I arried late to the tourney. Tardyness is normally something which I would avoid like the plague, but I was waylaid by brigands on my journey, and a fellow must play with the cards he is delt. Because of that, I was forced to pitch my tent at the rear of the grounds, with the servents and peasents.
Haing struck camp, I relaxed with a sack of wine and took a good luck around me.
To my left, a buxom serving girl was roasting a huge quantity of ribs. To the right, another girl was sat by her camp fire. She immediatly caught my eye.
'Are you here to compete?' I called out to her.
For we live in a brutal age, where women must defend themselves through feats of arms as surely and stoutly as a man.
'No sir', she replied.
'You suprise me,' I said, as she had a fierce look about her.
She gestured subtly to her right leg. Between her britches and boots, was a scar. In fact, it was the most horrendous wound that I have ever seen on a living body, it was asthough her flesh had been torn apart then folded back together.
'Why would I try to do something impossible, when I cannot even do something simple?' she said.
Then she hobbled off to collect firewood.
Being weary, I fell asleep before she returned.
To be continued...
