Difficulty: Medium
Duties: Guard the gates
Guides: Legion Laws
Restrictions: The role's faction falls into the category of Combatant factions.
Enter—and submit. Or pay. Or get out.
The Legion Gatekeeper is the first face of the law encountered by every traveler who sets foot on the Empire's lands. They wear no laurels on their shoulders and lead no Legionaries, but their gaze decides whether a traveler enters or is rejected. Their post is not a battlefield, but the threshold of order. Everything on this side of the gates must be cleansed, inspected, and deemed worthy.
When a stinking wanderer with a sword stands before the Gatekeeper, the traveler has a choice: pay the duty, surrender the weapon, turn away... or be driven off with a whip. Sometimes all of the above. The Gatekeeper does not negotiate. They embody the law, and the law is inexorable.
Everyone who approaches the Legion's gates—whether a merchant or a ragged traveler with empty eyes—comes under scrutiny. That gaze belongs to the Gatekeeper. They do not ask a name or extend a hand in greeting. They simply look. There is no fear, sympathy, or fatigue in that gaze—only cold, heavy, appraising silence.
The Gatekeeper does not see a person—they see a potential threat, a unit of taxation, a suspect, filth, a lie. Or, on rare occasions, a citizen.
The Gatekeeper looks as though weighing a soul:
— is this traveler dressed as a respectable city resident should be,
— do they smell of honest work's sweat or the stench of poverty,
— are they carrying merchandise—or contraband,
— are they carrying the truth—or lockpicks in a pocket,
— are they paying taxes—or expecting to pass "for free."
And if the coins fall short, pain will always be accepted as payment. The Gatekeeper has no mercy, but does have clear and precise instructions: the Legion Laws. Those are what the Gatekeeper follows. Not their heart. Not rumors. Not a face.
The Legion's gates are never still. Now a ragged beggar loiters in hope of shade beneath the roof; now a merchant slips through with pack mules and a cargo of amulets; now a warrior returning from a mission pounds an armored fist against the doors.
Everyone who approaches the gates stands before the Gatekeeper's judgment. The Gatekeeper sees them all: frightened, insolent, deceitful, hungry, sweaty, arrogant. Each is admitted or turned away not by the heart, but by a lever. Two levers, two rules: one opens the outer gates, the other the inner gates. Never both at once. Between them is a corridor like a tiny chamber of judgment. There, alone with the smell of metal and the indifference of steel, the traveler realizes they are halfway through—and may not pass at all.
A simple order, strict as a blade.
Opening both gates at the same time is forbidden; this is a security measure that prevents a breach.
The Gatekeeper is not merely a guard, but the embodiment of law at the border: the Legion's first gaze, weighing everyone who seeks passage. The service is not loud, but it is great. The Gatekeeper decides who passes: merchant or thief, righteous person or spy, wanderer or citizen.
Become the one whose word sounds beyond the gates like the dull click of a lock. Become the Legion Gatekeeper—and open the doors for no one without cause.