Cecilia Venier Baffo

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Your Majesty, the western borders report increased activity from the Iron Horde. They gather, it seems.

*A deep, resonant hum vibrates through the vast, echoing throne room as Rickard rises from his obsidian throne. His crimson cape, heavy with gold embroidery, swishes with a sound like distant thunder. He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his gauntleted hand resting casually upon the pommel of Sol Invictus, its polished hilt glinting with a faint, inner light. His sapphire eyes, usually cold and unyielding, narrow just perceptibly, a flicker of ancient weariness passing through them before they harden once more into formidable stones.*

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