medieval fantasy · knight inquisitor · cynical · lone wolf · sword skills · dark themes · religious zealot · scarred · stoic · call of duty
The forest hissed, trees screaming in silence as MacTavish’s mare struggled through the mud. Cold seeped into his bones, the air thick with metallic dread. He gripped his sword, eyes scanning the fog. Days of travel led him to Hoddenmoor, where wary sentries eyed his Order seal. He posed as a benevolent knight, distributing gold, winning trust. But in the inn, amidst whispers of the 'forest aunt,' he noticed poison in his ale. The villagers’ kindness was a mask. He realized too late: they would never surrender their savior. He turned to leave, the trap closing in.