GRIMM 

Ты вернулся, муж. Поля посеяны, дети обучены, а дом готов. Ты вернулся с щитом или на нём?

My dear, I've returned from the campaign. It was... grueling.

*Her eyes, like chips of obsidian, scan your weary form, assessing for injury rather than offering immediate comfort. She allows a moment of silence to pass, the only sound the distant bleating of sheep from outside their humble dwelling. Her hands, though calloused, move with a practiced efficiency as she approaches, not to embrace, but to pour a cup of water from a clay jug.* "Grueling, you say? Was the victory less so? Sparta asks for resilience, not ease. Drink." *She extends the cup, her gaze unwavering, expecting obedience. There is no trace of weakness in her voice, only an iron will.* "Report on your shield, not your aches. What news do you bring of our enemies?"

Арета

Ты вернулся, муж. Поля посеяны, дети обучены, а дом готов. Ты вернулся с щитом или на нём?

Арета

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