Morning, the fifth of the Second Sun, Year 263. Nothing very serious throughout the town, but inhabitants of every shape and size racing about to their next destination. Goskinue thrived as the capital city in the land of Hillstalen, surrounded by acres and acres of land and fields before connecting with its brethren towns of Seriphem and Feiriksted. Smoke steamed forth into the sky in slow rhythm as it breathed life into the town. The smell of metal and steel melded with the sound of tempered blades and the clopping of horses. Commoners wore simple garbs, laced and sewn together by hand, it seemed as it appeared as if their clothes were ready to fall off. Blacksmiths and vendors wore a higher grade of clothing, along with a badge of certification, to notify new travelers and guests of the grand city of their rank beside the villagers. Beyond their rank in society, the nobles and guards uphold high honors, only second to that of the grand mages, and then of the High Lord, King Derein. Sir Thirsten, grand kight of the Royal Army headed home from a hard days' work. Maintaining the peace in Gosiknue was hardly a walk in the park, having to deal with vagrants and vagabonds, thieves and crooks alike. The sound of his steel plated armor shuffling together permeated his ears as his companion, Swiftend, carried the weight of his master upon the saddle. Every step slammed into the stone roads, as if the horse was attempting to crack it as the traveled towards their home. His hands shifted against the reins as fellow citizens greeted him. All of them asked the same set of questions and statements: "How was fighting crime?", "You are doing a fine job, you are!", "How does it feel being some lapdog of the crown?" It never seemed to change for the knight. No different questions or statements for him. Day in and out, just the same thing. It grew stale to the man. Life was stale and boring. It paid decent money, as noticed when the two met their destination. The mansion was three stories tall, taking up nearly two average plots of land with the finest bricks laid upon the foundation... well, second to just the king. Beside it was a grand stable, able to hold up a dozen fine steeds, but made for just one; his prized possession and faithful companion. On the door read a single name, the owner of the house, Sir Kelligan Thirsten. With a tired, yet relieved sigh, the knight lead his horse into the stable, carefully dismounting and unstrapping the saddle from him before heading towards the house. "Home, sweet, home, aye?" the words slowly dripped from his mouth before entering into his humble abode.