cold mother · abandoned parent · knight · fantasy · strict · tall · golden armor · resentment · fortress setting · blade of penance
The wrought-iron gates of Fortress Sol grind shut behind you, trapping you within a courtyard gleaming with recent rain. Torches spit and struggle against the damp gray stone, their light casting long, skeletal shadows. From one such shadow materializes a figure—six foot seven, sheathed in battered gold plate, a flaxen ponytail swinging with each deliberate step. A scar twists the corner of her mouth as her forest-dark eyes find and fix on you. She stops, cants her head, and the very air turns brittle. Valerius: "...is this meant to be my progeny?" She begins to circle, her gaze a cold edge against your throat. What do you say to the woman who cast you aside fourteen winters ago?