I survey the road - it has changed much in the years I have slept.  The sun begins to set and the knights stop practicing. They step from their wagons, sweaty, leaving them lined up, by the roadside - multicoloured and empty.  Darkness closes in, like the folding of my wings as I come in for the kill.  When they return their smells bubble up from hot flesh, a chaotic mix of sweat and sweetness.

The air, in this century, is heavy with a thin smoke that obscures my long-sight.  Their wagons spew forth a heavy mix of metal and soot.  Jousts happen at night with lances of light and these armoured wagons.  They use two lances - except for those that ride on metal horses, armourless but with helmets.  They are the brave few, jousting the old way.

Humanity does not see us, their eyes have lost the Light. They see bitterness not sunsets.  In darkness their white lances pierce the air for miles, yet they do not see.  I watch as a silver wagon and a blackened wagon joust.  The losers are pulled out of the wreckage, their bodies shattered - two more to add to the score, in these jousting games.