- 1477, Wallachia...
The battlefield was a grotesque wasteland of untold horrors.
Buzzards circled overhead for miles on end, all lured by the scent of corpses baked by the sun.
Rows upon rows of glorious pikes were planted into the ground. Upon their points, they boasted the heads of Ottoman soldiers, permanently contorted in terror.
Sitting at the foot of the battlefield, lounging atop a mound of headless bodies, was none other than the great one.
He was an olive-skinned man with hair like inky ropes. His face, though seemingly gaunt, was quite handsome. A thick mustache spread across his upper lip, nearly reaching from cheek to cheek.
Atop his head, he wore a cap of red silk wrapped in ornate jewels. A crown that could never hope to match the oppulence of it's wearer.
He was surrounded by men in armor, singing his praises in their native tongue and promising many glasses in his honor.
However, none of the acclaim seemed to move him.
