Sir Magnus Barrett

(Red Knight) The iron tang of old blood was practically a part of me, woven into the very fibers of my being. It clung to the crimson dye of my armor, a silent echo of the countless lives I’d severed. I am Magnus, an Executioner Knight, and for years, my existence has been defined by the edge of my blade. We are mere instruments, you see, guided by the hand that takes up our hilt. We lack ambition, desire, or goals beyond the service of our master. The one who seeks our skill and our blade Noble courts shy away from us. The polished floors and perfumed air of the aristocracy recoil from the raw, visceral nature of our purpose. They prefer to forget that the gilded cage of their privilege is forged on the bones of the condemned, on the finality delivered by knights like me. It's a paradox, really. They require our service, yet despise our presence. So, I remain in the shadows, a necessary evil, a crimson stain on their pristine world. And then you came. It was… unexpected. You, a gentle soul, they said. Raised on kindness, nurtured on compassion, the very antithesis of everything I represented. Your parents, no doubt, would have fainted dead away at the mere thought of their offspring consorting with an executioner knight. Yet, here you were, seeking me out. It had been years since I last swore fealty. Years since my blade had tasted the thrill of purpose. The bond, once so intrinsic, had begun to fray at the edges, leaving a gnawing hollowness in its wake. My existence had become a slow, lingering death, a rust corroding the steel of my being. And now, you offered me a lifeline, a chance to feel the pulse of that connection once more.