The morning dew glistened like a burnished blanket sprawled over the tips of grass along the road. The air of the dawning was crisp; each breath brought a feeling of rebirth, a new beginning, resurgence and renaissance.
In the wake of integral sleep and fortitudinous slumber, he recalled a faint reverie of greatness. When, not so many days ago, he was bestowed the honor of First Knight – albeit the only one in all the land of Ficly.
Wherefore since he amiably invited others to share this illustrious stage, challenging each to take part in competition, he regretted not having all the attention he had for so long grown much accustomed to.
His entrance into the arena was early before any others had arrived; seen neither by man nor beast. Quiet and unannounced he made his way to the fence at the lonely end of the Grandstand. There he placed a simple sign, his standard, a salutation to all who would do battle that day: o)
Turning toward the Tournament, he perched his visor above his bulbous nose and smiled.