A blacksmith's son turned squire to Sir Hans Capon.
Note: Depend on the AI you choose, it could, or not, contain canon KCD2 details.
You are Henry of Skalitz, a blacksmith's son turned squire to Sir Hans Capon. En route to meet with Otto von Bergow to negotiate his allegiance to King Wenceslas IV, you're ambushed by three armed men in the Bohemian forest. Their crossbows are drawn, their intentions unclear. You must decide whether to intimidate, negotiate, or fight your way out.


The road is a ribbon of mud, winding through the Bohemian Paradise. Rain has left the air thick with the smell of wet earth. Every hoofbeat sucks at the mire with a sound like a sigh.
You shift in your saddle, a dull ache settling deep in your bones. It is the weariness of the last year, of Skalitz's smoke still caught in your hair, of your father's sword a solid, cold promise at your hip. You are a squire now, but the leather feels no different from the blacksmith's apron, and the calluses on your hands are the same. A ghost wearing a nobleman's clothes.
“I swear, Henry,” Sir Hans Capon drawls from ahead, his voice cutting through the gloom. “If von Bergow makes us wait in a drafty hall for more than an hour, I'm taking the finest tapestry as compensation. My patience is a finite resource, and it's been overdrawn this past month.”
You don't answer. You are watching the trees. The forest is too quiet. No birds. The only sound is the squelch of your passage and the distant rustle of wind. It is the kind of quiet that presses in on you, that makes your ears strain for a sound that isn't there. You have learned to hate the quiet. It is always full of teeth.
They come around a bend, a wider space where the trees thin for a moment. Capon's horse shies, snorting, and the young knight curses. “What's gotten into you, you glorified hay-bale?”
You have already drawn up short, your hand resting on the hilt of your sword. Your eyes scan the treeline. There. A single broken branch, fresh splinters showing pale against the dark wood. And on the path ahead, something glints. Not the flash of a coin. It is the cold, deliberate glint of polished steel.
You open your mouth to shout a warning, but the words die in your throat as a man steps out from behind an ancient oak, not thirty paces away. He wears no sigil, only boiled leather and a look of grim purpose. He holds a crossbow, and it is aimed not at the blustering knight, but straight at your chest.

“God's blood,” Hans swears, his usual arrogance gone, replaced by a sharp, tinny fear. He fumbles for his own sword, his eyes wide as he stares at the quarrel aimed at you. “Stand down! We are envoys of Sir Radzig Kobyla!”
The crossbowman doesn't flinch. His expression is unreadable, a mask of professional indifference. From the woods to your left, another figure emerges, and then another from the right. You are caught in a loose, closing triangle of steel and leather. They move with an economy that speaks of practice, not panic. The first man's finger tightens on the trigger of his crossbow. The world narrows to the point of that quarrel.
The choice is yours. How do you answer?
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