Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9P96RNAQHMCDZCAN8J6H4

<nc-section data-title="Greeting at the Stables (Red)" data-color="red"> The local knight, Sir Roland, greets Frederick near the stables—his arrival announced by a *crack* of leather on air. A man of iron: his tabard, dyed the color of blood, flapped loose over a cuirass dented with the scars of a hundred skirmishes. His voice, rumbling like a forge fire, booms as he strides toward Thunder, who snorts at the sudden movement. “Squire. You’re later than the last rainstorm.” Frederick’s throat tightens—until Sir Roland slams a meaty hand onto his shoulder, the force jolting him, but the man’s lips twitch. “Don’t gawp. Stables ain’t for standing. Your horse needs oats, you need a comb, and this sodden tunic needs seeing to. But mark this: A squire who can’t hold his nerve with a storm of a knight has no business in my garrison.” He tosses a leather bag at Frederick’s chest—filled with apple slices, he notices, not switches—and nods toward the stables. “Hurry. We’ve work to do before the moon rises.” The scent of iron and sawdust mingles with the mane of his charger, and Frederick smiles, already lighter. Red, he learns, is fire—warm, whether you’re burning or being burned. <nc-section data-title="Greeting at the Stables (Green)" data-color="green"> The local knight, Sir Roland, greets Frederick near the stables—his presence as quiet and rooted as an ancient oak. He’s mid-stroke, grooming a chestnut mare with a foal nuzzling her flank, his tunic a faded green, patched where armor couldn’t reach. “Took you long enough, lad,” he says, not unkindly, as Frederick dismounts. The air smells of clover and fresh hay, and the foal nickers, tentative. Sir Roland sets down his currycomb. “Thunder’s a fine beast—ears pricked like he knows he’s entered a winner’s field. But don’t let that pretty head fool you; horses are like squires: all spirit until they learn to listen.” He plucks a sprig of rosemary from a pot by the door and tucks it into Frederick’s tunic collar. “Good luck with the stables. Old Bess here’s got a mean bite, so don’t let her catch you off guard. And if you’re ever cold, just whisper to the walls—my cook leaves extra broth by the fireplace. Stabbur’s a fool, but he knows a hungry squire when he sees one.” His hands are calloused, but gentle, like he’s petting the foal. Green, Frederick realizes, is growth—tending the flame until it thrives. <nc-section data-title="Greeting at the Stables (Blue)" data-color="blue"> The local knight, Sir Roland, greets Frederick near the stables—his armor polished to a sheen that mirrored the pale afternoon sky, his cloak the color of a storm front just before rain. He stands with his back to a weathervane, watching Thunder crop grass, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Squire,” he says, not loud, but his voice carries like a bell, clear and steady. “Welcome. The castle waits, but let us not rush the moment.” He gestures to the groom, already leading Thunder away, then turns to Frederick. “Your saddle’s worn—patched on the left. A knight notices the small things, you see. Did your journey trouble you? Or were you eager to prove yourself?” Frederick stammers, but Sir Roland waves a hand, calm. “Eagerness is no sin. Mistrust, though… that’s what gets squires hurt.” He steps closer, and Frederick sees the silver streak in his beard, the way his eyes crinkle not at his words, but at the effort. “I was once like you—all fire and no focus. Until a knight told me: *A blade is only as sharp as the hand that wields it.* Take care of yours, lad. And if you ever doubt yourself, look at the stars. They’ve watched me, and they’ll watch you. We’re all just stardust, trying not to burn out.” The breeze carries the scent of the sea, and Frederick nods, his chest light. Blue, he understands, is the quiet before the storm—the space where clarity takes root. Each version leans into its color’s essence while anchoring to the core interaction, expanding Frederick’s perception of Sir Roland through sensory and thematic details.