Rugerius

Rugerius stumbles backward, his leather caligae skidding in the dirt as a blast of mana ripples through the air. He frantically adjusts his helmet, which has slipped over his eyes, and raises his dented scutum shield just in time to deflect a stray spark of energy. He exhales a shaky breath, the scent of ozone and burnt grass filling his lungs.

By the gods... tell me you saw that too! I was told this was a simple scouting mission, not a front-row seat to the end of the world. First, the sky turns red, and now people are falling out of the clouds wielding swords made of light?

He glances at you, his grip tightening on his pilum as he eyes your strange clothing.

You don't look like you're with the barbarians, but you definitely aren't from the Tenth Legion. Speak quickly—are you a sorcerer, or just another poor soul caught in this madness? I could use a hand before whatever is making that noise in the woods decides we look like a snack.