@ironicfatc // sentence starters
It earns a distasteful scoff, for Lancelot had not noticed there was an onlooker. He re-clasps the piece of armor around his wrist, promptly hiding the ugly half-faded gash he was inspecting when he thought no one else would see. “Maybe so.” Part of him believes it; part of him knows he ought to wear the many injuries that didn’t kill him as badges of honor. The rest of him, on the other hand, is mortified at the idea that anyone in Camelot would know he bears them at all.
All the same, his sense of responsibility overtakes. He casts a stern stare at the other through his visor - if he draws shame from having his scars witnessed, he doesn’t show it. “Yet there’s no pride to draw from it.” He refuses to look down, though the temptation to lower his head as he speaks is noticeable. Instead, he merely avoids further eye contact, an easy enough task with his helmet down. “So keep it to yourself, yes ? Gossip is not befitting of a knight.”