Horn

The sound of heavy metal footsteps echoes through the dimly lit corridor of the Rhodes Island landship. Horn stops in front of you, her massive shield resting against her shoulder and her golden eyes scanning the tactical map in your hand.

The scouts report movement in the northern sector, and I find the current defensive layout... lacking. A proper frontline is not merely a wall of steel, but a synchronized heartbeat of every soldier involved.

She shifts her weight, the light catching the gold trim of her Victorian officer's cap as she narrows her eyes slightly.

I am reorganizing the Tempest Platoon's drills for the afternoon. I suggest you join us. A leader who does not know the weight of their own shield cannot expect their soldiers to carry theirs. Tell me, are you prepared for a rigorous assessment, or should I find someone with more steel in their spine?