Tale of Knights

Your master dies in the tent. The field still calls. Wear the plate, take the purse, and don't get caught.

Plot

**Tale of Knights** Sir Aldren, You’s own Sir knight, dies in their tent with one challenge still live and the marshal already bellowing that name like the corpse might sit up and answer. You is the common-born attendant who knows every pinch, slip, and bad buckle of that tired plate, who practiced fighting in secret behind the horse lines, and who grew up in the same service as Burgess and Charlie — which is a polite way of saying nobody here was invited to be noble. The leftover match is already underway: no fresh cry, no new entry, only a waiting crowd, a purse on the table, and a dead knight’s harness still warm enough to steal. Wear it, finish the card, and take the money. Or stay in the straw with the truth, which has never paid a groat. After the field closes, a circuit herald will offer You the two worst good ideas in Blackmere: get turned in, or ride the next meet as a brand-new Sir Knight with forged arms and a scroll so confident the entry clerks will bow to the ink. From there the season is open and the joke is on anyone with a box seat. Village greens, market lists, house seats, and the Crown’s own ground all host tournaments across the land. You may enter the Joust, the Sword, the Horse Race, or Archery — any of them, as often as coin, nerve, and the next lie will stretch. Knights on the circuit will measure You as a peer, which is delightful until someone asks about a house that does not exist. A crowd-favorite count will try to raise the game or drag it into the dirt. The Crown watches from the box. Winning buys better tents, louder favor, and the kind of name people remember — which is exactly the problem. Discovery means the Royal Prison Tower, confiscation, disgrace, or worse if the offense reaches the throne. Clemency is rare and usually involves groveling. The plate still fits. The field still calls. What You does with a dead knight’s afternoon is the tale. MiMo-2.5-pro recommended Play as your own characters in the kingdom of Blackmere if you wish. They are all welcome in the lists.

Opening scene

The Joust The first thing you notice is that Sir Aldren has stopped breathing. The second thing you notice is that this is becoming a problem. "Sir?" you say. No response. You lean closer. "Sir Aldren?" Still nothing. Across the small tent, Burgess stares at you. "Are they dead?" You look down at the knight. Sir Aldren, veteran of three campaigns, winner of the Summer Tournament at Bellmont, and a person who spent the last hour loudly complaining that their opponent in The Joust had cheated, lies completely motionless on their cot. You place two fingers against their neck. Nothing. You wait. Nothing. You try again, because apparently the first attempt was not convincing enough. Still nothing. "They're dead," you finally say. Burgess closes his eyes and sighs. "Of course they are." From the other side of the tent comes a loud crunch. Charlie is sitting on a wooden crate, chewing what appears to be the last piece of bread in the entire world. He looks at Sir Aldren. Then at you. Then at Burgess. "Did they leave any food?" Burgess slowly turns toward him. "Charlie." "What?" "Our knight is dead." "I know." "And that's your first question?" Charlie looks genuinely confused. "Would you rather I ask if they left any money?" Burgess rubs his face. You stare at both of them. For a moment, nobody says anything. Outside, the tournament continues. The distant roar of the crowd rolls across the grounds. Horses whinny. Armor clatters. Somewhere nearby, someone is enthusiastically announcing the next round of The Joust. You look back at Sir Aldren. Sir Aldren does not appear particularly concerned. "Well," Burgess finally says, "that's inconvenient." "Inconvenient?" "They're supposed to be competing." Charlie finishes his bread. "How much is the prize?" Burgess gives him a look. "What?" Before anyone can answer, a voice outside the tent calls out: "Sir Aldren! Prepare yourself! You will be called shortly!" Everyone inside freezes. Slowly, you turn toward the pile of armor resting on its stand. The helmet. The breastplate. The gauntlets. Then you look down at Sir Aldren. Then, despite yourself, you look at the armor again. Charlie follows your gaze. His eyes widen. "No." Burgess notices. "No." You say nothing. Charlie points at you. "Absolutely not." Burgess steps between you and the armor. "We are not doing this." Outside, the crowd cheers. The tournament official calls again. "Sir Aldren! You are expected on the field!" You have served Sir Aldren long enough to know their equipment. You know how they liked their straps tightened, which gauntlet pinched their fingers, and exactly how much complaining was required before they allowed anyone to help them into their armor. You have also spent more time than you would ever admit watching knights compete. Watching them train. Watching them fight. And, when nobody was looking, practicing a few things yourself. The problem is that you are not a knight. You are not noble. You have never inherited land, sworn fealty to a lord, or had anyone call you Sir without immediately laughing afterward. But Sir Aldren... You glance down at the body. They were roughly your size. Close enough, anyway. The armor might fit. Probably. Burgess sees the realization on your face. "Oh, no." Charlie looks at the armor. Then at you. Then at the armor again. A slow grin spreads across his face. "Actually..." Burgess immediately points at him. "No." "But think about it." "No." "We could win the prize." "Charlie." "Think of how much food that buys." Burgess hesitates. You look at him. He looks at the armor. Then at Sir Aldren. Then back at you. "...How good are you?" You shrug. "Not good enough to be a knight." Charlie grins wider. "That's not what I asked." Another call comes from outside. "Sir Aldren!" The crowd begins chanting. Burgess stares at you for several long seconds. Then he exhales. "If you're going to do something stupid, at least let me help you do it properly." Charlie jumps to his feet. "I'll get the boots." "You are not helping." "I'll get the boots anyway." You reach for the breastplate. For the first time, the absurdity of what you're considering truly settles in. You could walk onto that field. You could put on the dead knight's armor. Nobody would see your face. Nobody would know. Not yet. You might be exposed immediately. You might be humiliated. You might lose. You might get seriously injured. You might somehow win. And if you win... There is prize money. A lot of prize money. You look at Burgess. He gives you the expression of an older brother who already knows he's about to regret supporting you. You look at Charlie. He's already trying to figure out whether tournament winnings could buy an entire roast pig. Then you look at the helmet. Sir Aldren is not getting back up. And apparently, the Joust is about to begin. The helmet is waiting. What do you do?

Characters

Tags: Male Female Knight Swordsman Commoner Human OpenEnding AnyPOV HiddenIdentity Adventure Combat Noble Friendship FindingSelf Loyal Brave Unyielding Ambitious Determined Optimistic Arrogant Derivative Fictional Fantasy Comedy Climactic WarmBlooded FastPaced

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By: dinoshepherd94

Stories

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