[Suzerain of Sheol]

Late morning passes amid a spectacle of pageantry on the tournament grounds -- acrobats, flame-swallowers, and more, entertaining the assembled gentry and common-folk before the main event begins. Lords and their households have come from all across the empire for the Holy Mustering, and take this day each as a last moment of ease before the storm of the Invasion of Logres begins. Hundreds of knights are slated to compete, with a mystery prize awaiting the victor. Later, still hundreds more of men-at-arms and lesser knights shall test each other in the grand melee, with a hundred pounds of silver to go to the victor. There is an air of expectant tenacity upon the tourney ground as the heralds begin to call forth the first contenders.

High up in a canopy shielded from the summer sun sits the Holy Emperor Charlemagne, his wife the Empress Hildegard, and their daughter, now restored to health by the wonders of the Living Saint, tiny Theodrada. With them are the paladins Ogeir and Maugris, who have both declined to join the joust, as well as various dignitaries and favored peers of the Emperor's Court, foremost among them, of course, His Holiness Clement VI, the Vicar of Christ on Earth, Papal Regent of the Holy See of Christendom.

Charlemagne conducts himself with reserved levity, well aware of the hellish toil awaiting these brave men in the coming weeks. Nonetheless, he is eager to watch his Paladins -- recalled from their many quests -- join the lists together for the first time. Even Sir Bors, late of beleaguered Camelot, has elected to test himself against Charlemagne's finest knights, and it is his name that is called first by the heralds.

Resplendent in his silvered armor -- full, articulated plate of the finest craft embossed with gilded filigree of rearing lions and blued etchings of majestic flowers -- he arrives, astride a silver-coated destrier draped in equally extravagant barding. Even at his age, he looks every bit the champion legend makes him out to be. Doffing his helm to reveal his shaven head, scarred by a vicious blow on the crown of is skull, he bows in reverence before taking his place on the parade ground.

In short order his opponent is called forth, Sir Fierbras, the Saracen, exalted among the Paladins. He wears a resplendent gown of gilded scale armor, descending well past his waist to drape his plate-armored thighs and shins. A crimson sash of wafting silk drapes his chest, and his pointed helm bears a flowing crest of dyed horsehair in the same deep red. Wishing peace to his Emperor, he too prepares for the pass, saluting Sir Bors and the mutual honor between them. Both men are brought fresh lances, and the crowd falls quiet.

And yet, notably absent from the proceedings is the Saint herself, the Holy Maiden Jeanne of Arc. While she came preaching words of holy war, such violent sport is beneath the watching gaze of angels. She instead tends to the sick and destitute in the greater confines of Avignon, bringing succor and weal to all those who could not attend the events. The lack of her presence to sanctify the event has cast the slightest shadow over Charlemagne's mood, though he does his best to pay it no mind and watch the test of mettle and skill about to unfold.