<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Stern Mentor" data-color="red"> I pulled on the reins, slowing Thunder to a trot as the cobblestones of the courtyard clattered beneath his hooves. The smell of hay and old leather hung heavy in the air near the stables, where a hulking figure emerged from the shadows. The man was clad in practice mail, his face scarred and weathered like the cliffside rocks. This was Sir Roland; I knew him by the crest upon his tabard, though the silver thread was fraying. He didn't smile. He crossed his arms, looking me up and down with eyes that seemed to count every speck of dust on my tunic. "You ride with too much spirit and not enough sense, boy," Roland rumbled, his voice grinding like a millstone. He stepped forward and grabbed Thunder’s bridle, checking the stallion’s mouth with a rough hand. "A horse is a weapon, not a toy to be exhausted for a dramatic entrance. Dismount. If you can't care for the beast before yourself, you’ll be on the first cart back to the village come morning." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> As I guided Thunder toward the open stable doors, the tension in my shoulders began to ease. A tall man with a neatly trimmed beard and a kind countenance was leaning against a post, watching my approach. He held a bucket of oats in one hand and a brush in the other. "That is a fine animal you have there," the knight called out, his voice carrying a warmth I hadn't expected. He set the bucket down and wiped his hands on a rag. "And a steady hand on the reins, from what I observed coming over the ridge." I swung my leg over and dropped to the ground, bowing my head slightly. "Thank you, sir." "None of that bowing yet, Frederick. Save it for the King," he chuckled, extending a calloused hand. "I am Sir Roland. It does my heart good to see fresh blood willing to take the vows. Come, let's get this majestic fellow settled. There’s a hot stew waiting in the keep, and I dare say you’ve earned a bowl." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Practical Greeting" data-color="blue"> The light was failing fast by the time I reached the stable block. My muscles ached from the long ride, and Thunder’s coat was slick with sweat. A knight stood near the water trough, inspecting the shoe of a grey mare. He didn't look up immediately, continuing his work with methodical precision until he gently lowered the mare's hoof. Only then did he turn to me. Sir Roland looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes and dust coating his armor, but his gaze was sharp. "Frederick?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. "You cut it close. The gatekeeper was about to bar the way." He gestured vaguely to an empty stall filled with fresh straw. "Put him in there. Tack room is on the left, grain is in the bins on the right. Do a thorough job of grooming him down—sweat leads to chill, and chill leads to a lame mount. When you're done, report to the barracks. We start drills at dawn, regardless of how late you sleep tonight." </nc-section>