The crowd held a funereal silence, and at that moment it was the only place in all of Yattar that held such quiet. It was the silence itself that gave Torm the indication this was practically unheard of. He felt overwhelmed, perhaps slightly dizzy, but held himself well. What had he done to earn such an honor? The Squire knew intellectually it was the daring rescue of the other day, but emotionally it was hard to fathom. The warrior smelled the cloth, experiencing the soft fragrance of lavender. He tucked it into his breastplate, and knelt before her. 

"You do me great honor, m'lady. I will not lose today, I swear to you." 

He didn't know where the words had come from, but by Il he believed them. There were murmurs close by, mostly from the other fights. However, they were interrupted by a distant cheer from a grim covered peasant, likely quite drunk. It was a spark that ignited a chorus of cheers rolling over the witnesses, likely a thousand men and woman. Theophana seemed in her element, granting the masses a wave and a radiant smile. Torm looked at the pageantry and ease she held herself with, and realized yet again he was staring. 

He rose up and quickly went to find a place to be nondescript until his name came up. Mercifully for his stomach, but a cruel joke to the trouble he dropped himself in, the troubador spoke next. 

"Ladies and gentleman! We have not had such a display in this humble arena for seven years! For those of you who weren't here the last time, I'll wager that's about all of you, our strong champion is the first to fight in the melee! Now all we must decide, is who shall go against him!" He gesticulated to the tawdry courtier to the right of the arena, next to the rack. It was a study structure, lined with all the blunted weapons one could imagine on the continent. The courtier was upper middle aged and dressed like Torm would imagine a lower member of court might look if they were the unscrupulous villain in a folk story where he deflowered the purity of a princess. He waited for the cheering to die down, chin held high, before he reached into the large basket of lots, fishing around for dramatic effect before pulling out a single name. Evidently he was educated enough to read, for he did not give it to the troubadour. Instead he simply called to him a name. 

The troubadour, who stood in a more advantageous position to both hear and be heard, began to laugh. Torm would never forget that moment, at Yattar in the cold morning, while the sun peeked over the horizon and gave the announcer a glorious golden light as he expended a great mirth. 

"My lords! My ladies! And all the rest of you sods! It appears there will be some infighting today, for the opponent that shall face our graced challenger is none other than Matthias Fullman, Squire of the House of Obai!" 

Yet again, there was a roar of approval. Torm's eyes widened, unfamiliar with the name but not entirely certain how this worked. He turned to his fellow armsmen, seeing them all spin to regard a tall man with a broad nose, and long dark hair. His armor was polished, and though he was no knight, he had undoubtedly worked his way up from page in the service of the Falkenrath family. Torm, despite his recent 'heroics,' was likely nothing but an outsider to their eyes. He only gave Torm a cursory glance, before looking to the older armsman and sharing a smile, as if there was some private joke. 

The two squires were brought forward and led to the weapon's rack, what the announcer referred to as the armory. 

[i]3 minutes passed...[/i] 

Torm realigned his stance, feeling the weight of the axe in his hands. It was slightly heavier than his long handled one, more robust in the head. He almost felt like the head might topple off the end of it, despite the haft's thickness. He still smelled the faint lavender, and it brought his senses into focus as Matthias readied himself as well. The man had chosen a large bastard, holding the weapon in both hands as if it were an extension of himself. The helm Torm wore was stifling, his every breath loud in his ears. Was it nerves, or was it something else? His armor clinked, and yet again he felt just how hungry he was. He felt weak, and inadequate. What was he doing here, fighting an armsman of the House of Obai? 

The trumpet sounded.  

The two squires began to circle, and it was only now Torm realized Matthis was taller than he. No small thing, for Torm was not a short man. He fancied he was slightly bulkier of muscle, but having a height advantage could be the key to victory in a close match. Torm decided to take the initiative, and he stepped forward. Matthias redirected his blade to his left, cutting Torm's advance. Draufkrieg thrust his axe head forward in a show of attacking, before hooking the sword blade with the lower beard of the axe yanking the swordblade down. Matthias' blade whipped back, but Torm had already cleared the way, and struck Matthias in the stomach with the butt end of the axe. It drove the wind out of the taller squire, but he managed to swipe at Torm's face. He felt the weight of the sword glance off the top of his helm, and it caused Torm to bend down to keep it from being a clear blow. It lowered the stronger squire, and on instinct he swept his axe across the leading leg of Matthias. Hooking his calf, he yanked on the leg just before Matthias's sword came crashing down onto his shoulder. The move saved him, and Torm took Matthias off balance. The man jumped, the flat of his blade banging against Torm's pauldron, but Torm ignore it and charged like a bull, bowling Matthias to the floor of the arena. The squire fell atop the other, axe half pressing into Matthias's arm to keep him from grabbing hold of the large sword with both hands. Soon their mailed offhands were grasping at the others helm, and to Torm's surprise, Matthias could not get a firm grip on the strange shape of his great helm. The tall, heavy chunk of iron was hard to see in, and even more difficult to breathe, but it was also difficult to control or remove. After a few tense moments of struggle, Torm ripped Matthias' sallet off his face, and grabbed at his neck. 

"Yield! I yield!" Matthis yelled, his calm demeanor replaced by exertion and fear. 

Torm coughed, in disbelief for the briefest moment, before pushing himself up and off his opponent. For his part, Matthis scrambled away, too embarrassed to be allowed aid in getting up. Torm himself rose to his full height, and unable to look at the crowd from the lack of clear sight in his great helm, he simply raised his axe above his head with one hand, the other lowered in a fist. It was a knightly, stoic image. One Torm would see later in certain pieces of art, likely given by eyewitnesses. The crowd, bated breathe from all the cries and bets, screamed in equal excitement and outrage. 

"Lords and Ladies! Squire Torm Draufkrieg has won against Matthias Fullman!" The troubadour screamed over the crowd's roar.

Torm decided he wanted to see it, and he dropped the large weapon, and tore his own helmet off. His hair wild, he found the energy in his breast was too much, and he howled in exultation. It was the sound of a great wolf, he would hear. He could only feel it, and when he looked at the crowd, he saw Theophana watching him intently. Torm's ruddy face bloomed in a smile, and he clasped his hand over his breastplate, and knelt in her direction.