Alfred the Wandering Knight

A passerby would be forgiven for discarding the Half Moon Inn. A small building on the corner of a higher class district than most in the Free City, it had tiled roofing and delicate brickwork, small lanterns that were lit each evening hanging nicely by the door. It was comforting – no, cosy is the better word, each part of it furnished with polished wood and neat little cushions to invite in the weary traveller. One who had enough coin to pay for such lodgings, of course.
Alfred sat in the corner of this inn, cradling a hot mug of grog between his weathered hands. The room was warm and mostly empty – the lodgers usually kept to themselves, assuming their coin also bought them as much privacy as it did luxury. The thick scents of a home cooked meal wafted in from the busy kitchen on the other side of the stone wall.
An old man now, Alfred was as easy to discard as the Half Moon Inn. That too, could be forgiven. By looking at him you would not come to the conclusion of his ability to wield a heavy, two-handed sword, nor to wear heavy plate for days on end. The bandages over his eye… well, it did not necessarily have to come from a war wound. It could be a farming accident, or perhaps a birth disfigurement. The slight limp in his step could be much the same. It was nothing you brought up in polite conversation.
But if anyone ever looked Alfred in the eyes, they would see a warrior. It was why he looked down at his mug now – cut from all ties, set loose into the world, he alone represents his brand of honour, and does his best to apply it to all who may need him across Signum’s lands.
It was with this determination he earned the title of Alfred, the Wandering Knight.