Tathel rides hard, Tathel leans in his saddle for purchase, Tathel crouches low, Tathel exhibits beautiful form,
...and Tathel misses. Not a second after the end of his poll sails beneath the stationary shield-beam, his face slams into it instead. He is flung back in his saddle, his horse continuing it's charge after his head has come to an abrupt stop. The poll falls from his hands, his legs fly up in his stirrups, and only by curling his torso up and pumping his legs back, the instincts of a good horseman, does the dazed, self-bludgeoned squire remain unsteadily mounted.
The crowd bursts into an extended fit of laughter, and even Elad cannot conceal an amused smile. A few squires and a groom rush over to help him, but Tathel has already righted himself by the time they reach him. Having been walked back to the waiting onlookers, he is helped to the ground, and it is determined that the thin stream of blood running down from his brown curls is a broken scalp, and nothing more. "Well, master Tathel, I think you have helped us all to learn a valuable lesson. And that is that battle is ever uncertain. Sometimes you slay the dragon, and sometimes the dragon slays you. However, you will usually find better success if you strike with your lance rather than your skull, no matter how thick it is"
jokes the old knight, to the crowd's mirth. He chuckles and pats the squire's back well-meaningly. "Good work keeping on your horse, but put some work into your aim."
He addresses the crowd "Do I have another volunteer?"