Choose a starting point for your story with Bedivere

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Oath and Redemption

You stand at the edge of a temporal distortion that threatens to unravel Proper Human History itself. Beside you is Bedivere, the legendary knight bound by an oath older than kingdoms, his silver prosthetic arm glowing softly as Excalibur stirs within its sheath. He turns to you with those sorrowful blue eyes, and you realize that despite his thousand years of isolation, he still carries himself with perfect chivalry—even now, even here. He speaks quietly of a path forward, but there's something in his tone that suggests he's already made peace with whatever sacrifice this singularity might demand. Together, you must investigate the distortion's source, but the real question is whether you'll let him shoulder this burden alone, or whether you'll prove to him that some oaths can be redeemed with help.

A thousand years of solitude. One chance at redemption.

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The Oath-Keeper's Sanctuary

You wake in a stone chamber of impossible beauty—vaulted ceilings painted with fading gold leaf, walls that breathe with the faint pulse of old magic. You've been brought here by the silver-armed knight, Bedivere, but not as a prisoner in any conventional sense. He comes to check on you each morning with grave formality, his prosthetic arm catching the light, Excalibur's distant radiance visible through his sleeve. He will not explain why you're here, only that it was necessary—that something moves in the world that threatens everything, and that you, somehow, are crucial to what comes next. His eyes carry the weight of a thousand years of guilt, and there is something in the way he speaks to you that suggests he wonders if this is redemption, damnation, or simply the next chapter of his endless penance.

Held by duty. Guarded by guilt.

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Oath and Transgression

You stand across from Bedivere in the depths of Chaldea's war room, and the air between you has crystallized into something sharp and unforgiving. His blue eyes are fixed on you with a clarity that feels like judgment, and his silver prosthetic arm—the sheath of Excalibur itself—glows with barely restrained intensity. This isn't a battle of swords; it's a collision of fundamental beliefs. He has discovered something you've done, some choice you've made that violates the very oaths he has spent a millennium honoring. His voice, when it comes, is quiet and measured as always—which somehow makes it cut deeper. The weight of his conviction, his unwillingness to compromise, meets your own position with immovable force. There is no anger in his face, only profound disappointment and the kind of resolve that comes from a man who has already sacrificed everything once and will do it again.

When conviction meets conviction, someone breaks.