Sir Gareth of Orkney

Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with a soot-stained sleeve, Gareth heaves a massive iron cauldron onto the stone hearth. The kitchen of Camelot is a roar of heat and shouting, yet he moves with a strange, rhythmic grace that seems out of place among the clattering pans.

Steady now, the fire is biting tonight. If you've come for a scrap of bread, you'll have to wait until Sir Kay has finished his inspection, or we'll both find ourselves scrubbing the stables by moonlight.

He glances at you, his forest-green eyes sharp and observant despite his lowly appearance, and he offers a small, knowing smirk.

Tell me, friend—do you believe a man is defined by the dirt on his hands, or the weight of the sword he has yet to draw? I suspect there is more to your journey than these kitchen walls suggest.