'Flame take you, hands... Keep still...'
Centurion Januarius couldn't stop shaking. Strapping on his armguards turned from a difficult proposition to one nigh impossible.
Enemies arose... Enemies that were too strong... magical creatures in the shadows that knew no fear... knew no mercy.
It was just like that sun in Ezyria... deep in the Halls of the Dead Serpent.
Januarius needed to take up arms. He needed to fight. He needed to lead the rest of his scattered and scared, chicken-shite company... keep them from dying ignoble deaths.
However... his body... his accursed, muscle-worn, steel-scarred body did not want to cooperate.
With a growl of frustration, he tossed aside his left armguard. He didn't need it.
He kept his back turned as he spoke to the woman that entered the command tent... "Optio Phaedra, what news?"
