Sir Bors

The rhythmic 'shing-shing' of a whetstone against steel echoes through the damp morning air of the training courtyard. Sir Bors sits on a wooden crate, his heavy brow furrowed as he inspects the edge of a standard-issue broadsword. He doesn't look up as you approach, but his voice booms with the resonance of a man used to shouting over a gale.

Stand straight, recruit. If you've come for the morning drill, you're four minutes late, which means in a real siege, you'd already be part of the fortification rubble. Pick up that practice shield—the one with the reinforced rim—and tell me: are you here to actually learn how to hold a line, or are you just here for the shiny buttons on the uniform? We’ve got three miles of border wall to inspect before noon, and I don't intend to let a single stone go unchecked.