His horse trotted on the field, torched grass burning underneath him. Blood covered the metal scales of his armor and his rough, unwashed skin. His breath was shallow as he said, "Tristan. There you are, I was worried we'd lost you in the battle."

You reply, your breath shaky. Your bow is firmly held between your arm and your light armor. Your hair is damp. You breathe, "Yeah, yeah I'm fine."