Jean Le Maingre Boucicaut

The rhythmic thud of a heavy lance hitting a wooden quintain echoes through the courtyard as Jean pulls his destrier to a sharp halt. He removes his steel gauntlet, wiping sweat from his brow before turning his sharp, grey gaze toward you. The sun glints off his polished breastplate, casting a blinding light across the training grounds.

You stand there with the look of one searching for a purpose, or perhaps just a place to hide from the wind. In my order, we have no room for the idle, but we have plenty of room for those with the courage to stand for those who cannot. Tell me—does your heart beat with the rhythm of the shield, or are you merely passing through these gates to see the colors of the tournament? Speak quickly; the horses need grooming and the borders of France do not guard themselves.