It was the year 567, Sir Cameron Strife was standing outside his tent and looked over the hill the towered over his army. Hands behind his back, a stern look on his aging face as he just watched the soldiers scurry about their duties. Soldiers. He scoffed at the word, these men were hardly soldiers. They were country men, stable boys, and criminals that had no choice when they had to answer the call to battle.
Shaking his head, he turned back into his tent and looked around. It was lavish of course, being a Knight had it’s perks. It was big, warm, comfortable. He had a mahogany desk that was littered with maps and other papers, a large bed lined with the warmest furs, a wooden manikin that held his plate armor while he just wore his simple chain mail.
Next to his bed leaning against it was his sword, every faithfully present. Sighing he took it into his hand and unsheathed it, pressing his hand against the cool metal of the blade, a blade he taken to many battles, a blade that held it's own story, a story that will be forever untold. He sat down on his bed and looked at the shining metal closely, there were inscriptions on the sword, three to be exact. They were simple words, but words that held a deeper meaning to a Knight than to any other man.
On one side of the blade held the word: Faith. On the other side: Justice. And on the hilt in gold lettering was: Truth.
These were only three of the attributes that a Knight was sworn by, the others need not be named, but all equally important. Cameron lived by all of them, but the three on his sword were the ones that a Knight must take to heart and keep close to him.
Faith; keep this in your heart it will keep you safe. Justice; a soldier does not know the meaning of this word but a knight lives and breathes by this word this is what keeps him fighting. And Truth; a Knight fights for the meaning of truth, it goes hand in hand with Justice.
Cameron sighed deeply as he sheathed his sword again and leaned it against his bed. He ran his hand over his face, he was getting too old to be fighting wars. He was nearing his fifty third birthday, he should be retired by now, but the King had other plans.
Reaching into his chain mail he pulled out a smooth green stone that was given to him nearly thirty five years ago by a man that was braver than anyone he had met. Nicodemus. His master, his best friend, and father figure. The man that took him from his village as a boy and made him into the man he was today, and for doing that Cameron couldn't ever thank him enough for what Nicodemus did for him.
Cameron ran his thumb over the stone as he lost himself in the memories of his time as a young man, the adventures, the people he met, the connections he made. A small smiled came upon his face as he thought about them, starting with the day that he first met Nicodemus. It was the craziest day of his life.
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