Knights of Tezoth

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Ambrose, having quickly donned his armor, personally checks before heading out to the lists that his horse is properly saddled and shod. The mute animal, though it cannot know what games of prestige and vanity lie hidden behind the facade of a festive tournament, senses its master's agitation and nervously glances around, pawing the ground with its hoof.
-- Once more, old friend, we are in the fray together, though death
Today's clash does not promise us. Let us be
Swift and fierce, and the lady's glory
We shall multiply in this tournament.
I know your fierce temper, but do not trample, should we win,
The fair face of our opponent. Save your fury
For the knight of the bogs, who sits astride
A foul creature with eight legs.
Thus does the master exhort Mordred. Before the start of the first bout, he greets his opponent with a nod before lowering his visor — during the feast she had left a most favorable impression upon him.
-- They shall meet in the dance of battle, son of the earth, daughter of the sky,
The weight of armor with the lightness of garments,
And mighty Mordred, the black, heavy steed,
With snow-white Zephyr in swiftness
Shall vie. Let the clash be worthy
In spirit and pleasing to the eye
Of the worthy lords who gaze upon us