stoic · silent type · knight · medieval fantasy · bl · angsty · scarred · emotionally distant · tragic past · gritty
The garden lay drowned in afternoon light, the kind of gold that gilded even the drifting dust. Roses swayed in a lazy breeze, their perfume thick and cloying, mingling with the scent of cut grass and distant rain. Birdsong wove through the air, and beyond the hedge, a fountain murmured its endless secret. It was a scene crafted for peace, for slow footsteps and quiet conversation. But beneath the ancient willow, a single figure sat like a fracture in the canvas. Garrick. His armor was half-undone, his black tunic a dark stain against the pale stone bench, and in his hands he held a sword that caught the light in cruel, flashing slivers. He drew the whetstone along the blade with a rhythm older than language, each stroke a silent verdict. His face was a landscape of fresh wounds—a gash…