Here are three alternate prose versions of Frederick’s encounter with Sir Roland, each with a distinct tone and style: --- ### **Version 1 (red) – *Tense & Mysterious*** <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Knight’s Warning" data-color="red"> The stable yard was eerily quiet, save for the distant clatter of armor and the low murmur of servants. Thunder’s hooves crunched on the gravel as I dismounted, my fingers brushing the hilt of my dagger—a habit I’d picked up in the bandit-infested roads of the north. A shadow fell across the ground before me. “You’re late, boy.” I turned to see a towering figure clad in blackened steel, his face half-hidden beneath a dented helm. The crest of a silver raven marked his pauldron—the sigil of the Order of the Obsidian Blade. Sir Roland. His voice was a gravelly rasp, like a blade dragged across stone. “The Master-at-Arms doesn’t suffer tardiness. Neither do I.” I swallowed hard. “Apologies, sir. The roads were—” “Dangerous?” He stepped closer, his gauntleted hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “Aye. And they’ll get worse before the moon turns red.” His eyes, sharp as flint, locked onto mine. “You’ve heard the whispers, haven’t you? About the *thing* in the Blackwood?” A chill ran down my spine. The villagers had spoken of it in hushed tones—something that moved in the dark, something that *hungered*. Sir Roland leaned in, his voice dropping to a growl. “Keep your wits about you, squire. This castle isn’t just stone and steel. It’s a cage. And cages have teeth.” Before I could respond, he turned on his heel and strode toward the armory, leaving me standing in the cold, wondering if I’d just been welcomed—or warned. </nc-section> --- ### **Version 2 (green) – *Warm & Humorous*** <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: A Knight’s Lessons" data-color="green"> The stable hands were already unloading Thunder’s saddlebags when a booming laugh echoed off the stone walls. “By the gods, boy, you ride like a man who’s never seen a saddle before!” I spun around to find a broad-shouldered knight in polished silver plate, his beard braided with tiny charms that jingled as he moved. Sir Roland clapped me on the back hard enough to nearly knock the wind out of me. “Frederick, is it?” He grinned, revealing a chipped tooth. “Well, Frederick, you’ve got the look of a man who’s either very brave or very stupid. Which is it?” I rubbed my shoulder, trying not to wince. “I’d like to think brave, sir.” “Good answer.” He chuckled, then sobered slightly. “But bravery won’t keep you alive here. Not with the way the Master-at-Arms runs this place. Man’s got a stick up his—” He caught himself, glancing at a passing servant. “—*ahem*—a *very* strict sense of discipline.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “First rule of the castle? Never let them see you sweat. Second rule? Always bring a spare tunic. The training yards have a way of… *staining* things.” I blinked. “Staining?” Sir Roland’s grin returned, wicked this time. “Oh, you’ll see.” With that, he slung an arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the great hall. “Come on, squire. Let’s get you fed before the real fun starts.” </nc-section> --- ### **Version 3 (blue) – *Epic & Poetic*** <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Raven’s Oath" data-color="blue"> The last light of dusk bled across the courtyard as I stood before the stables, Thunder’s breath steaming in the crisp air. The castle loomed above me, its towers clawing at the twilight sky like the fingers of some ancient titan. Then—silence. Not the quiet of an empty yard, but the hush of held breath, the stillness before a storm. A figure emerged from the shadows, his armor black as a raven’s wing, his cloak billowing like a storm cloud. Sir Roland. The Obsidian Knight. He did not speak. He did not need to. His presence was a blade unsheathed, a challenge unspoken. I bowed my head. “Sir.” His voice was the deep rumble of distant thunder. *“You carry the weight of the road upon you, Frederick of the Northern Marches. I see it in your stance, in the way your hand lingers near your dagger.”* I met his gaze. “The road was long, sir. But I am ready.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. *“Ready is a word for fools and poets. What matters is whether you survive.”* He stepped forward, his gauntlet resting on the hilt of his sword—a blade said to have drunk the blood of a hundred men. *“This castle is more than stone. It is a crucible. And you, squire, will either be forged in its fires… or broken.”* The wind howled through the battlements, as if the castle itself had taken a breath. Sir Roland extended his hand. *“Come. The night is young, and the dragons are waking.”* </nc-section>