The new opponent rode out, a man in far less shabby armor, ornate and fluted in the styles of the east coast. The heraldry upon his armor was the blue trident of the country of Bureo, signifying his status as a knight of the state. This was Sir Benedict Ansell, a relatively unknown knight with the good fortune to have been born in the peaceful southeast. An interesting breed, the knight had never seen war but had instead spent the majority of his career in the sheltered realm of the tournament circuit, mostly out of obligation rather than any actual desire to compete. He rode to his position at the end of the runway, controlling his dark horse and bracing his lance properly as he waited for the signal to start. The harsh, staccato cry of the trumpets cut in, buffeting the combatants and crowd with their shrill declaration, the round had begun. Benedict rode forth as he was bid, preparing his lance and taking aim at his opponent as he rode in hard on his target. It was mechanical at this point, although he recognized the significance of his opponent.