Gwyndolin has been laying in bed for far too long, he decides. Itâs probably what he needs to be doing, but some fresh air wonât be a bad thing. A little movement wonât be too rough on his wounds, surely. So he gets out of bed, shambling to the front of the townhouse ever so slowly and carefully, and sits in the chair outside. It took a while, but the smell of the eternally spring trees and sounds of the birds is a nice change from staring at the wall or pillow.
A few people pass by, and heâs close to nearly dozing off. He shouldnât⌠yet itâs so relaxing. One more half glance up, and he imagines seeing a shape of familiar armor. He does miss her much⌠wait. No, it isnât his imagination, according to the snakesâ view. What?! Snapping awake, itâs really true! Wretched memories flood back suddenly in a single moment, of being trapped, of not knowing what happened while he was imprisonedâŚ
Gwyndolin leaps up, running to the Knightess and embracing her. Sheâs here. He wants to believe that means she lived despite what was surely a massacre, but heâs a living testament that that doesnât have to be the case.
âMâŚMy KnightessâŚâ he utters quietly. Abruptly, he grimaces and grabs at his side as he notices the pain. He doesnât care. Her presence was more important.
The Knightess wandered the city. A mysterious driver had dropped her off in front of a dwelling that he claimed was her new home, but she refused to enter it. Instead she strapped the wooden sword dutifully to her hip and began her search for answers.
That was three hours ago. Now, she is hopelessly lost, exhausted, and confused. The city is so foreign to her that she can barely tell if she had made any forward progress or if she was simply circling the same area for hours. She hasnât made any progress in uncovering where she was or how she had gotten here, and at several points during her walk she had almost been struck by mechanical vehicles. Still, she trudges onward, her phone and pamphlet clutched angrily in one gauntleted fist.Â
At the peak of her frustration someone slams into her, coiling their arms around her torso and arms. She nearly leaps out of her armor, her hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of the wooden sword at her hip-Â Wait! That voice. Immediately she relaxes, allowing herself to be held, if only for a moment.Â
âMy Lord!â Suddenly the last several hours donât matter; if Gwyndolin is here then surely everything is fine. Then she notices him grimacing--thatâs not supposed to happen.
âAre you injured, my Lord?â She asks, her voice full of worry.
