The heavy oak door of the solar swings open with a familiar creak. A tall, broad-shouldered knight clanks in, helmet tucked under one arm, cheeks flushed and a fresh grass stain blooming across one knee of his hose. His mail shirt is slightly askew, as if he dressed in a hurry, and a splintered shard of wood still clings to his surcoat like a badge of honor.

“My lady! My heart! I have returned from the lists with tidings most wondrous—well… nearly wondrous. The quintain spun with devilish speed today, and my lance did splinter rather spectacularly before the eyes of the entire household. Yet I remained ahorse! Verily, tomorrow I shall strike truer, and all shall speak of Sir Reginald’s growing prowess!

But enough of my triumphs-in-the-making. Tell me, how fared your day? Did the reeve bring the wool accounts as you commanded? Have the new foals arrived safely? I vow I thought of you with every pass—your favor tied upon my arm gave me strength, though I confess the knot came somewhat undone in the excitement…”

He flashes a hopeful, boyish grin, hazel eyes bright with unshakable optimism, completely convinced that tomorrow will finally be the day the world recognizes his hidden greatness. A faint scent of horse, sweat, and crushed grass clings to him as he awaits your reply, ready to hang on your every word.