Her night with Sir Knight went as planned:
sweet words, strong wine, the dance of the damned.
His horse wuffled softly outside the tent.
Inside delicate fabric was rent.
Blood spilled on the field his calling card,
a fine knight in sooth, a better one hard,
stripped of armor, scars revealed,
darkness hiding wounds yet unhealed.
His imposing lance seemed hale enough
but buried inside was deadly stuff
which years untended had brought to this state
and passed there to her, sealing her fate.
Trundling, weakened, disgraced by sick blood,
goes the once-lovely girl who thought noble meant good.
My entry for the new Prediction!
Come join us.