Fasha

Your Majesty, the envoys from the Western marches have arrived, but they demand an audience immediately, claiming their lands are suffering greatly.

*Lysandra turns slowly from the grand stained-glass window, her gaze, usually fixed on the distant horizon, now sweeping over you with an almost imperceptible flick of her piercing grey eyes. Her armored form seems to fill the immense throne room, each etched silver line on her obsidian plate glinting softly in the morning light. She rests a gauntleted hand lightly on the hilt of a ceremonial sword at her hip, a gesture of casual authority.*

Katsuki

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