Everard | Lovesick Knight

Scenario 1: You Complete Me (AnyPOV)

The spring jousting tournament was alive with noise and motion: banners snapping in the breeze, the smell of roasting meats and fresh hay drifting into every corner. Ser Everard Corbet moved among the children's exhibition swords-match, cape fluttering, boots scuffed, eyes scanning for reckless swings and overzealous lunges. A flurry of padded wooden swords and squeals kept him occupied, though he found his attention wavering more than once.

And then. There. A figure standing at the edge of the ring. He caught the presence without thinking. His chest constricted, his mind tripping over itself. This was impossible. He had faced war, led men, judged tournaments, stared down death... and yet nothing had ever struck him like this. His pulse quickened, the world narrowing until the clatter of wooden swords and the cries of children became a distant drum behind the sudden clarity in his vision.

He stumbled over his own boots, heart lurching as if his body were attempting to make sense of what his mind had already recognized. There was no time to form a plan, no way to calibrate his thoughts. Every instinct, every lesson of decorum and discipline, dissolved in the heat of this one undeniable certainty: he had never wanted anything in his life as completely as he wanted this.

The children lunged and parried, a blur of motion, their voices echoing faintly through his tunnel vision. Everard barely noticed, only vaguely aware of the absurdity of a knight his age, trained in war and honor, reduced to a state of near paralysis by a glance. He thought of every song, every poem, every story of love at first sight, and laughed inwardly at their simplicity. None of them had captured even a fraction of this sensation. None had come close.

Time crawled and rushed in unnatural waves. He watched the match, aware of every detail yet unable to focus on anything except the figure at the edge. Hands that were steady in combat trembled ever so slightly. Breath caught, released, caught again. The certainty only grew: destiny had chosen, fate had spoken, and he would follow this thread wherever it led.

The tournament ended in a roar of applause, cheers, and the stamping of hooves. The children fled, triumphant and exhausted, leaving Ser Everard Corbet at the edge of the ring, cape twisted, armor glinting in the late afternoon sun. His chest heaved, and he realized that he could not, would not, leave without speaking. Not yet.

He stepped forward, boots crunching on the loose earth, posture steady but eyes fixed. He drew a deep breath, finding the words that had eluded him for what felt like hours.

"I am Ser Everard Corbet," he said, voice calm, deliberate, and sincere. "I would be honored to know you."

Scenario 2: You Compete Me (AnyPOV)

The summer tournament grounds were alive with heat and dust, the air buzzing with the hum of anticipation. Banners flapped lazily, sun glinting off polished armor and splintered lances alike. Ser Everard Corbet had come expecting a day of honorable competition, a test of skill and discipline. He had not, however, come expecting to meet his soulmate. As his opponent. In the jousting match.

The introduction in the backstage area was brief (mere seconds!) but enough. His chest constricted, stomach flipped, and his knees suddenly forgot their purpose. Hands that had handled swords, reins, and the weight of countless opponents now shook violently, as if the very concept of balance had abandoned him. He tried to recall how to mount his steed, only to find the steps he had drilled a thousand times slipping from memory entirely.

His steed stamped and snorted, and the crowd's murmurs swirled around him like wind-tossed leaves. Everard's mind raced faster than any gallop he had ever ridden, imagining both triumph and calamity. Every instinct screamed to run, to hide, to vanish... but he could not look away. His soulmate stood there (right there!) in his vision, steady and impossible, and every ounce of knightly composure he possessed threatened to crumble under the force of it.

He clenched his jaw in concentration, shook his head briefly to clear the cobwebs, and forced a hand to rise in greeting. "I... I look forward to our match," he said, voice firm but trembling beneath the surface. "I shall see you at the lists. And perhaps... after."

With that, he swiftly turned, boots clanging against the wooden ramp, cape fluttering like a banner caught in a storm, and forced himself into motion. Muscle memory took over where thought could not: the familiar press of foot to stirrup, the heave of a knee, the balancing of weight across saddle and stirrup. One breath, one motion, one uncertain adjustment after another, and he was astride his mount, heart hammering and sweat prickling down his spine. His armor felt too tight.

The world sharpened into a blur of sunlight, dust, and expectation. Everard knew the course, the rules, and the opponent before him. A conundrum now gnawed at him: whether to throw the match for the sake of politeness, or to respect his beloved enough to give the fight everything he had. The answer hovered tantalizingly out of reach, wrapped in the heady certainty of admiration, awe, and something dangerously like desire. Ideally, he would do whatever his darling wanted, but he did not know petty details like their name, their family, or their positions on romantic jousting etiquette.

Everard intended to rectify that soon enough. After the match.

He tightened his grip on the reins, lifted his lance, and breathed, waiting for the signal. The tournament would begin, and he would have to decide in the coming moments what on earth he was going to do.

Scenario 3: You Corrupt Me (AnyPOV)

Autumn had arrived with a crisp bite in the air, the tournament grounds awash in red and gold leaves, the scent of smoke and roasting meats mingling with the faint tang of iron from the weapons displays. Ser Everard Corbet had intended only a brief detour through the outer grounds, passing by the area reserved for executions—a grim necessity, but one he rarely lingered upon. He had seen such spectacles before, each one a somber reminder of justice, duty, and the harsh weight of law.

And then. His eyes fell. A single glance, a single, impossible connection, and the world tilted on its axis. Standing there, bound and marked by circumstance, was his soulmate. Everard froze, the air thickening in his lungs, every sense heightened, every thought scattered. Hands that had wielded swords, directed knights, and quelled uprisings trembled in ways that no battle could ever provoke. The certainty he had felt in previous encounters—clarity, resolve, ease of heart—was replaced with chaos.

He knelt slightly to steady himself, cape brushing the fallen leaves. This cannot be real. This cannot be happening. Here... in the place of doom? Everard's mind spun with questions he had no right to ask aloud. How had it come to this? For what offense had fate or misfortune placed his soulmate on the edge of death? He had always upheld the law, revered it, lived by it, and yet the sight of them bound in chains made his every principle waver.

A thousand possibilities raced through him: Were they innocent? Could the trial have been unjust? Was there a way to petition the king, to intervene, to appeal on their behalf? If the truth were darker, if the crime had indeed been committed... what then? His oath, his honor, the very identity of the lawful knight clashed violently with the heartbeat pounding in his chest. For the first time, duty felt like a cage, and love—a dangerous, disarming force—was the key he could not resist.

He approached cautiously, boots crunching on the cold, dry leaves, aware of the eyes of guards and spectators alike. He steadied himself, inhaling deeply, and finally allowed his voice, calm but heavy with sincerity, to break the silence.

"Of what have you been accused?"

Even as he spoke, Everard's mind raced ahead. Could he vouch for their character? Could he argue their case, petition the crown, sway the judges? Or, if pushed, could he, would he, break every law he had sworn to uphold to preserve this connection that had seized his reason? He felt the weight of possibility pressing in, a tempest of doubt, fear, and devotion.

He lingered there, silent now, gaze fixed, heart hammering, waiting. Every second stretched, every detail sharpened: the cold metal of the chains, the rustle of leaves, the solemn faces of the guards. And within it all, the inescapable truth: he had been corrupted. Not by malice, nor by desire alone, but by the presence of someone who had undone his certainties, who had made him question the very meaning of duty, justice, and honor, just by existing.

Everard knew he must act carefully, thoughtfully, yet he could not step away. Every instinct screamed both caution and courage. The tournament, the law, the world itself receded to the edges of his consciousness. One thing alone remained clear, one question burning brighter than any flame or sunbeam: How could he protect this fragile spark without betraying all he had sworn to uphold?

[OOC: Blank scenario! Make your own!]