“The sign says Commoner Tournament” I said to my friend Erick “In light of Sir Brandons unfortunate death of old age, a tournament will be held where commoners can compete for a chance at his title, and properties.” I continued. It was a minor title barely above a peasant really, but all that land could mean actual money, a better life, but there in lay the rub, there was an entry fee. Enough money to buy a fatted goat, or ram a lot of food for a commoner.

After much contemplation I shook my head “nope!” I said, and made my way from the sign with Erick following after me as I headed for the Inn.

As we sat down, Erick tried to convince me that I would do good in the tournament.

I shook my head again, and said “Not gonna happen, I’d lose.”

“Well that’s negative” Came a voice from nearby.

I turned to see a middle aged gentleman with a trimmed salt, and peppered beard with more salt. His hair was still an auburn color with tinges of grey on the sideburns, He wore a wool workman's shirt, and canvas trousers, but something deep down told me that he was not what he was trying to look like. There wasn’t anything off by his looks, he looked after all like any other run of the mill commoner. For the moment I pushed the thought from my head, and answered “no it’s not actually, it’s simple pragmatism.”

The gentleman leaned forward, and simple said “elaborate for me please”

I nodded, and answered “It’s cold calculation first I have only been in about three fights in my life, two when I was a child, and the last one was against a blind drunk man, and while I acknowledge that most everyone else in this county hasn’t either, there are still plenty others that have, and enjoy fighting quite a bit. Further there’s several minor lords around here that are sponsoring some of the more…”

I took a moment to think of a polite term “less observant citizenry.” I pointed at a big oaf near the bar “Take him, he knocked teeth out of a draft mule simply because it bit him while he was hitching it to a plow, and he’s dumber than a bag of hammers. The bitter want to be baroness Lady Rebecca has already bought him a shiny new suit of gambason, and has been making sure he’s been eating meat, and will be till the tournament.” I took a breath “And she isn’t the only one. Then there are the wild cards the old soldiers, hunter’s, and such that have many scars, and years on them that won’t pull their punches for such a prize.”

The gentleman listened, nodded, and agreed “that’s quite an astute observation. Why would a noble want someone who is… non observant to win the tournament?”

I smiled, and answered “Stupid people are easy to control, they get offered a pittance of what that farm is worth, and because they don’t know any better they accept it, while the lord, or lady gets a significant boost in power, and ofcourse money.”