The knight rides through oceans of plains and grass, mountain and hill, starry night and sunny day, seeming a bulwark of iron astride a courser without cause or inclination change courses. That the seeming golem of looming intent and declaration is not truly an indomitable force, but a man in a shell like a carapace, does not often strike those struck by metal, word, or deed. Less so even still that the dervish of dogma and fount of acts is raw meat and gristle under hard, tough layering, worn down by a scouring of attrition and long rotting scars. More bone than skin should meet the eye if ever the plating was stripped aside, but the gleam of the means and the demeanor of the mien shall ever stint aside such notice like a shield. To show a broken body without recourse upon this courser?
No! For he is a raging thunder and a stoic mountain, a strong support and a heavy hand, a good man helping or a dastardly villain for the while. Always and ever, the knight rides on, for good or ill to