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The host sat upon his gleaming throne of crimson, scratching under the feathers of the beaked "chatter-dog" as it waddled about at his feet. He waited until the longtable of his hall was full, his gaze imperious, before he stood & strode down the steps, chalice in hand. Boasts, veiled threats, jests, & barbs died out as he approached. He raised his goblet with a flourish & began:
"Hail & welcome, brothers all. I have gathered you here to forge a great Pact of the North, to plot the campaigns that would see us lasting victories, & to crush our enemies. Many of you I have ridden the plains, bled, & killed with, & so you are always welcome. Others seek opportunity, & you shall have it. Before we begin in earnest, I would recognize three honored guests: the King of the Golden Baersons, the Chief of the Goromadny Mountain Tribe, & the Daemon-Smith of the Chaos Dwarves who has forged marvelous killing machines for my army. Rise & introduce yourselves as you see fit."
