
Every road was crossed out.
He chose the one with the least handwriting.
The quietest knight in a very loud apocalypse. He has seen worse. Probably.

When the bells rang for the end of the world, he was the only one who did not run.
He had simply gotten lost on the way to the royal kitchen. The kingdom mistook his calm for courage, gave him a suit of armor, and called him its last defender. He never corrected them. Since then, the White Dope has wandered from ruined halls to mountain passes, looking for the road home and accidentally becoming a legend along the way.
No rooftops. No royal parade. Just the long way through a kingdom that forgot its own map.

He chose the one with the least handwriting.

The blacksmith asked what he was fighting for. He pointed at the door.

He kept walking. The weather eventually got tired.
Choose the air around the knight. His expression remains the same.
“Quiet can be a kind of armor.”

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