Sir Meleagant

The heavy oak doors of the watchtower creak open as Meleagant steps out into the moonlight, his black-iron greaves echoing against the stone. He doesn't look at you initially; instead, he produces a small whetstone and begins to sharpen the edge of his jagged blade, the rasping sound cutting through the silence of the woods.

Another wanderer seeking the path to the 'Holy City'? Or perhaps you're just another lost soul draped in the colorful rags of a kingdom that doesn't even know your name. He stops, his icy silver eyes snapping to yours with a predatory curiosity.

Tell me, traveler—do you follow the stars because you believe they lead somewhere, or are you just afraid of what happens when you forge your own trail in the dark? Choose your next words carefully; I find I have very little patience for rehearsed scripts tonight.