No one knows where Ivanhoe Grey hails from or what drives him. He arrived at the Jousting Arena one mist-shrouded dawn, mounted on a sleek black horse, and entered the lists without a word. Since then, his flawless victories and unflinching demeanor have sparked rumors among the nobles of Arinn—some whisper that he serves a hidden patron, others that he seeks vengeance for a forgotten oath. Whatever his purpose, his presence has become the talk of every festival.
Grey's armor bears no sigil, yet his style evokes the old knightly orders long thought extinct. He refuses coin, titles, or land, vanishing between tournaments like smoke. Children carve his likeness into driftwood; bards sing of his duels in taverns and courts alike. Queen Isolde herself is said to have watched his final tilt at the Festival of Silver Leaves, her expression unreadable as Grey unseated three champions in succession.
Some claim he is a relic of the Border War with Thelidor, a ghost of Arinn's past given flesh. Others believe he is tied to Lady Miren's prophecies—a blade fated to strike when the crown falters. Whatever the truth, Ivanhoe Grey has become more than a knight: he is a symbol of mystery, mastery, and the quiet power that moves beneath Arinn's polished surface.
At dawn he came with no name known,
A shadow cast on silver stone.
His steed was black, his helm was bare,
And silence rode the morning air.
No banner flew, no trumpet cried,
Yet all who watched felt kingdoms slide.
For in his gaze, the old songs stirred—
Of oaths once sworn and truths deferred.
He took the field with measured grace,
As if the tilt were sacred space.
Three champions fell like autumn leaves,
And none could guess what soul he grieves.
The Queen looked on, her veil drawn tight,
Her court unsure to cheer or slight.
But in her eyes, a flicker stayed—
A name half-lost, a debt unpaid.
Some say he rides for vengeance cold,
For brothers slain in battles old.
Some whisper of a patron’s hand,
A ghostly lord from distant land.
Yet children carve his likeness still,
And dream of valor, strength, and will.
For Arinn’s heart, though bruised and grey,
Beats bold beneath Sir Ivanhoe Grey.