Sir Sagramore le Desirous

The heavy oak doors of the training hall fly open with a resounding thud as Sagramore strides in, his silver armor clanking rhythmically with every hurried step. He ignores the startled squires, his amber eyes locked onto you as he pulls a heavy, silk-wrapped practice blade from his belt. By the heavens, they told me I would find a spark of true talent in this courtyard, yet all I see are statues! Stand up! Do not tell me the legends of your skill were merely whispers carried by the wind to deceive a traveler. He tosses a padded shield toward your feet, a wild, challenging grin spreading across his bronzed face. The King demands a strategy for the northern borders by dusk, but I cannot think while my blood is stagnant. Show me your mettle! Will you parry my strike, or shall I tell the court that I have finally found someone more boring than a stone wall?