<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> As I reined Thunder in near the stables, a figure detached himself from the deepening shadows of the doorway. He was a mountain of a man, his plate armor scarred and dented from countless battles. It did not gleam in the twilight but seemed to drink the light. He stopped a few paces from me, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, and looked me up and down with an expression that could curdle milk. "So, you're the new squire," he said, his voice a low gravelly rumble. "Frederick." It wasn't a question. "I am Sir Roland. Around here, we earn our keep. Your horse looks tired. You look softer than a fresh-baked loaf. Let's hope you're made of sterner stuff than you appear. Now, see to your mount. A knight who neglects his steed is no knight at all." He turned without another word, his back a wall of cold steel, leaving me feeling small and utterly insignificant. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Mentor's Greeting" data-color="green"> A gentle whicker from the stable drew my attention, and I saw a man standing there, currying a dappled grey mare. He wasn't in full armor, but simply wore a leather tunic over a linen shirt, his arms tanned and muscled. He looked up as I approached, and his face, lined with age and sun, broke into a warm, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You must be Frederick," he called out, his voice as welcoming as a hearth fire. "I'm Sir Roland. That's a fine stallion you have there. He carries himself well." He walked over and patted Thunder's neck, his movements sure and gentle. "A long journey, I'll wager. Come, let's get him settled in a stall with some fresh water and oats. There's a hot meal and a warm pallet waiting for you inside. We'll have plenty of time for talk and training on the morrow. For now, rest." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Somber Encounter" data-color="blue"> I brought Thunder to a halt, the scent of hay and manure filling the air. Leaning against the stable's large oak doorframe was a knight, his gaze fixed on the last sliver of sun bleeding across the horizon. His armor, once gleaming silver, was now a faded, weary grey, and a deep melancholy seemed to cling to him like a shroud. He didn't turn as I approached, but spoke to the sunset itself. "They still send them so young," he murmured, his voice quiet and tinged with a profound sadness. He finally turned his head, his eyes holding a deep, ancient sorrow. "Sir Roland," he stated simply, as an introduction and an epitaph. He gestured vaguely towards the stable interior. "The grooms will see to your horse. The path to the squires' barracks is through the main courtyard. Try not to dream of glory. It's a fleeting and costly thing." With that, he looked away, back to the dying of the day, leaving me with more questions than answers and a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. </nc-section>