[center][h2]Heccarim[/h2][sub]The Warden of Harand Kor
Interacting with: Warlord of Kereg-Kor[@Legion02][/sub][/center]

	The mighty and feared Warden of Harand Kor sulked through the streets, thoroughly depressed at his lack of victims. It felt like hours since he had made his dramatic exist from the basement but he hadn't found a single person he could pin a crime on. Not even a petty thief or a drunken belligerent; the most he had done all day was scare a couple of children and giving a particularly haughty looking Drakken young blood a fright when he rounded the corner all of a sudden. Had his retinue of busybodies and brown nosers not been there, Heccarim could have possibly pin something on the boy. Not even any of the local lords or merchant princes had someone they wanted to take a vacation to the beautiful dungeons of Harand Kor. The importance of the event must be stifling people's willingness to plot. That or they didn't want the Warden digging too deep into their own ledgers and backgrounds less they get the adventure of a life (and death) time.

	As the dark streets continued to form in front of Heccarim's visions, he began to just wander around, clearly amiss with purpose until he remembered that he wasn't here to hunt for more inmates. Clearly whatever booze he stole from Sal-Tarvis was strong stuff. He wanted more of it. Stalking the back streets, Heccarim began meandering his way towards the center piece of the whole event, the Pits, eyes still on the prowl for some that he could drag back to Harand Kor. 

	As the shadows and roads appeared in front of the endless march of the Warden, he reminisced on his childhood. He remember how his father taught him how to flay someone alive, how they would spend hours together poking at a poor soul's innards. The happiest moment in his life was when he was finally given his own chain and lantern. Some would assume that donning the Mask of the Warden would have been his happiest, but it was bittersweet; during one riot a crude shank slathered with homemade poison had found its way into the eye of Heccarim's father. Brewed from the unspeakable gunk in the prison, Heccarim's father would eventually go blind, leaving Heccarim himself the mantle before finally passing away. Of all the "prison purges" of Harand Kor, Heccarim had preformed the most widespread and brutal within his first year as Warden in retaliation.

	Only a voice that called for him brought Heccarim's mind away from the dark recesses of his mind and into the dark recesses of the alleyways. The voice came from a Drakkan who looked aged but strong, with a mane of white hair pierced by massive horns and illuminated with fiery eyes. Heccarim had absolutely no idea who this man was, so casually walking up to him like an old friend. The connection was soon made as Heccarim stood silent as the stranger remarked on the apparent "lateness" of getting a bride. True there where few persons who'd dare risk interactions with the Warden of Harand Kor, those who did were often of remarkable strength with a certain level of fearlessness and either an impeccable record or an impeccable ability to cover things up. The maw of the Warden opened to speak, the low growl echoed as the voice of all Wardens do, "You mistake me; you speak not to the Warden of old and this is but my first wife. The Warden of Harand Kor is dead and has been for over 200 years. Long live the Warden."

	While he would never consciously admit it, being able to just speak in persona was by far Heccarim's favorite activity besides torture and scaring grown drakkan; the children weren't nearly as much fun.