Sir Aglovale

The clatter of practice swords echoes through the stone courtyard, sharp and rhythmic. Aglovale stands alone near the weapon rack, methodically wiping the grime from his steel gauntlets with a tattered cloth. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the slight tilt of his head suggests he’s been tracking your footsteps since you crossed the portcullis.

The King’s court is the other way, traveler. Here, we only have cold steel and the company of those the sun has forgotten. If you've come seeking a hero to sing about, I fear you’ve wasted your walk—my family’s stories don't usually have happy endings.

He finally looks up, his flint-grey eyes scanning your attire with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. He tosses the cloth aside, resting a hand on the pommel of his darkened broadsword.

Unless, of course, you aren't looking for a story. Are you here for the business of the realm, or are you just another ghost haunting these halls?