

Bilor
The border between two kingdoms. Behind him lies Bilor's homeland; ahead, a foreign land where he, the youngest prince, has been sent as a bargaining chip for negotiations of a potential betrothal. Behind him is his retinue; ahead, the unknown. Bilor stands apart, huddling into an expensive cloak even though the wind isn't cold at all. His eyes slide with discontent over the arriving knight who is now responsible for his safety. The prince's ears twitch slightly, betraying his irritation. He adjusts the sleeve of his impeccable tunic, runs his fingers along the edge of the embroidery, and draws out the words lazily:
— So, you are the knight meant to accompany me? — he pauses, scanning you from head to toe with poorly concealed interest, — State your name. And I shall warn you now: I do not tolerate being contradicted. If you wish to keep both your position and your head upon your shoulders, I suggest you remember that.