Felix was bleeding. Not an uncommon thing to occur in the tournament, despite the use of blunted weapons. He’d taken a hit across his helmet’s visor from the cross-guard of his opponent’s sword. It knocked his helmet off and the pummel cut his brow, oozing blood into his left eye. He didn’t bother putting his helmet back on, accepting the lack of protection for better vision now that he only had one eye.<br/><br/>He was already down two points to an obviously more skilled opponent and now could only use one eye. The man across from him was tall and big, made even larger by his spotless ornamented black and gold plate, clearly master-crafted to fit his body perfectly. Felix’s armor, on the other hand was a set of practical plate that despite its simple appearance fit him well and was much lighter than most sets on the field that day. The only coloring came from the dull blue-gray patina that had formed over the bare steel. “Something to start with,” his mentor had told him whenever he gifted him the armor no more than a week before his death. On Felix's shoulder pauldron he wore his knightly sigil as all knights of the kingdom did, a simple black silhouette of a raven's head against a gray diamond field, stenciled onto the metal. Sir Aleksander said the raven was smarter and stronger than it looked, so he felt it fitting.<br/><br/>His opponent’s mustachioed face grinned widely under his visor as Felix got back to his feet, using his blunted sword to help him back up. One eye was completely useless, and sweat from the young man’s light brown hair was stinging the other. The younger, smaller Felix looked stunned as he stood across from the heavily armored knight, unbalanced, sword not even position. The veteran knight rushed his advantage and threw technique aside for a powerful attack that would surely put the upstart down for good.<br/><br/>The grin left the man’s face quickly as Felix suddenly rushed his sword to meet his opponent’s above their heads, stopping it there. He stepped to the side and swept back of the knight’s knees with his right foot and sent the older man to the dirt. He brought the blunt edge of his sword down onto the man’s collar and tapped it against the plate.<br/><br/>“Point, Felix of Harkenwood!”<br/><br/>He could hear his mentor’s voice in his head, “If your opponent is beating you, at least make him think he’s beating you more than he is. Then use his eagerness against him.”<br/><br/>Felix wished he had a squire to wipe the blood from his eye or the sweat from his other. Still, he reached down to help his opponent up, a gesture the older knight failed to show him. The man knocked his hand away and rolled over, bringing himself quickly back onto his feet. Felix assumed his stance, knowing that trick would only work once.<br/><br/>His opponent, however, was infuriated by being outwitted by some lowborn bastard squire that was only there because his master couldn’t bother to have a son. The elder man lunged forward without setting up, and came up short. Felix slipped back and parried the sword along its original path, forcing it to go faster and further than his opponent intended, creating an opening. Felix spun with the momentum and brought his sword down against the back of the older knight’s neck.<br/><br/>“Point, Felix of Harkenwood!”<br/><br/>The crowd was excited now, the peasants were really the only ones watching, and only a few at that. This wasn’t a main event, just a qualifier. Still, Felix could hear a few men and women who cheered as he once again scored a point on the infamous Duke Dravingoth. Maybe they saw him as a hero of the common man, but most likely they liked seeing their oppressors get beaten.<br/><br/>Felix scored his final point easier than the last two. His opponent didn’t even properly disengage before trying another attack, Felix simply ducked under the attack and cut his blade under the man’s arm, winning the match.<br/><br/>The small crowd cheered as he was declared the winner and the raven flag was raised, but all he could think of was his stinging and blinded eyes. With the blurry vision from his right eye he collected his helmet, sheathed his sword and headed to the stables. His horse was there and he knew he had some clean rags in one of the bags. As he left the field, he could hear the duke screaming something at his squire, obviously upset at the result of the match. It wouldn't matter. It was likely that the duke had already bought his way into the main tournament. Some people just enjoy fighting weaker opponents.<br/><br/>He tripped over the threshold of the doorway, causing his armor to crash in the silent stable. To anyone inside he looked to either be quite drunk, badly beaten or both. In truth he couldn’t see. He stumbled over to where his horse was, opened one of the bags, withdrew a piece of cloth and wiped the blood and sweat from his eyes. “Much better,” he sighed, holding the cloth to the wound with one hand, gently stroking the mane of his chestnut mare.