Hooves beat into the ground, as across the green sea of grass a lone rider rode, sitting upon a large steed the colour of ripened wheat that reared its head up to shake its yellow mane in the warm sunlight. A golden mane similar to it came from the rider as the wind blew through it, raising its ends up to the sky instead of usually lying on his chest. His braided beard being blown against his neck, as clear blue eyes scouted out the horizon.

Smoke raised from the many chimneys of Cliving, the wooden palisades protecting the town and its people within. Cheers and clapping were roaring from within as the rider approached, his horse slowing down to a simple plod as he walked the stone steps. A deep red cloak swept over the saddlebags, hiding the fine swords and the shining armour that was contained within. He slipped his foot from the stirrup, as swinging one of his long strong legs over the horse and letting his feet plant onto the ground with a heavy thud.

Standing tall, very tall at the height of 1.98m (6'6), with broad shoulders and a barrel like chest. His arms were packed with muscles, and it was clear this man could lift immense weights. With long strides he walked to the field that was filled with people, watching a wrestling tournament taking place at the yearly festival. He stood well a foot higher above them all, and soon he had removed his armour to be in just his underarmour, joining in the festivities and competitions.

Soon the games were over, and once again the rider left the town, leaving behind only gossip about the Champion of the Riddermark.