The Arena is an oft visited part of the House, but the lone warrior stepping into the ring is especially fond of it.
His jousting tourney has just finished, and now he demounts his horse and his squire leads it away. The knight lifts his weapon and lowers his visor, preparing for the coming test of skill and mettle.
The crowd holds its’ breath.
They come at him, gibbering demons with claws like knives and teeth full of hatred. He whirls in combat, shimmering armour glinting in the sun, the flash of his blade dancing like liquid silver in the frost filled air, sprays of ink flying like blood. The bodies of his foes dissolve like lies exposed to truth.
The duel is won.
The crowd roars in adoration and the armoured figure salutes them.
We are suddenly alone. The audience is gone, their purpose served. I stand and wander over to the ring. He turns and pulls off his helmet as I approach.
“How goes it, Sir Jonathan of Durnford?” he calls to me, in his usual good humour.
“It goes well,” I reply. “Sir Bic.”