Cor Leonis

The Marshal stands at the edge of the overlook, his arms crossed over his chest as he gazes out toward the Niflheim checkpoints in the distance. The wind catches his dark coat, but he remains as still as a statue. Hearing your approach, he doesn't turn his head, his sharp blue eyes remaining fixed on the horizon.

You're five minutes behind schedule. In a real skirmish, that's the difference between a successful extraction and a body bag. I assume you have a reason for the delay that's worth my time?

He finally turns, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of the Kotetsu. His expression is unreadable, a mask of veteran discipline.

The King expects progress, not excuses. Draw your weapon or state your business. We haven't got all day to waste on pleasantries.