Torm woke up before the smell of cooking pots and the cock crowed. The morning was still dark, but when he peered out of his tent, there was a wan light just under the trees, like Father Joseph rising with Mulchaddezur's Golden Lamb. Still, Yattar never slept. He could hear distant voices and the neighing of horses. For some reason he also heard the call of a goat, and he assumed there was an innocent reason for it. 

The newly inducted squire of Obai closed the tent flap, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He'd been given the chance to wash before he slept, and he took it, but he couldn't relax. The water was cold and the lye itched, but he managed to get clean so he could present himself as a proper squire. A servant granted him the armaments needed to perform in the melee the next day, and that was precisely the reason he rose early. He had no squire or servant of his own, and it took time to put on the armor. He tied the londonier along his lower back and swiftly put on the padded chausses. He was unused to sabatons, but the greaves felt like old friends. The padded jack and coif came next, along with the chainmail hauberk. The globos breastplate was an oddity, but he had worn one before, he had simply never owned one himself. Technically he did not own this one, either. Next came the arm braces, and then the pauldrons. He could hardly reach about to finish the latter off, but he somehow managed it. Soon, all he had left was to don his helm, but he would wait. 

He had been granted an antique. A great helm with a slim visor. Robust and impeccable for defense, but his vision was intensely limited and he could hardly turn. It looked somewhat rusted, but the regalia showed it was an obai helm from the holy wars of Calsidechi. He took it as a good omen. These used to be worn exclusively by knights, and while no one wore them now, a chevelier had once used it in defense of the faith. He gave a quick prayer he would do them honor. 

Once he stepped out of the tent, he found the darkness of morning had given way to sun and breakfast. The Obai encampment was bustling with activity as couriers, cooks, maids, and pages hurried through the weaving cavalcade of pavilions and tents. He asked a grey-bearded goodman where he could find something to eat, and the servant hastily pointed him at a cookpot four tents away. Torm thanked him, but he was already out of ear shot. Torm advanced on the food, stopping to allow a scullery maid to sashay by, but before he could take another two steps, he was overtaken by a rider. A man on a black stallion, with long hair as dark as his steeds, stomped the beast in Torm's space in a manner that was unabashedly intimidating. 

"You! Are you the one called Draufkrieg?" He asked, eyes bristling like daggers. Torm realized he must be a knight. His armor was of superb quality, and he proudly wore the dove of the house of Falkenrath on his surcoat. 

"Yes, good sir." Torm said, giving the customary greeting to his forehead. 

"You are needed at the melee. If you dawdle any longer, you'll be disqualified." He said with barely held contempt, his lip curling. Many women might find the goatee he sported dashing, Torm imagined, but to the squire it only added to his menace. "What do you wait for, man?" 

Torm's stomach knotted, not because of his intense hunger, but of embarrassment. "Sir, I had no servant to aid in dressing me. Only now have I left my tent to eat breakfast." 

"Then you should have planned for such!" He snapped. Torm had indeed, but apparently not well enough. "You may eat after you've competed. I have been dishonored by our liege by having to fetch you like an errand boy. If I have to do so again, I will end your life with a lance or a blade, whichever suits me. Are we clear, you cad?" 

"Yes, sir." Torm breathed, giving a quick bow in supplication. He wasn't frightened of the man's blade, but to insult a knight so early in his patronage could be a permanent blemish on his career. The knight did not even answer, he simply sniffed and kicked his steed into motion. The horse cantered off, nearly killing a servant girl. She tumbled into the soft dirt still caked with dew. Torm opened his mouth in concern, but another man had come to check on the woman. He curbed the instinct to aid her, and ran off to the melee area. 

There were four main events at Yattar, along with two dozen other smaller competitions of strength and skill. The most popular by far was The Joust, and three lanes were built to accommodate different sections of the competition. The Knights of Terriche typically won, but there were always surprises. Next was the Archery competition, where the men of Abelorn reigned supreme with their longbows. However, it was in the two melees that the men of Eisenriek held their reputation. The first was the Grand Melee, a battle of warbands on foot in a cordoned off arena. The second was the Soldier's Melee, where a singular man could make a small bit of coin and fame. Of course, you had to pay to get in, but if a lord represented you, they could foot the bill for the melee, as it was a pittance in cost compared to the Joust. 

Torm found the Melee arena, one of three in all, at the south eastern end of the Yattari grounds. The arena was a rough hexagon of wooden rails, with a simple dirt floor and raised seats overlooking the venue, along with a single watch tower. The seats could hold four hundred men and women, the least in all of Yattar. In particularly popular days, a few hundred could stand on the ground outside of the spikes beyond the ring, and it was only in the Soldier's Melee that commoners openly placed bets. Of course wagers were common across the entirety of the township, but it was seen as crass and done in whispers or before the competition. Not in the Soldier's Melee, and particularly in the Sourdough Ring, the lowest of the three arenas. It was not exclusive, but men who had never competed in the competition were required to fight there before they could move to the Brass Arena, and then the Arena of Champions. The Sourdough Arena was a preliminary affair. 

Torm squeezed through the crowd, horrified to find the nameless knight had not been exaggerating. The flags of the lords were hanging over the sidelines, where all men who served noble lords conversed and awaited the trumpet call and the list of names to be decided for the day. Torm stepped under the Flag of Sigfried Falkenrath, and found himself face to face with unkind faces. 

"You're lucky boy," an older man with hard eyes said. He tongued something before spitting phlegm onto the ground. "Il is kind to newcomers on the first day. One of the lieutenants of Lord Gimbol has caught the plague." 

"Oh," Torm breathed, understing immediately. This arena was too lowbrow for the lords themselves. They had a lieutenant chaperone and watch, and they had to postpone the beginning for their replacement. 

Saints above, what a start.