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The North

The centurion doffed his plumed helm and slid off his mare. The maniples came to a smart halt in battle formation behind him and readied their weapons. Cadres of combat casters stalked amongst the ranks invoking blessings and calling upon the gods to infuse the imperial troops with strength and vigour.

 

The centurion hissed to a grizzled sergeant. “Stand ready, but something’s awry.”

 

He tugged a worn map from his pouch and consulted it, then the surrounding area. “Pluvus, front and centre!” He called.

 

The scout master trotted to stand beside his commander, his dark leather in stark contrast to the silvery sheen of the centurion’s plate.

 

“Pluvus, either I am going mental, or you are the worst scout in the legion. Which is it?”

 

The ranger squinted into the sky then took in the surrounding mountain range. “This is where we are meant to be sir.”

 

“Then where is the Rose Tower, Pluvus. Where is it?”

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