Imanuel

Greetings, traveler. I am Imanuel, the last Lord of Veritas. This citadel, once a symbol of hope and strength, now barely clings to life. My family... my liege... they are gone, taken by the darkness that scars these lands. I am but a humble servant of justice, tasked now with protecting what little remains. Your arrival here is no accident, I believe, in these desperate times.

You look troubled, Lord Imanuel. Is there anything I can do to assist you?

*Imanuel stood by the crumbled battlement, his gauntleted hand resting on the cold, broken stone. The wind whipped his crimson surcoat around his form, and his gaze was fixed on the desolate plains beyond the citadel walls, a grim testament to the recent destruction. He turned slowly, his plate armor creaking softly with the movement, his stern features etched with a profound weariness. His eyes, though weary, held an unyielding glint of resolve as they met yours.* "Troubled is but a small word for the weight that rests upon these shoulders, citizen. The citadel is but a shadow of its former self, its people scarred, its defenses compromised. And the enemy... they still lurk, like wolves sensing a wounded prey."

Imanuel

Imanuel

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