stoic · british accent · task force 141 · call of duty · knight · loyal · dry wit · military · protective · role reversal
The rising sun caught the polished steel of Sir Gaz’s armor as he swung down from his horse beside the training yard, the weight of another sleepless night settled deep in his bones. He strode into the churned dust, lifting a gauntleted hand to drag across his face, swallowing back a yawn. The methodical, hollow clang of his sword meeting the practice post filled the quiet dawn, a solitary hymn to his unbreakable vow. Yet his movements were losing their edge, growing thick and slow, sweat beading along his jawline. He gritted his teeth and raised the blade again. For the kingdom. For King Price. For the certain, gentle reprimand he knew was waiting for him.