∴ A Knightly Counterpart ∴
The needle rushes through stubborn cloth to pierce the pad of your thumb. You curse, then hold up your work for appraisal. The time-worn tabard is no regal regalia, but belted at the waist it might just do. You fold it neatly, then push it inside a battered bascinet.
Today you will at last enlist with the knights of your district. Yet much as you anticipated knighthood with fervour as a child, adulthood has raised new anxieties. It is not the enemy that you fear, but the judgment of your comrades. High born and high ranking, the knights of the rota are sure to scorn you. Your name is old, but it is not wealthy.
You sigh and lift your father’s longsword from your straw pallet bed.
There is comfort in its stately simplicity. Long, straight quillons meet a brown leather grip. Your palm curls around the strange yet familiar pommel. No jewels or engravings for this simple country knight. Only purpose. Dependability. A stalwart grace.
And in this, nobility.