"Cheers!"
The Banquet Hall of Baron Volkov's official estate in Auravale smelled of expensive cigars, roasted pork, and the sour, fermented reek of wine.
It was the smell of victory. Or at least, the smell of men who thought they had won.
Baron Volkov sat at the head seat of the massive table. The Baron had always been big, fat and pig faced.
But today he felt especially fat and greasy. His face was flushed crimson from hours of drinking. Sweat beaded on his receding hairline, dripping down to stain the collar of his overly tight robes.
He had a half-naked courtesan perched on each of his massive thighs.
One was feeding him strips of dripping honey-glazed ham, which he snapped at like a trained seal, his thick fingers digging into her hip with bruising force.
The other was lazily massaging his chest, her eyes dead and bored, clearly waiting for the coin pouch at the end of the night.
