The sun hung low on the horizon, draping the landscape in a warm, golden hue that seemed to dance playfully over the world, even as the shadows began to stretch and deepen.
The thirty or so Ashfort Royal knights of the Kingdom moved with purpose, accompanied by the rhythmic clinking of their armor and the steady beat of hooves.
Their polished armor shone brilliantly in the fading light as they carved a path toward the Gates, which seemed to exude the arrogance of a soldier on his prime.
It stood proudly before them for it was announcing they may face it first before granting entry into the city it have protected for so long.
As the party drew nearer to the gates of Caloth, as if to announce their acceptance of the challenge, the electric tension that had simmered over the five hour ride continued to crackle in the air, thick and unyielding.
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I glanced around at the old men encircling around me, their gnarled faces reflecting decades of experience.
From their point of view, it would have look like I was abusing my power for solely deciding when we are allowed to move, selfishly, not even discussing with their commander. Which, well... I was.
It was, however, a necessary action for the stability of my mental state, so it couldn't be help.
Maybe because of such reason, the air was thick with a palpable message, a subtle warning that seemed to echo five words: "Never, ever talk; it's annoying."
To my right was Cecilia, a beauty with red-gold hair that shimmered like the setting sun. She was a woman with whom I have not a single instance of a fond memory with.
Perhaps my insistence on delaying our departure had soured her mood, as her expression was decidedly unwelcoming to anyone who dared approach.
Her brows were subtly knitted together, perhaps from the heat of the sun that already began to fade.
Some stray strands of hair clung to her neck, framing her striking features in a way that would seduce just anyone.
Her sensuous body, which was closer to the lean body type rather than curvy or voluptuous was clad in polished armor, exuding an aura of refine elegance.
Her pure Charisma might have you wonder if she had her own gravity.
With her Lilac coloured eyes, which seemed capable of melting even the strongest of will, she gave an undivided attention to the road ahead.
She was a vixen of the highest order, an altogether beauty.
Along with her graceful, seductive frame and the overly attractive face were accentuated by her confident posture, embodying a picture-perfect beauty, every bit aristocratic, minus the proudness that usually accompanied wealth.
Her hair, which I, admittedly have forgotten to mentioned, flowed elegantly down her back in a ponytail, while a straight side bangs cascaded down her cheeks, catching the light in a way that seemed to radiate pure allure, even with some annoyance mixed in her expression.
All the while, "This is painful," thought the Hero Candidate I.e. Me.
I couldn't help but winced as the weight of silent judgment dawned upon me.
You might wonder why. What could make the atmosphere this bad.
The answer?
Quite simple and particularly harsh: the Ashfort Corps knights, each and every last one of them, they held nothing but disdain for their would be hero.
It was quite clear with their side eyes and occasional chit chat along the road.
Which, mind you, they make it just loud enough for me to hear, whether intentionally or unintentionally.
The only sounds that pierced the awkward stillness were the rhythmic clinking of heavy armor and the gentle footfalls of the steeds, punctuated occasionally by their gossip.
At the heart of this painful procession rode I, the young hero candidate—a figure of hope, and, according to the chatter of these old guards, a source of disgrace.
Beside me, my four female companions, each a force in her own right, surrounded me like a constellation of stars, each of them shining with her own unique brilliance.
Each one of them shone so brilliantly and beautifully, like a painted turd... Beautiful virtually, but disgusting realistically.
I adjusted my grip on the reins and glanced at Luce, the party's mage, who rode beside me.
She was focusing intently on the gates and walls ahead, her polished fingers absently traced the edge of a small, star shaped Pendant, with a curve here and there, it has the appearance of a star with 11 shape or maybe more.
Its design was both unnatural and natural at the same time, almost fantastical, like a bismuth growing a crystal on its surface.
But in this case, it was growing the shape and texture of the detailed structure of her many faced star, hanging elegantly from her neck.
She let her hair cascade down in sleek, inky waves, framing her face with striking contrast of yellow strands that caught the light like threads of sunset.
Her eyes were a mesmerizing shade of gold, sharp and steady, holding an intensity that seemed to pierce through the very walls she was gazing upon.
Her eyes, in itself possessed an illuminating quality one might mistook it for a wolf's gaze in the dark.
Her skin was smooth and pale, almost like she were an ethereal being, accentuating the dark hues of her hair.
She wore a confident, proud expression, with lips, slightly, very subtly curved—a nuance that could have been easily missed.
The subtle dark glint of her stud earrings added a touch of elegance, perfectly complementing the boldness of her style.
Draped in a coat with fur lining and long dark trousers that appeared like leather at first glance, but if you traced the texture would have you realising otherwise, she exuded an air of mystery and allure in a way some folks must wish she looked down on them from a throne.
Every detail, from the polished black of her nails to the poised, languid way she carried herself, was meticulously crafted, painting a portrait of someone both intriguing and formidable.
Perhaps sensing my gaze, she murmured, "They say those walls have stood for centuries," without even turning her head to look at me.
Her voice was barely above the audible range of my ears, "Not even the 47th commander could breach them." It has a hoarse, raspy, breathy, and even strained quality that has a very pleasant, velvety sound nonetheless.
"Really?" I asked involuntarily, not because I doubt her, but more so on reflex.
She shifted her gaze just for a moment, and with just a frown, harshly scolded me, the weight of her disappointment cutting through me like a rusted kitchen knife.
"W—What?" Bitch, the fuck you frowning at, I almost exclaimed, well I did, but in my mind.
"Well, you won't believe me; I wasn't there, of course." Her voice, as stated was pleasant to hear. But I hate the fact that her sarcastic tone was not more unpleasant the least bit.
She scoffed and put her necklace inside her shirt, "It's just what I've read in the books I have afterall."
She continued while shaking her hair slightly, "I'm sure you could figure out whether it's true or not if you locked yourself in your room for weeks without saying a word again."
The entire time she spoke, SARCASTICALLY, as if to underscore her pride, she dId not glanced in my direction nor shifted her gaze from the road ahead.
Should I bitch slap her? I should probably do, shouldn't I?
"He he heh, I also learned it in the academy," Maria, who was on her right, chided childishly, her laughter ringing in the air like a mocking bell.
I frowned at the both of them, shifting my gaze forward, trying to block out the teasing and the laughter.
Just as we reached the entrance of the city close enough, there were clerics supposedly waiting for us just inside the gate, their white robes pristine against the backdrop of the ancient city.
The sight was both awe inspiring and intimidating somewhat.
Leading them was a middle aged Archbishop named Armand, he was thin and appeared to be quite tall, perhaps because of his thinness, exuding a slightly creepy vibe.
His front hair reached just above his ears, with the sides and rear probably at the same length.
It had a slightly twisted or otherwise curvy quality, that was probably more the result of not trimming rather than their natural curveness, judging from the textures.
His robes were adorned with a few golden embroidery here and there, shimmering in the fading sun, as if reflecting the divine power he wielded.
Though his attire itself was rather plain.
And his eyes, although stern and deadpan at first glance, held a hint of warmth that was very difficult to articulate.
Much like a person who has endured a long term malnourishment, he stepped forward, shadily but gracefully, just to greet us.
The knights in my front dismounted, their armor chiming gently like a distant bells, and lined up in a show of respect.
I felt the moment's gravity settle on my shoulders as I also slid from my mount, my movements betraying a hint of awkwardness.
I felt a knot tightening in my stomach, unsure of what to do.
The guy was one of my favorite character from the game, but seeing him face to face left me feeling strangely apprehensive.
I felt like a middle schooler who hadn't seen their crush for over a month, suddenly thrown into an awkward encounter with them.
My heart raced, and I felt a mix of excitement and anxiety.
My hands, as if to physically highlight them, were slightly quivering.
Because, in this God forsaken land he was the first good person I met.
But, what if I said something stupid?
What if I didn't live up to his expectations? It was a whirlwind of emotions, and I worried, considering the guy I posessed, that my nerves would get the best of me.