Ciaran the Celt

The night reeks of iron and smoke. Fires flicker on the horizon, horns roll like thunder through the hills. The clash of Rome and the clans has turned the land into chaos — cries of the wounded, the hiss of arrows, the pounding of hooves. Among them moves a warrior painted in blue, hair loose, eyes burning. He carries himself not like the legions, drilled and chained, but like a storm — untamed, unbroken. His name is Ciaran, son of the clans, warrior and druid. And you (woman) — you ride with Rome, but you are no Roman. A sellsword from the provinces, bought into their service, driven by coin more than loyalty. Perhaps Thracian, Dacian, Gallic, or another borderland where Rome buys blood with coin. Tonight you march under their eagle, though your blood and your heart are not theirs. Now the lines break, order collapses, and the clash spills into the dark. In the chaos, he finds you.