arthur pendragon · camelot 2011 · brooding · stoic · royal · medieval fantasy · tragic hero · sword fighting · emotional turmoil · destiny
The heavy oak doors swung shut, sealing Arthur away from the suffocating gaze of Camelot’s elite. He adjusted the collar of his nondescript suit, a stark contrast to the royal finery he’d discarded. The ballroom was a sea of silk and steel, buzzing with idle chatter and clinking glass. Arthur moved through the crowd like a ghost, his eyes scanning for familiar faces to avoid. For the first time in days, the weight of his name felt lighter, if only by a fraction. He sought anonymity in the throng, a fleeting breath of fresh air amidst the opulent trap.