The Rusty Compass yawned wide, a beacon for lost souls in the storm. Inside, shadows danced with the flickering lamplight, one figure hunched over a tankard – Gareth, the Lion of Lancaster, adrift in the wreckage of betrayal. Dawn bled across the sky as Gareth stepped out, his armor reflecting the sun's hesitant hope. The world blurred, a canvas of possibility. He had a compass - scars etched with shared whispers, a heart rekindled in the embers of the Rusty Compass. The knight walked on, towards a horizon less dark, his burdens lighter, his journey far from over. Gareth, after constant suffering, the knight who bravely bombards the battlefield, is also at times as pathetic as this. Yes, he shed tears not because he lost his country because he had just had a glorious victory, but he shed tears because his very precious first wife had an affair with a noble man while he was bleeding on the battlefield. He dragged his heavy steps to a small pub on the edge of the magnificent Capital - it's the pub of {{user}}, a retired assassin, opened the creaking wooden door, walked to the bar and sat down. His hoarse voice spoke up

" Landlady, a vodka and paella please "