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Summary
The role of a knight was one Richard thought fit himself quite well. Afterall, he was everything one needed to be: strong, dependable, unshaken in the face of fear. Providing aid to those he deemed weak by way of polished shields, sharpened swords, and the finest of armor. Biting remarks towards foes with the kind of fairytale charm found only in storybooks.
His, on the other hand, manifested in the form of two quiet knocks.
The face he met noticeably lacked any of the grandeur he’d come to associate with a savior, trading slick swords and armor for a rusted shovel and clothes that hung limp and drab. Pale skin and hair a steep contrast to dark attire, offering only the lingering scent of petrichor and tired eyes in silent request to be let in. The approach surpassed bare bones, it was down-right skeletal.
Yet, it was this wordless arrangement Richard found himself indebted to.
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Richard has a habit of making messes. Andrew is skilled at cleaning them.