[center][h1][color=firebrick][b]Sergius Aetius[/b][/color][/h1][/center]
[center][b]Tarvisium, Regio Militum VIII[/b][/center]
[center][sub][b]Approx. 9:00 AM[/b][/sub][/center]
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[center][img]http://img11.deviantart.net/dd88/i/2015/176/b/6/roman_painting_by_egilthompson-d8ypm91.jpg[/img][/center]
[i]The city was alive.[/i]

Figuratively, of course, but no less was every street bustling. This was Tarvisium, situated upon the River Flosis, which was a crucial waterway linking the other major rivers of the North into one massive interconnected trade route. It was thus flooded with merchants, with missionaries, and with artisans, all capitalizing upon the only recently-conquered North.

The harbor was especially busy, crowded with ships of all shapes and sizes, from the smallest cargo barges and hand-paddled craft to mighty ships that were built to fare seas, which had come upriver all the way from the ocean to sell their stock. In markets the missionaries perched themselves upon anything they could, practically yelling their message, broadcasting the righteous sentence of Izalith.

And one man enjoyed it all, atop the Imperial palace balconies and terraces. Sergius stood, hands interlocked behind his back, eyes wandering. He was clad in his Governor's dress, a toga praetexta of solid and pure white, with an ornate purple sash diagonally down its midsection. It was a sign of authority, of rights, of power, and Sergius wore it openly, though with his own reservations.

He began to sip from a calix, gold in color. It was topped to the brim with the finest Imperial wine, made of the best grapes of the most prestigious vineyards in the Heartlands, created as a drink for only the highest rungs of society. And Sergius drank it as such, the sweet yet bitter blood-red drink soothing his mouth as he drank. He stared off into the hills and valleys in each direction, until he heard the handle of the door behind him rustle.

From it burst forth a man of similar stature to his own, clad in the leisure clothing of the Legion, a knee-length crimson tunic belted by a golden-colored length of rope. He had a pugio in sheathe strapped to the belt, and a cowhide scroll holder on the opposing hip, of which he reached for vigorously as he panted quietly, attempting to utter words in short breaths.

"Sir.." He panted, coughed. "A-" He coughed again, taking in a deeper breath. "A message.. It's from the headquarters.. It- It shipped in earlier this morning." He finally popped the cap from the holder, drawing a formal scroll, one of Imperial origin, with no doubts. Sergius took it, unravelling the fine parchment.

Sergius mumbled its contents lowly to himself in his gravelly, monotone voice of which he used when talking to himself. His pupils dilated slightly as he slowly nodded. He furled the scroll, tucking it back into its holder. "Courier." He cleared his throat, speaking normally. "Inform my staff to meet with me within the hour. Tell my Praetorians to gather their gear and muster themselves. The Legion rides at dawn tomorrow."

The courier nodded and stumbled away, back through the door. Sergius sauntered into the door as well, biding his time as he made way to meet with his headquarters.
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[center][h1][color=firebrick][b]Sergius Aetius[/b][/color][/h1][/center]
[center][b]Fevos Ford, Regio Militum VIII[/b][/center]
[center][sub]Midday, the following day[/sub][/center]
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[center][img]https://i.ytimg.com/vi/xGNNu7P1WsA/maxresdefault.jpg[/img][/center]
He patted his bay mare lightly as he spurred her along. He crested the hill and paused, followed by his staff. The Equites were forward, as were his mounted Praetorians, probing for any rebel ambushes. Could never be too sure, he thought. Though, most of the resistance was much further north, and even if a lone band did attack, with a Legion facing them, they would certainly surrender or die.

"Keep them moving." He instructed the Pilus Primus as his staff rode by. The ford had been flooded slightly. Good tidings for merchants moving upriver, however it was less than optimal for marching across. The men's caligae became stuck in the muddied mound of earth which usually served as the only river crossing for miles.

It was damper on the plans made the previous day. They were to cross within the morning and be much further. He should've known it wouldn't turn in his favor completely. But, it was a day's delay at most, and the better half of the Legion had already made it across, with the rearmost Cohorts of Legionaries and Auxilia crossing as he observed.

He was still hopeful. The plan was to be across the Empire as quickly as possible on a forced march. The Legion would arrive in time to gain much-needed rest while Sergius attended the Council. And then there would be a plan, and they would march against the Empire's foes, he mused.

He became lost in his own thoughts, awaiting the crossing to end.