A musket!”

The Tyrant brings the gun down in a flash, raises his knee and breaks the sturdy weapon in half over it. His men stand in stunned silence.

“Nothing these so-called rebels can do will stop me. I will burn the Borderlands to the ground before I’m done. This room will be filled with their weapons, their armour, their heads.”

His men cheer, stomping and shouting, raising their weapons high.

“Let he who is without fear face me. And I will show him what fear is.”