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One of the camp-followers, a older maid whom you know lords more imperiously over the camp laundry than the Duke over his duchy, clasps her hands on the young boy's shoulders. This is not the first time you have seen the woman smile, but it's a rare sight that you get to see. Without a hint of her usual iron in her voice, she asks, "Do you remember what Squire Trevor told you to say, Rickard?"
"Uh-huh!" Rickard nods vigorously. The maid gives him a gentle push across the rope circle you've set upon the clover and the grass. He raises his wooden sword in a salute and declares, "I'm Rickard, son of Bjorn! I've come to ch... I've come for an honor duel! You've strik... uh... I forgot... but you made my big sister cry! Should I be vic... should I win, I would have you apol... you gotta say that you're sorry!"
You try not to let your amusement at the way the young boy stumbles over some of larger words show upon your face.
Fortunately, you have a lot of practice, turning your smile into a grim mask.
"You are a brave soul, to seek out those you believe have wronged your sister." You put on your commander's voice as you speak with the boy, the same voice you use when handing down orders from on high to your men-at-arms. Pulling yourself to your full height, you stand firm and rigid. "It is an honorable cause. I, Dame Louise le Blanc, accept your challenge. In turn, I propose the terms of our duel be thus:"
You hold up your hand, curling your fingers to the form of the second meditative prayer. A mote of light floats from the tip of your index and middle fingers, raised high and rigid while the others make a circle with your thumb. Rickard's eyes follow the mote in awe as it darts about to the ground, carving a small circle in the dirt around your feet. It is a simple orison, a variant of the Dancing Light, and one that you have great affinity for.
"Should my feet touch the ground outside this circle, or should you land a solid blow upon my person with your sword, the victory is yours," you tell the boy. His eyes still search for the mote that has burnt itself out carving the circle. "I shall only parry and dodge. My victory shall come if you wear yourself out trying, or should you declare that you give up. Are these terms acceptable, Rickard, son of Bjorn?"
He blinks, the gears turning about in his head. With a small pout, he says, "That's unfair, though. If you can't move..."
"Then the gulf that separates us is suddenly but a long and careful jump across," you tell him. When he tilts his head in confusion, you say, "This duel shall be a test of your will, Rickard, son of Bjorn. How long are you willing to reach for the unattainable for the chance to dry your big sister's tears, I wonder?"
Rickard huffs, the grin of a clueless boychild crossing his face as the confidence of ignorance lights in his eyes. "There's no way! Just you watch, I'll win this easy. I accept your terms, Dame Louise le Blanc!"
With those words, Rickard rushes at you.
