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<span style="font-size: 9px"><i>dragon art by aleksi briclot</i><br/>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 255, 255)">&amp;</span></span></span></i><br/>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-size: 22px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 255, 255)"><b>SER. GRAEME KYNASTON</b></span></span><br/>
<span style="font-size: 10px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(179, 0, 0)"><i><b>paladin</b> of the matron's temple,</i><br/>
<i><b>slayer</b> of the edelwich wyrm,</i><br/>
<i><b>veteran</b> of the blasphemer's coup,</i><br/>
<i><b>guardian</b> of the crown.</i><br/>
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<i><i><span style="font-size: 12px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 255, 255)">&amp;</span></span></i></i><br/>
</span>​</div><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(191, 191, 191)"><span style="font-family:Bilbo Swash Caps"><span style="font-size: 26px"><b>R</b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-size: 15px">eally, the braided steed Ser Kynaston had received as a final gift from his Queen before being turned out was certainly no war horse - the beast had been lazily traipsing along Arion's Path for the past fifteen-hundred yards. Not unlike the opinionated princess that accompanied him, it had probably spent the best of its life plated in gold and tinsel. If one had asked the Paladin he would have said it was a waste of a breed that would have turned out to be a fine war-horse had it been trained under the command of his compatriots at the Matrons'. It now slowed to an even steadier pace - huffing clouds of white as it's breaths grew more shallow.  Kynaston himself, however, was not focused enough on the cold to let the sleet that froze the ends of his hair into shards distract him from the task at hand. Cloaked somewhere inside the furs of a great white bear he found himself rather snug given the circumstances. Would he tempt the Goddesses' patience by taking such a boon for granted? He was alive, he still had a decent sword-arm, and he had risen above the ranks of most of the knighthood to be at the side of Lady Nerys herself. Well, perhaps he didn't consider that last part a </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 15px"><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(191, 191, 191)"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'">boon</span></span></i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(191, 191, 191)"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"> so much as a </span></span><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(191, 191, 191)"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'">trial</span></span></i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(191, 191, 191)"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'">. Still it couldn't have hurt to have a battle-trained beast to mount instead of this poncy show-horse that could barely haul </span></span><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(191, 191, 191)"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'">his</span></span></i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(191, 191, 191)"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"> weight let alone silver-plate armour.</span></span></span><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(191, 191, 191)"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-size: 15px"><br/>
The man now found himself hunched over, one hand haphazardly gripping the reins while the other was draped over it, wrist-to-wrist. Yes, a trial. Had his lady tried to address him since their departure from the Crowns' domain it did not matter. Their first order of business was finding a lead - any lead - on how they would be able to return the magical power of the land before they were all naught but corpses literally frozen in time. Noble or commoner, all would face that grim fate. Perhaps if he hadn't slain the dragon over Edelwich eight years ago he wouldn't have this much trust instilled in him by the Crown. The feat brought him glory, fame, coin, and all the interested suitors any other man would have fawned over. The fact remained, however, that no feat of his was ever performed for any of those prizes. Most men get their morality twisted up with their aspirations; if nothing benefits them it isn't worth it. The reward is never as great as the punishment that results in inaction. Would he have still slain the wyrm even if it was known that his name would inevitably fade into obscurity? Absolutely. All names fade, actions resonate. <br/>
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It was expected that Lady Nerys would suggest an inn for the night - and under any other circumstances he would have found hard ground to pitch a tent and spark a fire no matter her royal protests - but she was right. If a snowstorm were to blow through they would be buried in frost before they could be given the chance to safely wake.<br/>
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The pale, cloudy green eyes that had been set lazily on Arion's Path were drawn to his lady as she turned her mount to block his path. Whoever made it law that heroes had to be absolutely affable? Or was it his faith that implied his warmth? As far as he was concerned, all had the right to save their breath in a dying world. He was probably showing more respect to his future queen by keeping quiet as opposed to regaling her with boring tales of past glories. What was there to speak of anyway? He could tell her in his own fumbling words what exactly happened at Edelwich or how the forces rallied under his name to siege the slavers at the Blasphemer's Coup?<br/>
</span></span></span><br/><span style="font-size: 15px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(191, 191, 191)"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'">Lady Nerys, a princess who he had met only <i>once </i>years ago when he was just a young man who happened to land the killing blow on a dragon. Of course, she was but a girl then - prim, proper, and stuffed into a large jeweled dress that she couldn't even properly curtsy in. It was the same night he was lifted upon the shoulders of those he stood with that harrowing eve and paraded around the Capital's Square. It was the same night the corpse of the beast was carted there for the Crown to admire, and that girl - now a woman - is the same one that blocks his path, </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(191, 191, 191)">practically demanding he suggest a place to lay her pretty head that somehow isn't swarmed with thieves and slavers in a world gone mad. Many would jump on the coin a royal's head would bring in and it was almost as if she wasn't aware of it. Or she simply couldn't care less. Both are bad.</span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-size: 15px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(191, 191, 191)"><br/>
It was true that the capital city of Regency had many outlying inns and taverns to rest their haunches at but many of said inns and taverns ser knight had frequented weren't exactly known for their upstanding patrons. There were no royal bedchambers.<br/>
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<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf">Ser Kynaston cleared the hoarseness from his throat before speaking up, posture straightening if only for a moment. His tone is flat, but not apathetic. Just... tired.</span></span></span><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-size: 15px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 255, 153)">"Might I suggest The Hare's Hide, my Lady? The farther from the city walls we are the more - <i>fruitful - </i>our rest will be. It isn't more than a half-hour's ride away. The snowstorm won't come so soon."</span></span></span>​</div>