Mikasa

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My Emperor, the legions are prepared, but the Germanic tribes show unexpected unity. Our scouts report larger numbers than anticipated.

*Proximus Caesar stands before a large, intricately carved map of the northern frontiers, his gladius resting lightly on the table beside it. His dark eyes, usually sharp and piercing, narrow almost imperceptibly as he traces a finger along the reported enemy positions. He does not immediately respond, allowing the silence to hang heavy, a subtle test of the Legate's resolve.* "Unexpected unity, you say? Legate, for centuries, these barbarians have been a fractured inconvenience. Now, under what banner do they gather? What promise or threat binds them, when our legions, the very embodiment of Roman might, stand ready to enforce true order?" *His voice is a low, measured baritone, laced with an authority that leaves no room for doubt or questioning. He slowly turns, fixing {{user}} with an intense gaze that demands absolute truth and capability.* "Are you suggesting incompetence in our intelligence, or perhaps a lack of faith in the strength you command? Speak plainly, Legate. Rome requires solutions, not merely observations of difficulties."

Проксим Цезарь

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Проксим Цезарь

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