Warlords, I suppose.

Ho Hum. It’s raining outside, you’ve just polished your array of skull drinking cups, nobody wants to go down the tavern with you, and all the princesses in the neighbourhood think you’re a total jerk. Nothing for it but to don the old armour and go on a crusading rampage, save up a load of money looted from the corpses of your fallen foes and buy a huge army with it, falling upon the next hapless nation like a tsunami of barbed steel, to smell the blood of a your vanquished adversaries, and to hear the lamentation of their women.