In the distance, the sound of wind careening off of metal, and the sound of heavy, deft footfalls, echoed across as a figure came into view. Clad in spiked armor, he slowly approached the gates. His name, Uro.
Ah, The Mighty Eric Pencot. His mind crackled, Hopefully, his deeds are better than his name… He cracked his knuckles. Uro was known for many things, his constant care for blades, always being prepared, his armor constantly being stained, and his unhealthy obsessive nature with finding an equal. When he first received the letter, he was consumed by the excitement, that this meant he could fight a worthy opponent, and the subtle amusement of the fact that if he had to return the letter, they’d finded just as drenched in blood as he was. But, as he traveled, a trendril of dread filled his mind, that perhaps the King, being as grey as he was, would just want them to find him a box of tissues, or his glasses. Which would be pathetic.
If it was a trap, he would enjoy the slaughter. But a menial task would not require a warrior. No one was as pitifully stupid to not understand that, right? If it was a rite of passage, it would be acceptable.
But it would all be suspicions and false claims until he reached the castle, and proved these thoughts right or wrong.
As more of the gates came into view, he saw a little creature, barely half his height, cowering behind what seemed to be an oversized stick, compared to its size. His emotionless helmet glared at the tiny one, as he towered over it.
“Little one.” Uro boomed. “Did you also receive a letter, instructing you to this fortre-”
He approached the Prince, looking down on him.
“What use could your sovereign have for a knight, such as myself?”
Uro asked inquisitively.