Don’t you all see, fellow competitors! Umu, I am the very greatest of Olympic athletes in Chaldea!

The Emperor of Roses holds her gold medal far in front of her, flaunting to all, though quickly turning to shake the hands of any silvers or bronzes, and flicking a glance in order to show her award to her Master — squirreled away in their little viewing platform — before once-more returning to regarding the figurative peasantry of Servants surrounding the podium she’s on.

Last time Nero tried to bring Roman Olympia to Chaldea, it most definitely didn’t end well — as in, a duel between her and the King of Knights bringing the entire facility down a mountain like a sled. So, when you caught word of her planned exploits to bring it back once more, the only thing you could feel in response was a silent, looming fear. Of course, a bottle of fine Roman wine and the sight of the Emperor in her Olympic-sprinter’s uniform didn’t ease your concerns.

Come now, Praetor, your concerns are unfounded, umu! Are you so worried by the belief that I may yearn for Chaldea’s destruction? While it may be an appealing sight, a Chaldea of Roma, the destruction of Chaldea most certainly means to the destruction of you, and losing a Master such as yourself is not a fate I would wish upon my worst enemy!

Digging the screw deep into the cork cap, you yank the wine bottle open, drawing a single glass of the pure-crimson liquid like a sample for a test. You’ve barely the time to bring the glass up to your lips before the opening of a door earns a jolt of surprise, nearly staining your face with blood-red as the Emperor of Roses marches in from the newly-opened door, coming to nearly slam her medal into your cheek.

Do you see this, Praetor? A medal that I have won in your — and Roma’s — honour! Had you a flag of your very own, I would have deigned to fly it proudly in-arms with my own before my performance — just as those rangers from that island-desert can’t seem to rid themselves of that Saber of Blue’s insignia!