Shouts, conversation, and the clash of metal filled the Summer air. The high activity of the tournament grounds had turned many of the main pathways to muck, the mud squelching deep underfoot. For Sir Esbiorn the Lion, however, keeping on horseback meant he avoided being subject to the mess. His armour was polished to a pristine quality, showing his high status, and his long hair hung around his ferocious, keen expression like a strawberry-blond mane. His title certainly fit his description, indeed.
As Sir Esbiorn passed through, whispers from observers mentioned the lion, some murmured immortal or unstoppable, and some even uttered words of a less than savoury nature. However, despite the unmistakable air of wisdom and experience that glowed from his proud form, Sir Esbiorn revelled in the attention. He had always been one for the spotlight, and being so well known amongst his peers had always been a priority to his ego. In all fairness, he had rightfully earnt his place on the pedestal: he was a knight that demanded respect, and he received it.
His pride did not falter his composure, all except for the wicked grin and small, determined frown he adorned. He held himself with a staunch grace of sorts: with his armoured shoulders posed back and his chin held high. He knew himself, and he made sure everyone else knew that, too. This was the confidence of a man who won.
It was around midday, the weather was pleasant, and the tourney itself was bustling with lively activity. Many of the competitions were already underway, and in amongst the tents, stalls, and shows, people from all around Christendom had gathered to observe. It was definitely an interesting place for observing character. It was filled with types who sought glory, possible bloodshed, and for the gain of gambled coin.
Sir Esbiorn dismounted his horse once he reached the front of the stables, turning to a blond boy who seemed of the right age and status--
‘You there, stable-boy! See to my mount, will you? Be sure she’s tended and well fed.’
