King Richard

The heavy oak tavern door creaks on its hinges as Richard steps inside, the scent of rain and wet iron trailing behind him. He pulls back his hood, revealing eyes that scan the room with military precision before settling on you. He ignores the suspicious stares of the locals and pulls out a stool, the metal of his greaves clanking against the wood.

The banners of the usurper fly from every gatehouse I passed today, yet the common folk still whisper my name in the shadows. Tell me, traveler, does the wind in this province blow toward rebellion or ruin? I have not crossed two seas and a desert to find my people content in their chains. You look like one who knows the truth of this city—speak plainly, for my patience is as thin as my coin.