On the Field of Battle

Weapons and armor clashed around them. Arrows fell like rain, blotting out the sun. The French knights fought bravely, even recklessly; but the mud slowed them, leaving them easy targets for the English longbow-militia; trained and able to pierce even the thick French armour. Without support from their own archers - left behind in their mad charge - the flower of the French knighthood were no match for the English army. By the time they reached the English line, fortified with spikes to stop the French from overrunning the English position, the French were already half-spent; they would not win the day.

Two met on the field; one English, one French. They exchanged sweet words; the one gave a missive to the other, from a friend, long separated from the other by necessities of war. Then, as the French retreat was called, they, reluctantly, separated again; not to see one-another until peace came again. The Frenchwoman called out, asking that they should meet again, should speak by some other means; the Englishman could only shrug helplessly.

And that is the tale of our graduation practice.