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The air was thick with the depression that encompassed the Knight. What was worse was a Nobleman was a powerful spirit and so Lucian could feel a tangible pressure being placed upon him from the warrior. It was hard to believe but Lucian felt it so strongly that he could not help but be absorbed by it.
The Nobleman had lost likely an entire lifetime’s worth of work. A Knight was born in the saddle. Trained from the moment he could walk, the Knight was prepared to fight all the battles that brought themselves towards him.
It was his purpose in life. A purpose that he could no longer fulfill.
It was then that Lucian straighten his back, a line of words he wanted to say coming to mind, “Morr has declared that you live, Lord. If that is the case then you must still have purpose.”
The eyes of the Nobleman snapped at Lucian with a baneful fury. An anger of a life lost was lingering in those eyes and Lucian would have been craven too. To flee for the hills as an angry Knight would have meant his death. He, the Knight, was now staring into the soul of Lucian.
Today Lucian did not flee. A small spark of bravery becoming a lion as he did.
Noble he was, Lucian watched as a man aged ten years before his very eyes. Wrath, Diligence, and Pride all melted away from the man as he failed to cower even a Peasant with his glare. Mighty he was now he had fallen such a grand length that there was nothing to be made about. There was only pity.
The wounded warrior adjusted his bed so that sitting up was a little better, resting his back against a post that was next to his bed. As he did so Lucian presented to him a glass of water, the liquid the clearest and the sweetest the Priests of Morr could purify.
The man took a drink and settled it down.
He was calm, but still a little confused. At least that was what Lucian felt as the man looked out at the horizon the two of them could not see within the tent.
Then he focused right back towards Lucian, “Peasant, who are you?”
“Lucian of Verac.” There was no stumble in his words for the situation before had past. No longer was this man a Nobleman or Knight, but what Lucian realized to be a somewhat kindred spirit.
“I am Count Remon of Langon, Killer of the Gorehorn of Mios.” The Count said with a formality that should not have been shared with a Peasant like Lucian.