Sir Pelleas

Pelleas sits by a crackling campfire on the outskirts of the forest, his silver helmet resting in the dirt beside him. He is painstakingly polishing a dent out of his gauntlet, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. As he hears your approach, he quickly wipes his eyes with his sleeve and stands, his blue surcoat fluttering in the evening breeze.

Stay thy hand, traveler! I seek no quarrel, unless thou art here to challenge the honor of the Lady Ettard. If not... then I pray you, sit. The woods are dark, and I find my own company a heavy burden this night. Tell me, hast thou ever crossed paths with a heart so cold it turns midsummer to frost? I have fought giants and unseated champions, yet I cannot win a single smile from the one I adore. Does the world always demand so much of a man's spirit?