Elwood of Brightleigh sat perched upon a bale of hay outside Calypso’s stall for the tournament, chin resting on his chest. His arm was in a sling resting across his chest, and his right leg wrapped and in a splint, the crutch at his feet. The knight’s thick plate armor was laid neatly at his left, separated by the parts that needed repair and the ones that didn’t. To his right, the large armor pieces for Caly lay in a simple pile, the fabric ornaments folded sloppily by a stable boy, so the knight assumed. Each piece was coated with a healthy layer of sand and dirt, which Elwood was thinking of having his squire clean… or Marcus, whomever came in his firing range first. If it were Marcus, he’d just have to reach out for his friend’s pity. Or he could bribe his nieces to do so.

Elwood sighed in frustration, banging his head against the stable door. Caly poked her head out to sniff at her master’s head, blowing some of the man’s curls into his eyes. Lightly, he brushed his calloused fingers along his horses nose for a moment, recalling every moment of the joust. He didn’t know what went wrong – Darkamelin was a knight who Elwood knew didn’t take such events as serious as him. And here he was, defeated in round one. Times like this made the joust most unbearable, especially when losing left him in splints and bruised limbs. There was one bright side; losing meant he didn’t have a chance to be a finalist, and that he didn’t have a chance to win the prize. He isn’t speaking about the trophy of course (which would be nice). Rather, the ‘kiss’. Sir Brightleigh knew it would be un-knightly to decline such a thing, so he would be left in a jittery mess.

Still, he didn’t want to loose in the first round. Placing his hand down on his lap, he recalled the joust again in perfect detail:

Elwood of Brightleigh sat mounted upon his pale horse, his freshly polished armor gleaming in the afternoon sun, when his joust was to be held. He could feel sweat dripping down the center of his back – the jousting armor was not the lighter of his two armor sets, and it certainly built up heat even though the spring air was still cool. The man gripped his horse’s mail imbedded reigns in anticipation, as the drunken sounds of the crowd could be heard as the announcer riled up them up. Truthfully, the man was slightly disgusted and disturbed that the commoners were so easily taken to alcohol when there was still much of the day to go on. Though he did always wondered what he looked like to them, because his helmet limited his eyesight when he sat straight up, which was to protect his eyes from flying splinters should his lance break.

“Sir Brightleigh, your lance.” A groom spoke at his side, passing up the navy and tawny striped, wooden lance. The knight held it firmly when it was placed in his hand. Caly pawed at the ground impatiently, feeling the anticipation in the air, her master’s tense grip. Another bead of sweat dripped down his face, and he was sure his horse was sweating as well beneath her own plate armor and decorative fabric in the Brightleigh colors. The man listened intently to the announcer’s words, waiting to give Caly the silent cue to gallop. He felt as if he was holding his breathe, and his horse was only getting antsier, letting out a loud neigh. There was laughter when the man made a jest about his mount. But then, the signal went off.

With a squeeze, Caly went off with a snort; her neck bended naturally as Elwood leaned forward, now gaining a full view of his opponent. He, or she, wore their fief’s colors as boldly as he did, and he could see the lance already lowered into position. Sir Brightleigh had done the same, and within a few seconds, they were within inches of hitting one another. There was silence, and Elwood felt himself jerk backwards when Darkamelin knocked the wind out of him. Though, he had done the same to his opponent, only breaking his lance in progress, audible by the snapping sound. Caly slowed down, and began to turn as another groom caught his horse’s reigns. Again, a lance was thrown into his hands, the white steed turned around, and the two waited for the signal.

Again, they were off, and Elwood lowered his lance, into position with a steady hold aiming for target that he could see again. This time, his opponent’s lance broke on his armor, in a spot closer to his jousting arm, a sensation that unnerved him, causing him to shake a little. Calypso did not like the tension in her rider, and began to get a little antsy, and out of hand. The knight was aware, but the tingling sensation in his arm and hand was hard to ignore. He felt as if he couldn’t hold his lance properly anymore. As he turned around, Caly gave a little buck neighing, and take off. The knight suddenly felt dread in the pit of his stomach – a knight who didn’t have his horse properly trained was failure in the battlefield. Normally, Caly was a very good, sure-footed, reliable horse in skirmishes, and this was not her first tournament.

As the opponent from Darkamelin closed in the gap on the charger, Caly did the most unpredictable thing; she turned abruptly to buck at the fence that separated the two. The act caused Elwood to drop his lance, and grab the mail reins in both hands for security. In addition, the horse reared, moving backwards quickly, the rider easily getting it’s gelding under control. Caly, however, was having a fit; it wasn’t easy to control the near eighteen-hand mare, in heat, while in heavy jousting armor. She didn’t let a groom come close, and soon enough, Elwood found himself flying over Caly’s head and into the groom who tried to get out the way. In the process of falling, he stuck out his hand to try to catch himself. Yet, he wasn’t done tripping, and the knight’s leg got underneath him, having him hear a soft crack inside his head, like a snap.

It took two wild mages to calm Caly down, when the end was decided; Elwood was disqualified, for having an untrained, aggressive horse, and, now, for having an injury. The stands still erupted in cheers at the announcement of the winner, a cheer the man could hear in the infirmary tents…

Elwood cut of his memory, the rest having been followed by memories of causing the healer’s grief because of his uneasiness around healing mages. This made it difficult for them, because an ungifted, certified healer wasn’t in any close proximity. The knight retorted that he or she better come then, and even though it took awhile, it was confirmed the knight merely snapped a few tenants in his ankle, and his wrist. Denying such a minor injury be fixed without even a small amount of magic, meant six weeks off the foot and doing very light work with the arm. The knight did realize that would take off most of his exercise. He’d make it all up somehow. Sighing, he slumped again in his spot.