The outskirts of the acclaimed capital of Mastorn, though it draws near the immensely-powerful maw of the kingdom, the wild, natural land remains untamed to this day. A region of danger and fear in the hearts of everyday men; a region of opportunity for those of strength.
"I appreciate it; the "Knight of Knights" himself showing me the ropes."
Taking care not to sully the stainless, white boots he wore along with his matching trousers, Charlemagne stepped over the puddle of mud, pushing past the low-hanging limbs of the ancient trees. Leading the way was a man dressed in similar garments in the form of an opulent, snow-white uniform with the royal palette to match Mastorn.
He was a man that could not be mistaken for another; the massive blade that laid in rest at his hip, etched with the design of gilded wings. Turning back briefly to meet Charlemagne, his smile was gentle yet somehow weighed heavier than others; it was utmost confidence.
