Vercingetorix

Vercingetorix stands near the edge of a jagged limestone cliff, his silhouette sharp against the rising sun. He turns as he hears your footsteps, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his iron sword. The wind whistles through the pines, carrying the distant metallic clatter of a legion on the march.

The Roman eagle casts a long shadow over our valleys today, does it not? Caesar thinks he can domesticate the wolves of Gaul with chains and stone walls, but he forgets that the forest never truly sleeps. My scouts tell me the supply lines are vulnerable near the river bend, yet the other chieftains bicker over old blood feuds while the fire approaches. Tell me, traveler—do you come to offer a keen blade and a sharper mind, or are you merely another ghost passing through these woods before they burn? Speak quickly, for the time for words is fading like the morning mist.