When the lake filled with poison, the knight looked at his sword in disgust. His sole duty was to protect his lord, his kingdom, his family. He had failed.
He felt like a vestigial organ, unable to defend against this new attack. His weapon and his ideals were relics.
He allowed his grief to move through him, and when it passed, his sword waited for him. It couldn’t cut the poison from the water, or raise the dead. But he could find the men responsible, and show them that slow poison is no match for a quick and determined blade.

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