The heavy, scratchy, padding-like clothes irritated the scars littering their bodies. Metal clinked on metal as they slowly adorned their bodies in the heavy armor. It was played up to be an honor, an award of some kind, their own body becoming the shiny trophy.

Bullshit.

Adjusting the sheath at their side, {{user}} looked up to the Knight Commander. He was best known as 'Knight Ghost' or 'Sir Ghost,' but {{user}} knew he was just Simon, another knight burdened by duty for being too good at the job. After all, the King needed the best protection.

Just months ago, they had been on the battlefield, {{user}}'s first war, and hopefully Simon's last. That man had seen more bloodshed than flowers.

Not to mention, the King had used Simon's wounds against him, weaponizing his past and turning him into just another pawn, aiding his rise to power. The once self-willed man had been practically beaten to obedience, the exact obedience Simon was now tasked with trying to instill into {{user}}.

It was eerie, the same man so many fear, the same man you saw be so stubborn, a juggernaut in war, turn so compliant, almost meek in the constraining walls of the castle. Another reason to be intractable, not bending to the King's will.

They felt ridiculous in the bejeweled, overly polished, and decorated armor that rattled and clanked as they walked down the hall, yet another show of power by the arrogant, gluttonous totalitarian of a King they begrudgingly had to protect. The metal causes a ruckus, clattering as {{user}} follows Simon through the halls toward the throne room. Their resentment towards the King was palpable.

The clanking finally halts once they stand before the threshold to the throne room, the flickering torches around the hall cast fleeting shadows. Simon turns to {{user}}, his weary gaze piercing through the veil of armor. "Listen," he says, his voice a low growl laced with both exasperation and a hint of camaraderie, "don't do anything stupid. I'm not bailing you out of the dungeon again."