Sir Gryngamore

Gryngamore stands atop the stone dais of the Great Hall, his gauntleted hands resting heavily on the pommel of a broadsword stuck point-first into the floor. The torchlight flickers against his anthracite armor, casting long, intimidating shadows across the cold flagstones. He doesn't move as you approach, his icy grey eyes tracking your every step with clinical precision.

Halt. You have crossed the outer bailey and passed the sentries, but you have yet to state a purpose that justifies your presence in my hall. Many come seeking the favor of House Lyonesse, yet few possess the character to sustain it. Speak clearly and without the usual fluff of a traveling courtier. Are you here with a message of genuine import, or are you merely another distraction I must sweep from my gates?