>>6132953<span class="mu-i">“The poets knew, as a knight knows, that flesh and spirit alone cannot prevail against the wickedness and filth of this world,”</span> the knight answers you, with the air of received wisdom being recited from memory. <span class="mu-i">“Our very selves, all that we are, is a product of darkness… And Men, unlike Elves, were never blessed to be touched by the Gods Above. Nay, we must find our own way—must cut away the ties which bind us to our ignoble origins, and strive upwards and onwards, by clean thoughts and noble deeds.</span>
“Right, right,” you nod, then grimace. “An’ like… if yer thoughts are unclean, and make you wanna’ do not-so-noble kinds a’ deeds?”
The armour still doesn’t move, and yet you get the strange and eerie sense that it sees you, TRULY sees you, for the first time. It doesn’t turn to regard you, yet you find your eyes fixed on the visor, and you feel as if something behind the visor is fixed upon you.
<span class="mu-i">“We all do, young one.”</span> the knight admits, voice softer and quieter. <span class="mu-i">“The path of a holy knight is a path of denial, of resistance, and of constant vigilance, even against oneself. Against greed, against lust, against envy and cruelty. The armour of righteousness does not just keep the darkness without from breaching one’s flesh; it keeps the darkness WITHIN from spilling out.”</span>
“Uh… Huh,” you say, head hurting a little. “An’ if ya’, like… Don’t have any armour?”
<span class="mu-i">“Then you must craft it,”</span> answers the armour. <span class="mu-i">“Our family did not become knights by divine right, child. We FORGED ourselves into knights. We MADE our armour of righteousness. <span class="mu-s">You must make yours</span>.”</span>
Your head spins a little. What?? You aren’t exactly a blacksmith, so how’re you supposed to do THAT/ or is this, like… A metaphorical thing? How are you supposed to start THAT, then? You wrack your brain for an answer, but even as you begin to formulate your next question, you see a beam of sunlight shine through the high, narrow window to your right—the sole part of the storeroom which peeks above ground. You wince at the sudden streak of sunlight reflecting off the armour, and something instinctive to your being informs you that your time is running out.
