Sir Denys had heard many stories of the Ryngwoode in his life, mainly ones his nursemaid told him as a child to scare him away from the place. None had spirits with hollow eyes that bled black. And he certainly didn’t believe they were demons. “A rival gang of bandits maybe? Many take refuge in…
“Ah, Sir Denys, m’lord. The Knight Of Ivy. Forgive me, I should have known from the armour, but like my bones, my eyes aren’t what they were, especially today,” the man said as Sir Denys helped him to his feet. “Can you stand unaided?” “Just about. It hurts, m’lord, but once I’m up I think…
Welcome traveller, welcome! Let me fill you a tankard with ale. Take the weight off your feet and grab a seat by the fire, then settle in for a tale from the Ryngwoode… *** The Ivy Knight. Or Knight Of Ivy. Whatever he’s chuffing called. I can never remember. There’s hundreds of these twats going around…