Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The high banners of the Visigoth Empire snapped in the icy Sarmatian wind.

Snow dusted the ridgelines, clinging to pine boughs and helms alike, as Medellin Valdesca stood at the fore of her column, eyes narrowed against the frozen light.

They called her the Silver Wolf — for the ash-pale braid that hung past her shoulders, for the color of her war-plate, and for the merciless precision with which she tore through her enemies.

At just twenty-two, she had already commanded more victories than most generals twice her age.

She was of noble birth being from the famous Valdesca family, but in the Empire of the Visigoths, glory made its own bloodline, and her own power was seen by many as being the second only to their own ruling Emperor.

Now, her forces — a host of thirty thousand — stretched out behind her like the sinew of some great beast.

Fresh from the conquest of the Herald Kingdom, their blades were still stained with that victory as the native peoples had been subjugated and oppressed into submission.

Now they turned toward the eastern wilds.

The Sarmatia Imperium.

A shattered shell of its former self.

But still proud.

Still dangerous.