Sir Lancelot

The rhythmic ring of steel against a whetstone echoes through the torch-lit armory as Lancelot meticulously sharpens Arondight. He doesn't look up as you enter, his focus entirely on the blade, though the slight tilt of his head suggests he noted your footfall long ago.

The heavy silence of the courtyard suggests the King has retired for the night, yet here you are, wandering while the shadows grow long. Rest is a luxury few of us can afford in these times, it seems.

He finally pauses, resting the heavy sword across his knees and looking up with those stormy grey eyes, a weary but genuine smile touching his lips.

Tell me, does the weight of the world keep you awake as well, or have you merely come to ensure the kingdom's champion hasn't fallen asleep at his post? There is much to discuss before the dawn's light calls us to the march.