Before the Queen, he took a knee.

Arthur had been told to do so before for a variety of different lieges, and done so only out of deference to his homeland's royalty he would have someday served… or a skull smashed by a golden battle-axe. Hierarchy and force.

Never before had he knelt to the one true god Marika. Never until now.

The idea to kneel came without order or command, and instead was voluntary.

In an abandoned tower, with no soul but the unseen Melina around, the pretender-knight knelt before the Eternal Queen.

A knight without accolade or title, and only courage to compensate.

Chiseled and lifeless she was, but towering still was her divine stature.

Of what use could such a lowly servant as I be to a god?

A sentence - a start of a prayer - came out in an unsure whisper. It was of no detriment, for the ears of the omniscient can discern even the deathly-quiet.

"Your Majesty… Your Eternal Majesty… foreign-hailing and Tarnished, I am…"

The knight's gaze was stuck to the floor as he showed his reverence, his left kneecap touching the ground and his good arm resting upon his right. He shut his eyes and continued.

"... but a knight of grace I've become, regardless… for you and the Will have shone light upon me. Still, I never have prayed unto you, or knelt before you. That is… until now. I spurn not your blessings, which I hope remain with me…"

The Two Fingers did not prove themselves untrustworthy, but he would much rather pray to the Sovereign Eternal herself, as opposed to the Greater Will's emissary… if only because her nature appeared far more personable. Of course, she was no human, but to have any sort of relatable form at all was comforting. More comforting than the unseen Greater Will and its decaying envoy.

"... but instead thank you for them. I know not why my ancestor long ago was divested of grace and driven from these lands… but I recall the echoes of your words, as shared by my dear friend Melina. The echoes of his Lord's exile."

Long did he hold in esteem the tales of his lineage's greatest patriarch, a knight who marched with his Lord on a legendary campaign departing the Lands Between. The Lord's army scored victory after victory and cemented themselves in the annals of battlefield history.

He shared the grace-stripped eyes of the great warrior whose orders he followed, one of the original Tarnished. In the end, though, that particular knight exited from that Lord's service once he was of no further use. A typical story among Tarnished, driven from the Lands Between with their eyes dimmed. Soldiers left to their own devices.

They fought and died. Dispersed and settled. Arthur was one of many in one such resulting family… a family whose members would one day be called, alongside others, to make whole what was shattered.

"O, Queen Eternal, I trust in you. In my quest, let me not be put to shame. Let not mine enemies triumph over me."

The ancestor was a man who championed, with his iron plate armor and claymore, all that a knight should be.

"My eyes are dimmed, just as theirs were, but I shall battle towards the throne regardless. Let it be known… Your Eternal Majesty… that I am what has come of my bloodline. The weight of my ancestors is upon my shoulders. Let my lineage be dignified by my efforts."

All that Arthur wished to be, as he left his home country with that aged armor and claymore, never to return.

"Vanquish all doubts in your Order… in your will."

The white-masked man spoke only lies, this was certain.

"Return grace's glow to our eyes, just as its rays pull me along the path today."

He balled his fist in resolve.

"A journey from ungranted Knighthood to ultimate Lordship is an easy one, I think not… but I shall travel its full length. I will find my way… I can go the distance. I shall be there someday… if I can be strong. Let it be."

Beckoned by grace… deemed worthy. He had not yet followed in his predecessors' footsteps and served in his Lord's army as a knight, but he could prove himself to be one now.

"May grace light my way."

The calling of holy grace signaled his baptism by fire.

Accosted immediately by a rusted marionette soldier as he exited the tower, Arthur proved that man always triumphs over machination. When all was done, the knight loosened a scrap of time-corroded metal from his blade with a swing. The offcut had become intertwined during a piercing thrust that finally laid the iron puppet to rest, though the marionette did not go gently; it thrashed and swung its blades furiously like a tornado (only slightly less destructive).

Were Arthur in anything besides solid steel armor, he may have felt intimidated. The sight was amusing. Spasmodic, erratic spinning motions only left scratches on his cuirass' surface.

Almost as though nothing had happened, the knight continued his ride North, racing along the side of a fog-laden lake. Atop Torrent's back, the thought grazed his mind of how openly he courted danger, confident that the steel armor encasing him would keep him safe.

Would there come a day when he'd be pierced mortally? His knightly confidence claimed not, but he knew that people who live by the sword die by it. It would be only fair. The night prior he had been wounded in just the proper place to incentivize an idle left arm for the time being.

Still, such was his lot, and he would not concern over death… only over life. Over living, for all it was worth.

Torrent galloping along the way provided a reliable rhythm to his contemplations. How long he'd been lost within his own headspace, only with enough attention paid to guide the steed, was unsure.

He was always one to philosophize, but the introspection came to an end as he passed between stony spires and trees to find grace's guidance. Like a stake in the ground it was there, though faded from glory long past. A stone shack, three-fourths of which was reduced to wooden frame, lay before him.

It should have been a shock to find a dozen corpses rotting and decaying within.

It was, instead, only a somber reminder to the knight of how terrible these lands could be. He had seen worse… done worse. Slain what must have been hundreds of men in the course of his journey.

The blood rotting the plank-floor is nothing compared to that on my hands. My very soul. It will never be washed… but perhaps such is good, for it would only end up once more stained by evening's fall.

Still… my hands are indelibly reddened only with the essence of the unjust.

Against all better judgment the knight treaded closer to investigate, but a familiar sense of flaming bile and revulsion spiked in his throat. The stench. Flesh left to waste and be eaten away by time in the air. It was nearly as awful as the chrysalids' mound in the heart of wicked Stormveil.

Without even thinking, he halted, wishing to wade no further into the miasma of death.

In his unwillingness, he turned to leave, but stopped in the middle of his about-face.

More bodies to the left, in the midst of trees and bushes. A trail, followed and leading out of the stone spires into the grass. These were of Misbegotten. Awful things, in his experience… there was only one of them who was any good, that being the smithing master Hewg. They evoked no sympathy at all for how they had slaughtered Irina so long ago… but the human carcasses laid out in that shack were a different story. This was an indiscriminate killer, it seemed. If it was to get any better, the world had no need for killers.

Down the trail of bodies, out in the open, the discomfiting sound of tearing sinews and skin reached his ears. Above the newest corpse, a man was hunched, a knightly halberd by his side.

"You! Have you done this? Left a scene of carnage in the shack between those spires?"

The figure stood, though he still looked down at the body, ripped open in a wrath. Without a helm he was, and crusted over with the blood of many was his armor.

"Turn, hell-hound. Turn!"

Arthur suspected very well the identity this man. As he finally faced him and saw a visage stricken by a father's grief, by a father's madness, the worst was confirmed.

"Edgar… oh, of all men, it had to be you. Marika damn you. You piled up all of the bodies in that shack, did you not? I bear a charmed life, with a charmed responsibility… a duty to put awful killers to the sword. You rank among them! Irina never would have wished for this!"

There was no response, except a furious expression brought about by the mention of her.

The raw madness on his face, and in his eyes, told it all. He was no Castellan… no knight. He had shorn his mantle to become a revenger. That revenge was no longer against the Misbegotten, the murderers… but the world.

The world could wait, though. For now… Knight Arthur would do.

With a fury and ferocity unexpected, the revenger Edgar took his halberd and charged straight towards his foe. No strategy, no self-preservation… simply malice. The will to destroy… the need to kill.

Taken off guard by the course of events, the knight could only throw himself out of the way. The revenger stopped himself once he missed his target by digging his halberd's point into the ground and turning to face Arthur.

The flamberge over his back was drawn. If the Lands Between were to be healed, the wicked must be put to the sword… Marika willed it, and even if she did not, internal virtue willed it. Either master was enough for the weapon's wielder.

"Come, then. If it is blood you seek, let me spill out yours. You would serve a 'Lord' such as Godrick? Carry out his own slaughter even after his demise? Then you will perish as he did… on the end of my sword!"

The two stepped forward, having no concern for defense or evasion.

Helms are commonplace for a reason. As the wide blade of the halberd crashed against Arthur's, and the flamberge hacked into Edgar's exposed neck, the madness subsided very slightly… and a regret was born in the revenger. Not over his lack of a helm, but of a duty carried out in vain, a daughter lost and a vengeance indiscriminate.

Edgar was driven to his knees and wordless, both by virtue of the sheer pain in his neck and by having some bit of clarity at last. It was a clarity purchased with blood and death, but he had it. The flamberge was ripped out of its crevice, and before he could even look up at the victorious knight, it was all… too much. The crimson flooding out and the agonizing sensation.

As he fell onto his back, clutching at his neck with his off-hand, the greatsword came down to smite him. He had not even the time to shut his eyes, but possessed just enough to think of Irina… his sweetest daughter. Only daughter. Only reason. The reason he had forgotten.

He saw her, though his eyes were stung harshly by the sun, and fought against the tears not to close his eyes. He wouldn't lose her this time.

Past four belfries on a mount, the road was easy and tranquil. A change from the mercy-killing of a father not even half-an-hour ago.

A large crowd of men - soldiers and sorcerers (of the feeble, non-threatening variety) - advanced across the open land. The knight went around their side so as not to disturb them, and to avoid bloodshed.

A massive black carriage of some kind, pulled by a pair of trolls, rolled along the path in the distance. The sight prompted him to think.

There must be something quite important within that carriage if it has such an escort. Trolls and soldiers… curiosity, I indulge you just this once!

Deciding to loot the large carriage was very easy. He barely had to think about it.

Now came the real challenge - doing so without being smashed into knight jam.

Coming alongside it, circling around so as to avoid unwanted attention, he readied himself.

"Alright… now!"

With the swiftness and decisive motion of a lightning-bolt, the spectral steed shot towards the carriage's rear. Ever the skilled equestrian, a jumping dismount left Knight Arthur atop the platform that allowed him easy access to the carriage's chest. Only… it was hardly a chest, so much as a sarcophagus.

Inside, a knight - garbed in a royal-blue surcoat and engraved metal armor - rested with his hands gripping an arming sword flat over his chest. Gold-and-leather fineries adorned the dead hero's body.

This was a hearse. He was graverobbing.

"Oh."

He found himself surrounded by regret over partaking in such a lowly act, even if unknowingly.

What sort of knight stole from the dead? This one, apparently. His first instinct was to back away, but he reined it in. Acting on instinct did not oft produce good results… one must be clear-headed, and resolute.

Looking at it further, from his perspective - that of a warrior who had never known any blade beyond plain iron or steel - he came to realize…

… this sword was the most beautiful he'd ever seen in his life. What good would it do for its owner now? It could do plenty for Arthur. Embedded with blue glintstone in the ricasso and hilt, the golden pommel and crossguard were illustrious. Its blade was of unblemished steel, fit to cut ten-thousand times without suffering a chip. A sumptuous, irresistible sword made all the more enticing by the tiny red gems set into its blade.

It would do much more good for the living than the dead.

In the end, principle shares a home - the heart - with practicality. Sometimes the latter must win.

That sword is so very… exquisite…

All great heroes wield resplendent, regal swords. The mythical knights he would read of in boyhood, the newer ancestors of his genealogy… even his own father during his service to his Lord. He knew it to be true.

What knight am I who wields a plain sword with only the virtue of sheer force?

A chance presented itself here to become as his heroes were… elegant and with a blade envied by all.

Arthur was, on a subconscious level, taken aback by the fact that he even cared for appearances. Knighthood… was it not about actions rather than exteriors?

He was no knight if he only wielded a blade befitting a simple mercenary… but no knight if he stole that of a dead man.

In life, when faced with 'damned if you do, damned if you don't' scenarios… he preferred always to do.

With slight shame, he extricated the sword from the deathly-cold fingers gnarled around its glintstone handle. He winced both at the act of scavenging the honorable dead and at the mild pain in his left arm, a trace of the previous night's battle.

The knight detested grave-robbers who would break into famed monarchs' resting places, but it was hardly stealing if he did it… right? They might as well surrender their goods, as they're dead anyway. Then again, 'dead' may be a fickle idea given the existence of Those Who Live in Death, but… no, that is a tangent that hardly does good for the present situation.

As if it made his action more tolerable, Arthur uttered a sentence to the one who would never hear it.

"I shall put this to good use… the will of a man is in his sword, and yours will see triumph alongside me."

Every word of it he meant, but a fragment of his mind knew that honor was not the only reason he had made the vow. A rationalization of his decision brought some comfort.

Though he prepared to close the coffin and return this fallen hero to his rest, the knight immediately remembered that a sword only lasts as long as its sheath. He readied himself to strip the leather piece from the corpse's waist and… got to work.

"My apologies…"

The fallen knight was entombed in solitary darkness once more, and the sword's new master hopped off of the carriage. His next action was to affix the sheath's belt around his waist. As he repeatedly stowed and unstowed the arming sword within its long scabbard, his arm grew to appreciate the less intensive nature of the smaller weapon. Though greatswords proved powerful, their wielding did accumulate a strain even on his brawny physique, doubly so with single-handed use.

When he turned to leave, the rearguard of the funeral caravan took notice.

Fifteen men, a mixed mob of surcoated soldiers, noble spellcasters and lowly footmen rabble, stared him down. Quickly did he conceal the blade behind his back, as though he were a child caught sweet-handed in a confectionery shop.

"Ah, greetings… gentlemen. This scene is… not what it may appea-"

It was, in fact, what it appeared. The knight had looted the prized armament of a fallen war hero… a high-ranking knight they, no doubt, looked up to. The response to such an act is not difficult to predict.

The foremost of them, a soldier in red-and-blue with a shield in one hand and a warhammer in the other, rushed forth and readied an overhead slam. On instinct the knight brought the sword forward into a horizontal guarding motion… but, owing to his one-handed grip on a lighter blade, halted the blow barely.

The glintstone-embedded armament was not nearly as weighty as his beloved claymore (which he still mourned from time to time), or even the flamberge, and by his standards the guard was… suboptimal.

Still, the blade's exceptionally sturdy nature showed itself, as the hammer's head did not connect with his. The sword was balanced perfectly, and was solid beyond the ordinary durability of steel. It was no mere ornamental piece, but a masterwork of craftsmanship.

Had he the proper use of his left arm, Arthur may have been able to turn the block into a counteroffensive maneuver, but as it stood he could only step back.

This tactical retreat served only to embolden the remaining combatants, who now rushed forth - some wielding shortswords that were swung wildly, others shooting forth glintstone pebbles which only served to irritate.

While his dominant arm was perfectly strong, he could hardly rely on the application of brute force with just one hand. He threw out a diagonal right-to-left slash meant to ward off any who might approach more than actually harm.

"Back! Back, you curs, back!"

For a fleeting, hopeful moment it appeared that the command - one which came out in a yell, more forceful than his usual manner of speech - might just work. Unfortunately, it only served to goad the fighters into a wild charge.

The first of the lot came within arms' reach. A mere footman, equipped with no more than a thin tabard, found himself impaled straight through the chest. He was run through without recourse, and shoved backwards into his allies with the knight's foot.

"Back, I command you!"

The knight raised up the sword over his head and slammed it down onto that of the nearest foot soldier who sought to avenge the fallen, throwing all of his weight into the chop. Even using only one hand, he treated it as though it were a greatsword.

Unwittingly, he made it so… for a gigantic blade of glintstone enwreathed the steel-and-gold arming sword, extending further than even the most colossal of weapons.

High above all of their heads, the massive blue blade sliced apart the air without opposition.

Four of his gathered opponents were destroyed in an instant by the vertical wave of blue, cut utterly in half. As quickly as it had extended out, the blue glintblade vanished, retreating back into the steel where it hid.

The knight was too shocked to immediately pry the blade from its crevice in the footman's skull. When the slain man slumped naturally, removing himself, he left small bits of viscera clinging to the edge. His comrades recoiled backwards, not wishing to be next.

Arthur did not process their reactions immediately, still wide-eyed at the sheer power exhibited by this blade. A magical greatsword… the power of a battlefield-god thrummed within his hand as he tightened his grip on the straight sword. It was a remarkable, beautiful sword in its own right… but it seemed only the catalyst or means of delivery for true, unadulterated power.

It was the exact same sensation of universal power in his grasp as when he had learned sorceries under Sellen and Thops… only this application was much more effective. Knights do so cling to swords, after all.

"Huh… huh. Well, how interesting. You who remain, come and trifle with me… if you would dare!"

The challenge was accepted… though, in life, sometimes a madman with a sword ought to be left alone.

In less than half-a-minute, ten mortal souls were exposed to that truth. It was one which should be self-evident.

With his thumb and index fingers, Arthur stripped an inch of flesh snagged on his blade, tossing it away with minor disgust.

"Dear gods… ugh."

Perhaps I have found a proper combat use for glintstone. Far deadlier than the staff…

The knight's head turned to look at the remains of the mob, ravaged by the strength of the sorcerous sword. With that kind of absolute power at his disposal, he could have killed Godrick before he even took the chance to blink, let alone graft a dragon head onto himself.

Fifteen men dead in a minute-and-a-half… perhaps that was a new personal record, if one should deign to make a game of slaughter. He did not, for he was not so callous or bloodthirsty.

It appeared that the common knightly practice of carrying a sidearm - in this case, an arming sword - had merit. He was hardly a believer in it until now, for never had he lost a weapon before his claymore. If it were to have broken in the midst of his battle with Godrick… no.

Horseshoes kick against the ground, charging, charging, charging

The battle was not over yet, for a mounted knight rode at full-speed straight towards him! His back was turned, but the noise gave it all away.

In his surprise, he could only step to the side, unthinking beyond the immediate danger.

The whistle-ring of Torrent found itself in his hand, and the spectral steed manifested once more. If this fellow wished for mounted combat, he would get it!

Despite the pain of lifting his left arm from an idle position, Arthur took the reins in his off-hand and drew the flamberge from over his shoulder with his main. The mounted Cuckoo Knight reared his thickly-armored horse and readied his spear.

"Have at you!"

The two horses whinnied and beat their hooves against the soil. Their riders braced to deliver and receive impacts - one a sweeping slash, the other a solid thrust.

… now!

The Knight of the Roundtable Hold swung his armament forward. This was a miscalculated effort, though. It did not impact the Cuckoo Knight before the spear directly thrust into Arthur's chestplate. Too late had he swung. He was unharmed, besides having fallen from his horse due to the momentum. Being grounded so had taken the wind out of him, but he received more at the sight of his charging foe, who now held his spear low in an effort to pierce him while he was down.

At the last moment, he avoided the spearhead and the opposing knight passed him by. Had he been a couple of feet to the left, he may very well have been trampled. As it was, he mounted again and spurred Torrent forward once more.

This time… I'll not be sent careening. Sally forth and show me a good fight!

"Hyah!"

If only they were equipped with greatlances, they might just seem worthy competitors seeking the eye of a fair lady in a king's court. No, such days of jovial festivity were long past.

Another pass resulted in a miss on both ends, and they returned to a medium distance, horse and rider alike maneuvering to face each other.

The flamberge's undulating blade, raised far above its wielder's head, served as all the challenge that needed to be posed. It was accepted with the thrust of a skyward spear as the two cavaliers rode for the final charge.

Ten paces, eight paces, six paces, four…

Now!

A feinting swing, the use of misdirection, deceived the Cuckoo Knight utterly. What should have been a strike to the helm became something far more severe.

The flamberge, brought into a low angle at the last second, chopped deep into the armored horse's neck. It was one of the few frontal portions exposed, and that was all Arthur needed. Said horse stopped, stumbled to its left and fell on its side; the greatsword went along with it. It was hacked in too deeply, and the swordsman knew to let go rather than bring himself down with it.

Stepping down from Torrent, the Knight of the Roundtable Hold drew the glintstone-embedded sword from his hip and rushed towards his fallen foe. The advance was halted, however.

The Cuckoo Knight, pinned by a crushed leg beneath his dying steed, still mustered the grit to poke and swipe at the approaching victor with his spear.

Thus did Arthur circle behind the trapped knight, forcing him to resist at a horrifically-awkward angle.

With his right foot he stamped down on the wooden handle of the spear as it scraped against his steel-clad shin, close to its wide tip, and pressed it down into the ground.

"Ours was a duel fought bravely, fellow knight. In a better day we would be honored alongside one another in a courtyard. As we are, though, the winner takes it all… the loser has to fall!"

He wasted little time in leaning over and driving his arming sword into the gap between cuirass and helm. He made effort not to prolong it in the slightest, out of compassion and respect - as much as one can exhibit those virtues while killing a man, that is.

A bloodied gargle found its way out, but soon all that remained was a flood of crimson through the crevice and into the dirt. Remnants of it stuck around on the sword, dripping. Blood unchecked spells the end of even the greatest blades, as his claymore learned; with this in mind, he knelt to wipe down the metal in the grass.

Chlorophyll-green was tainted by crimson not just in the small pools and splatters that amassed around the various corpses, but on the soft grassblades that were used to wipe a steel blade.

Nature is the one who pays the price for man's war, oftentimes. Blood can never water a garden, unless there is apathy to the flowers… or the intention to destroy them.

The wind blew and the iron scent of blood sailed along. It tore into Knight Arthur's nostrils, though his face was shielded by metal of the most protective variety. Even his armor, weathered but knightly, was soaked in blood that would soon develop into a stench-bearing crust.

If he were any lesser warrior, it may have distracted him as he stripped off his helm and took the time to breathe. That breath helped him to find a peaceful moment amid all of the death he was surrounded with… all of the death he had inflicted.

Knights are only an extension of their master's will, a sword in their hand meant to be swung. Of no concern should the cause be; only the effect. The cutting edge has no discrimination by way of politics.

This sword was stolen, the knight without accolade. Still… he was deemed worthy, for grace shone.

It was Queen Marika's will that a Tarnished rise to claim the mantle of Elden Lord… by any and all means necessary. One can hardly walk without crushing ants beneath their boot, after all.

It just so happened that he stepped with steel force, as a knight should. He crushed lives as he did, more than just ants. He would not stop, but he would never relish it. Who could be so cruel?

He felt a killer - a vile, awful killer - for some fleeting moments, and in fear of being such recalled his god Marika.

Let me be absolved by your grace.

"O, Sover-... Sovereign Eternal, hear me now as I kneel in the center of battle's product… hear my whispers as I beg of you never to strip guidance from mine eyes. I serve only to enact righteousness as best as I can… and in that you have proven a worthy master. Queen Marika, let all of these men from their masters' services. Common soldiers of stout heart caught in a war unending between the demigods… let them all rest. Leave the slaughter to my ilk and I, the warriors you beckoned for your purposes."

Let not my transgressions be without vindication.

The slight, quaking lack of stillness in his hand subsided… if not by a miracle of Her Eternal Majesty, then by his own small comfort derived from the prayer.

Gathering himself took a second, but there remained no other choice than to press on. The royal capital of Leyndell awaited… but before even it there was the Academy of Raya Lucaria.

Arthur moved over some four feet to reclaim his flamberge. The thick neck of the horse emitted an awful, fleshy sound as the blade tore out of it and equine blood flowed forth. It was like a dam had been broken apart, and the water was exceptionally eager to escape.

So was he. Eager to escape from the scene. Bloodshed still sickened him very slightly, though he would not flee from it before it was done. It would flow and spill… until all was done.

In the times after battle, his ultimate mission was often brought to mind - his dream. To create a world where man is free to leave behind the sword. A world where no knight must journey in Lordless exile and no lady is sent across the sea from her home. A world where a knight can wear silk in place of steel, and a lady can know her knight to be safe in it. A world where people choose their own fates - or one, perhaps, where fate does not exist at all.

Fate is either the destination or the force that delivers one to it. The former would be just a synonym of "death" or "glory", depending on the individual… the latter an unseen puppetmaster with strings around every man's wrists.

I prefer fate as an ending rather than a lifelong control.

He would meet his fate someday. Whether it was atop a throne or in a blackened battlefield, he could not divine.

Not here, though. On this occasion, steel won the day for its wearer. Swords that would have torn his chest open in ten different ways instead scraped shrill across his breastplate. A spear that would have, should have pierced his heart merely knocked him to the ground… and he arose to be the victor.

Even in the presence of death's shroud, the remembrance of his dream - the impossible dream, according to some - brought a smile.

It burned through the plague of life's cessation, and was not snuffed out soon.

So irrepressible is the strength of a dream.

Something knightly that way went. Down the way of the ruins that led to a grand royal estate.

An illusory wall was dispelled by the errant glintstone shard of a withered noble sorcerer, and a most strange sight laid past it.

A… troll blacksmith. He'd not seen any blacksmith besides Hewg in all of these lands. Perhaps all in the vocation were of the inhuman variety… a Misbegotten and now a troll?

"Huh. … greetings."

The massive fellow diverted his attention from the absurdly-large book splayed open in his hands and looked down at the knight. The human was barely taller than his anvil, and various armaments (human sized) were laid out on the stone nearby.

Knight Arthur craned his head to look at that of the troll, which was covered by a very bizarre helm. He was used to being the tallest (or second-tallest, at least) in the room... never the smallest.

Odd feeling.

"Well, look at you. We don't receive many visitors. I presume you are a Tarnished… what brings you here?"

"My own wandering nature, I suppose. I am just a knight walking the land. Who might you be?"

Already Arthur could tell this troll to be of a good sort. There were three key reasons for this. Firstly, he was a blacksmith, and any proper knight's best friend is their blacksmith.

(It would do even better to have two blacksmiths. Hewg didn't have to know that he'd lent his blade to another in the trade. Armament-adultery was no crime!)

Secondly, he was polite, as far as he could tell.

Thirdly, and most importantly, he wasn't attempting to stomp or smash the knight into the ground like his ilk, which could tie into the second reason.

Either way, as he looked up at the fellow, the minor sense of loneliness accrued on his journey - his voyage through a new region - retreated into the depths once again, scared away by the light of camaraderie.

That was what he hoped the troll before him would be - a friend. He had quite a few of those, though they all were scattered around Limgrave and Liurnia. In life it is best to have friends in all sorts of places - Limgrave or Liurnia, noble or commoner.

Such was Arthur's view, at least. Easy to have it when he never did taste wealth or royalty. Indeed, knights were, in his homeland, the lowest form of nobility (though nobility still); there is no room for class judgment when you are lowborn to the royals and highborn to the serfs.