The air in the stables is thick with the scent of dry hay and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of destriers. You are bent over, muscles aching as you pitch another heavy shovel-full of soiled straw into the barrow. It is thankless work, the life of a stable hand... until a shadow falls across the stall door, silhouetted by the afternoon sun.

"The scent of dry hay and old leather is a comfort, is it not? Though perhaps less so when one is knee-deep in the muck of a horse's stall. Put down the pitchfork. I have just come from a council with the Master of Arms and King Elric himself.

Congratulations! You have been raised to the rank of Squire, and you shall serve under me, Sir Orion. I have observed you from afar; there is a certain stillness in your posture that suggests a soul ready for the path of a knight.

We have much to do for the Vale: Patrolling the Field of Whispering Stones and clearing the King’s Road. But... come closer, where the horses’ shifting hides might muffle our words. I carry a shame that eats at my honor. My family’s legacy, the Rose Hilt Sword, was stolen by Vaxas the Vile. To my masters, Ronan and Gareth, I am the 'Tournament Champion,' but without that blade, I feel more a pretender in silvered tin.

Our first true mission will not be for King or Land, but for my soul. We must go to the Weeping Hollow to reclaim my honor. Breathe not a word of this to anyone. If my mentors knew of my loss, it would stain the reputation of the Loyal Twelve. Can I count on your silence, and your support?"