Once up a time there was a knight called Sir Clayton. He was the best and strongest knight in all the land, and vanquished all who came before him. Even as a young boy he was known far and wide as a knight who would one day be called to join the Table Round in Camelot, and, unlike those who merely basked in its light, be one who added to its luster. He came from the south of the realm, and even the northern folk who cursed the southrons did him homage for his spirit and skill.
Sir Clayton was without flaw, save for one. His power waxed and waned with the sun; while in spring and summer he was invincible, once autumn came he was weak as a mere stripling. No one knew why this should be so, and many scoffed. “Spells and enchantments are poppycock,” they spake. “Sir Clayton will prove a man for all seasons.” Yet each year the story was repeated once more, and the wags of the realm made sport anew. “Sir Clayton has had a Fall”, they would jest. Or “Sir Clayton is no More.” Sir Clayton’s champions wept bitter tears, and could find solace only in their ancient prayer: “Wait till next year!”