A squire to be, barely a dozen years to his name, like he was growing accustomed to do on hot nights, wandered into the woods with a wooden stick in one hand along with a naive innocence he had yet to leave behind. No matter how often he claimed to be ready for war, his lack of experience kept him from experiencing bravery, as all possible fears were kept at bay behind his wall of ignorance.
Between spring and summer se neither a growing or a weaning moon, scarcely any clouds hid the gods from spying on the beasts of their creation nor men of their recreation, maybe that is why so many things happen on ordinary nights when the gods tightened the cords of fate lest their games with men grow boring, tonight, the first cracks on the young boy's shield would appear as the boy stumbles on a root and rolls down a small hill, stopping besides a stream of cool water. Aramaious, accounts for his scratches and notices his sword is intact and firmly in his hands; a true knight would never drop his weapon, the fall being dismissed less as a mishap, and more as an opportunity to practice his ability to roll and avoid any rocks, one wooden lunge forward several dodges, a sidestep and a full hearted swing which finally cleaved his imaginary foe from shoulder to breastplate.
Still, at twelve, there are many things you are forgiven, most often it is that sense of invincibility form having yet to have tried, yet to have felt the sting of defeat.
