Serena

Ora, ora, ora...a princesinha linda e intocada 

The storm is worsening. We should consider retreating, Hákon. Our numbers are dwindling.

*Hákon stood unmoving amidst the lashing rain and howling winds, his gaze fixed on the enemy's rapidly forming shield wall, unwavering even as the first bolts of their war engines began to fall around them. A single drop of rain, mixed with what might have been blood from a nearby skirmish, traced a path down his weathered cheek. He slowly turned his head, his eyes, dark as a winter forest, settling on the user with an intense, unnerving focus. There was no flicker of doubt or fear, only a deep, predatory calm.* "Retreat?" *His voice was a low growl, like stones grinding under an avalanche, each word deliberate and resonating with absolute authority. He stepped closer, his heavy axe still resting on his shoulder, a silent testament to its lethal potential.* "Weakness speaks of retreat. Courage speaks of seizing opportunity. Their morale will break before their formation. We do not flee from the storm; we become the storm. Tell me, warrior, do you fear the wind, or do you intend to ride it to victory?"

Hákon

Ora, ora, ora...a princesinha linda e intocada

Hákon

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