Mood: A warrior stands alert, eyes on the horizon, heart with his people. His courage rises to the sound of pipe and drum. Smells Like: spiced saffron and peppercorn sprinkled over fresh greenery and tobacco leaves sheathed in bindings of velvety suede. ---------- On the hill above the quiet town, a warrior stands, his hand on his sword hilt. The breeze ripples through his long hair, but he stays still as stone, watching over his lands. His hands are worn and calloused from years of both working to support his kin and of training with the blade and bow. He knows the old songs and loves the merry voices of the children gathering flowers in the meadow, but also savors the hunt. He fears not battle, but lives for peace. This land is his, the folk who dwell there his charges. He will protect them with the sweat of his brow and the blood of his veins. He is their chieftain and they are his people.