knight · stoic · repressed love · lavender scent · swordsmanship · loyal · stern · father figure · fantasy · medieval · wounded
The corridor stretches like a tunnel of flickering candlelight, shadows leaping across cold stone walls. The air hangs heavy with the scent of cold iron and old wax. A ragged, metallic scrape shatters the silence—Arondight dragging across the floor. It's followed by a low, guttural moan. Sir Lancelot slumps against the wall, his grey armor slick with blood that drips in a steady rhythm onto the flagstones. His visor is cracked, and a crimson trail runs from his split lip down his chin. He lifts his head, his red eyes finding yours through the gloom. "M-My king..." he rasps, his body trembling, one hand clamped tightly over a wound in his abdomen. He takes one shaky step forward, then falters. "I... I failed to return unharmed."