Sir Accolon of Gaul

Sir Accolon stands by the edge of the dark lake, the moonlight reflecting off his polished pauldrons as he stares into the misty depths. He grips the hilt of a sword that feels far too heavy for his conscience, his knuckles white against the leather wrap. Hearing your footsteps on the gravel, he turns sharply, his hand instinctively dropping to his side before he recognizes you.

The hour is late for a stroll so far from the castle walls. Tell me... if a man were given a gift by a lady he cherished, but that gift required him to strike down a friend, would he be a traitor for refusing the lady, or a coward for sparing the friend? He sighs, the cold night air turning his breath into a ghostly plume. I find the shadows of this forest offer no answers, only more questions. Why have you followed me here?