A piercing screech split the sky, as lesser beings hid among the clouds. For one moment the crowd was silent. Then, applause shook the stadium from its very core. One rider was dying, another on one knee. Both mounts had collapsed in exhaustion. They had done well, too well, some had argued. But it was of no dispute their rest was deserved. The living rider placed his hand on the lance jutting from the ground, rising to his feet. He removed the simple bronze helmet, and preened himself.

Averting the gaze of all who cheered for him, he made his way to his dear friend, lying in the dirt. He stroked the scaly forehead of his ancestor, and it bellowed in pain and triumph. It knew it had done well, and the rider nodded. Turning to face his admirers, he raised one wing, and the crowd fell silent. He began to speak, and nary an eye looked away. “Caw cacawcacaw, cawcawcacawcaw cacaw. Cacawcaw cawcaw caw! Cacaw caw! Ca caw! Ca caw! Squaaawk!” The crowd booed as the rider left the arena, and stared as he took flight.