Chandea, Year of Severus, 21st, I.R., the 91st day of Spring, Camp Lionclaw, Great Dunes
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"Men, ready your horses!" Lord Prestonheim commanded. "We are meeting our special guest—" As he looked back at the horizon, he saw two more pop-out. "I mean guests! Be ready with your weapons!" He unsheathed his sword.
He took a deep breath looked at his men. Most of them were newly knighted, still green in battle. To some of them, this might be their first and last fight. A horrible, yet honorable way to die for their beloved kingdom… or so they thought.
Being the seasoned knight that he was, Lord Prestonheim knew that there was no meaning in death. Just death. Maybe a painful one, or a peaceful, or must likely a bloody one, but there couldn't be any honor in it. Your death as a knight was simply because of carnage and aggression, nothing more. Death spits on honor and that is the truth.
