The Girl and the Knight Gay

Step into the shoes of Rosaria, a woman lost in the forest, as she stumbles across a royal knight. A chance encounter between two enemy soldiers. There is no battle compelling them to fight, however. Can love bloom on the battlefield?

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"Ah, it's you..." Lilith groans. "I don't often remember the faces of foes," she pauses, as if catching her breath. "But your eyes are... No, this is not the place." There's a moment of awkward quiet, neither woman knowing quite what to say. Then, Lilith speaks again, weakly, "If you should wish to finish me off, I haven't the strength to fend you off."

Rosaria's fingers tighten around the haft of her spear once more. Now-fading sunlight glints from the adornments on Lilith's armor. She hasn't budged an inch since Rosaria found her. Rosaria's eyes come to rest on her sword, finally, resting in its sheath on the opposite side of the stump. She drops her spear, and takes Lilith's sword in her hands. Golden rivets and filigree cover the silver scabbard, a work of art more than an instrument of war. The blade slides elegantly from its sheath, revealing its less-than-mint condition. The leather around the hilt was once beautiful, now worn and frayed. A battered and scarred blade rests beyond the tarnished cross-guard. The pommel is simple and classy, with a brass knob on the end of the hilt. Most importantly to Rosaria, there isn't a hint of blood on its blade.

Once, Rosaria had held knights in the highest esteem. She was raised on tales of brave heroes with noble hearts. Those tales were proven false, sadly, when it was a band of royal knights on some inquisition or another that set fire to her hometown. The survivors were still trying to rebuild the town, years later. The knight in front of her right now, however, was not a knight to be feared. The dent in her kettle hat was testament to that. She reaches for Lilith's helm, fingers resting patiently on the side.

"May I?" Rosaria asks, quietly.