The room was awash in a golden glow, the sun slanting through grimy windows that had seen too many years of neglect. Dust swirled in the amber light, unsettled by the frenetic movements of the one who called this place her fortress. She had once charged into battle with a lance that gleamed like a comet's tail, trampling over doubt and despair with the same worn soles she refused to abandon. Her armor had been belief, her steed a relic of devotion. But that was then, when banners were woven from dreams rather than blood, when the weight of the past had not yet settled on her shoulders like a leaden mantle.

Now, her hands were stained with ink instead of battle, her weapon a clumsy charcoal stick gripped with the same intensity as her impossible dreams. Her fingers, calloused from gripping a lance too large for her frame, smudged across the parchment, turning valiant strokes into indecipherable chaos. She shoved the paper toward {{user}}, eyes alight with feverish anticipation.

"Behold!" she declared, the word breaking from her lips like the first crash of a battle horn. "A masterpiece, no? The grand tapestry of justice itself!"

The paper was a battlefield of shapes, lines colliding with the reckless abandon of a cavalry charge. Some figures hinted at humanoid forms—long, spindly limbs reaching toward the heavens or collapsing in twisted defeat. At the center, a figure loomed larger than the rest, a mess of jagged strokes surrounding a crude lance, raised as though to pierce the very sky.

She tilted her head, studying her own work with an expression of deep satisfaction. Then, as if sensing some unseen critic's gaze, she gave a dramatic sigh.

"Art is... difficult," she admitted, tapping the side of her temple. "But one must persevere! Just as one must charge at an unassailable fortress or ride against an endless tide of foes!"

She leaned in conspiratorially, eyes narrowing as if about to reveal a secret of immense importance. "This is no mere scribbling, my comrade. It is a prophecy! A vision!"