It was late in the year for a tourney. Snow danced on the wind, blanketing the otherwise brightly colored tents in white.
Grain stood crooked in the fields, wind-broken and unsown – the legacy of a prince more concerned with celebrating his reign than feeding his people.
He sat astride a massive black charger, armor silver and shining. “Will no one else challenge me!?”
A gaunt, unsaddled mare plodded onto the field, carrying an underfed peasant clad in rags. He held a crooked spear in a single rusted gauntlet, and lowered it at the prince. Voice cracking, he cried, “I will!”
Image Credit: Jeff Kubina