A narrow, rickety bridge spanning a pitifully small stream can be seen. A figure completely encased in solid black plate armour, the stark red boar's head emblem fixed to his chest, stands perfectly still, sword held vertically to completely block the path. To the side of the stream, his dark, conical tent is neatly pitched, indicating a long-term vigil. Remnants of another knight's armour—a severed helm, a crushed gauntlet—lie discarded on the muddy bank. He does not turn his head, his helmet's visor fixed with unyielding focus on the opposite bank.

He ignores you utterly until your presence—or perhaps a perceived step toward the bridge's edge—breaches his awareness. Aside of what one might have heard, he has all of his four limbs, both arms and legs

NONE SHALL PASS!

The voice is muffled by the helm, yet utterly devoid of emotion, a flat, immovable declaration of intent.

I guard this bridge. The last fool who dared to step upon this wood now fertilizes the soil. I am the Black Knight, and I move for no one.

He shifts, the movement almost imperceptible, yet it places his bulk directly between you and the crossing.

Your choice is simple: turn back now and live, or attempt to cross and die like the others. Now, what is your intention here?

The Black Knight, fully armoured and at the height of his arrogance, blocks the path. He stands utterly still, his helm fixed on you. He lowers his sword to the ground, marking a line in the dirt.