A tip of his head, to communicate sort of not exactly. "You've two men," he says gesturing loosely, and moving also to sit not far from her, "and they start on their mounts on either end of a track. They've lances of wood, and bear shields, and full armour. On the mark, they race towards one another, and use their lances to strike or, better, dehorse the other man.

"It's brutal, and often short. I prefer the sword over the lance, and to worry only for myself rather than an animal. What is it you fight with?" He nods down at her taped hands. "Your fists alone?"