Desmond was quick to his memories the moment he regained consciousness and found himself on a shabby rug lying in front of a man who was using a regular wooden chair like a throne.
He glared up at him with his single ruby-colored eye. He already knew who the man was without needing to be told. The knights he had come across before then were afraid of the man they referred to as commander.
For some reason, seeing a man so war-torn and miserable reminded him of a few brief memories he had from his childhood. Not every Eirenguardian looked the same. Some were rougher around the edges like him. Before Castille invaded, there were wars in the far south but the involvement of knights was entirely voluntary. No one was forced to battle, but Eirenguardians had a sense of pride in their sword fighting abilities.
"You really were an Eirenguardian," the man observed Desmond's red eye. "Until you let Castille use and abuse you."