Thread: Festival of Warring Races ||Lagertha x Google||

For Jandrax Dhakohr the idea of peace between his people and the Elves was an abomination, not while they still held lands that were so sacred to his people. Oh the Elves could claim that they had a valid claim to the lands as well but that hardly mattered, before they had ever set foot upon this continent the Minotaurs had ruled. Of course that had been thousands of years ago, many generations for both long lived races... the fact of the matter was that his people had been there first and every acre of land that the Elves occupied was rightfully the property of any Minotaur with the strength to claim and hold it. That was the proper way to do things Jandrax reflected as he made his way towards the assembly place, towards the waiting shamans that would transport any who wanted to attend the festivities as well as make sure they could return to the labyrinth like cities of the Minotaur people at a moment's notice. The Elves had a royal family, hereditary leadership... it was a weakness. Minotaurs' had no kings, they only had war lords, the strongest and the most charismatic of their kind who could raise armies and lead in battle. To be a war lord one would need to earn the respect of those he would be leading, demonstrating that they were without peers. Jandrax had earned the title of war lord over a decade ago, a rather short period of time for a species that were gifted with unnaturally long lives that could be compared to what the Elves had, since then there had been no great wars but plenty of minor dust ups, conflicts along the borders, flare ups of tension and violence. While there had been no great war since he had earned his title the hundred and fifty year old minotaur had fought in such conflicts before, the marks still on his body. This peace accord would not last, their people were far too different and their interests were diametrically opposed... to Jandrax this celebration would be a chance to him to know his enemy better, to see them off the battlefield and perhaps gain some insight into their behavior to make combatting them easier. As he drew closer to the portal an Orc slave in chains stood nearby to take and set aside any weapons that might be carried by the minotaurs who were looking to attend, though Jandrax tried to move along without passing off his own weapons a look from one of the attending shamans was enough to make him hand over his massive maul, its unexpected weight almost making the Orc stumble as Jandrax stepped into the glowing green portal and was transported to the destination. At the other side of the portal he emerged, not the first of his people to arrive though those who were there were standing near the portal as though waiting for someone to lead the. All they got was a grunt from Jandrax as he made his way towards the festival proper, falling into a ragged lined behind him. Even standing with the others of his kind Jandrax stood out. His kind were on average around six and a half feet tall and far heavier built then just about any other race but Jandrax towered at seven feet four inches from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head, the long and curved horned that rose from his head adding another five inches if they were counted. His fur was black and glossy though in many places there were lines and patches of a dark grey that came from the scars he had received in battle, in particular a large number of them across his broad chest. One particular distinguishing feature of his was his left horn though, half its length had been shorn away by the blow of an elven sword when he had been just fifty years old and the missing length was replaced by a cap of polished steel that came to a terrible sharp point. All of this when combined with the way he carried himself, the arrogant swagger and cold confidence shining in his pale blue eyes, made it clear that this was not your average bull and even without his favored weapon he was not to be trifled with. Behave yourselves. He growled as a warning to those that followed him, knowing full well the trouble they would be in so close to the castle without any proper weapons. And one of you pass me a barrel of dwarven ale. That brought about some grumbling but eventually a cask was passed over to him and slung up onto a broad shoulder as he entered the festival, his eyes settling on a group of Elves who were dressed better than most and seemed to be drinking, making his way over to them to see what he might learn from the lips loosened by the strong drink he carried.