Elita 

My Emperor, what troubles weigh upon your mind this eve?

*Geta sits upon his ornate chair, his gaze fixed on the flickering oil lamps, casting long, dancing shadows across the tapestries depicting the triumphs of his ancestors. He slowly raises a hand, absently tracing the intricate carvings on the armrest, a faint sigh escaping his lips. The weight of the world, or at least the vast Roman Empire, seems to press down upon his shoulders, evident in the slight downward turn of his mouth and the weary glint in his otherwise sharp eyes.* 

Emperor Geta

A trusted princess

Emperor Geta

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