"Hello and welcome everyone! On this brilliant spring day, we find ourselves fortunate enough to be present at the Sourdough Arena, in all of its splendor!" 

A tall, lanky man with sand colored hair with the colorful outfit of a troubadour stepped out onto the dirt, speaking to the crowd as if all the eyes of the continent were on him. His voice rang clear and loud, able to reach the upper seats. He spoke in a sarcastic, yet grandiose way that seemed to make a sardonic wit on the usual presenters. No doubt the Sourdough Arena was the only place he could get away with it. Torm might have even been entertained, had he not been ordered to turn and present himself at arms, only to see in the slit of his visor the Lady Theophana. Whether by blessing or curse, she was at the center of his vision when he turned, and the embarrassment of earlier, along with the silent judgement and contempt of his fellows shattered like glass. He wondered why she was present. She looked even more radiant than the day before. 

"I see we have nobility in our presence!" The man cried, clearly unprepared for the eventuality. Torm had not been listening to rest of his presentation until he had been thrust back into reality. The troubadour seemed slightly less arrogant and foolhardy, knowing he could not simply curtail and pander to the mob. He clapped his hands together. "As I said, what an auspicious day! Gentlemen, as you all know we have your names in lots, and the matches will be set up for such. However, as the nobility have seen fit to grace us, we shall first do the march of honor. Remove your visors in respect!" 

The lieutenants ordered the same action, and all the knights and squires did as they were bit. Torm was once again caught on the off foot. He paused, and then decided to pull the entirety of his helmet off. As it lifted off, he shook his head like a stallion, and stood tall, eyes forward, though they drifted to the upper seats where Theophana sat. To the crowd, Torm was one of only four men out of nearly a hundred that needed to fully remove their helmets. 

At the calls of the lieutenants, the men formed a rough line, starting from the north with house De Broase. They would march past, and when the house of Obai did so, each man would face her and give the lady a bow, acknowledging her with a curt 'm'lady' to honor her, before the match began. Torm was inexperienced, but he had been told as such by all the stories, and it seemed to be lining up exactly as he had been informed. They would then march past the tall weapon's rack, and await their time to fight. He desperately hoped his was soon, lest he lose from simple hunger.