Fantasy Drums of War [IC][Closed]

[Breadman]

The time came for them to leave shadows and enter the arena. Goldbert followed the other competitors as they walked towards the exit. The sunlight shinning down upon them as the grand champions would show the symbols of the houses they represented. The watchman resisted the urge to wave, opting to simply stand at attendance as if he was on top of the Wall keeping his watch for any invaders. As for the famous men who would give their speeches, he would keep quiet to hide his ignorance. While news would reach the wall of the going ons in the Empire proper, he would usually be found beyond the posts somewhere in the snowy fields. Very little interested him in the way of news. So should anyone question him on what he thinks, he'd have to bite down his tongue to keep silent for once.

But that was for later. Now the watchman had to focus on the tournament he slithered into. Maybe his place was not among any of these champions, but he would make sure that they would remember him.

Up in the seats where the lords stayed, Vigot and Pila looked at the champions. Both with their arms crossed and having spotted one champion in particular.

"Did he ask for permission?" Pila finally peeled a question from her lips.

"No and I wonder where he would get an invitation to enter the tournament?" The high lord gave a cold answer. "What should we do with him?"

"I would skin him, but that would limit his use." The shieldmaiden spoke with something that caught Vigot's curiosity. Jealousy, She wanted to be down there in the field.

"Let us decide what his punishment should be after his performance then." He scratched his beard. "Perhaps we can use this to our advantage. You did train him to use a sword, did you not?" Pila looked to her commander with pause. She did not expect that question, nor did she have anything to answer him other than a nod.

 

[joshuadim]

The Melee - The Grand Tournament
Vexumin K0mori Infab Breadman Worthlessplebian Emperor Sagan
​

Ser Faralt, as legendary as he was, revelled in the adoration of the crowd as he raised his hand high and waved with a smile adorning his face. His platinum hair shone in the sunlight, delivering an almost saintly glow upon the knight as the crowd roared in approval. With the masses enthralled by his entrance, he seemed more the people's champion than he was House Kalfas'. But, perhaps, that was the point of it all - as Uchtred thought to himself as he observed with his family. To enamour one's self with the people obtains their favour, which would especially be important should war break out. Something that Uchtred was now charged with preventing, despite the entire deck being stacked against him. But such concerns went over the head of his grandchildren, as both Riseig and Reimar were in awe to be in the presence of what was - quite literally - a legend.

"By Sigurd's beard, it's really him!" Reimar said, sounding like a young boy again.

"Given the stories, he'll wipe the floor with the others." Riseig commented, "They say his blade sings when he wields it, creating a melody of death."

"He won't be killing anyone today." Uchtred then chimed in as he crossed his arms, his gaze unwavering from the tournament grounds. "At most, it will be ritual humiliation for many houses who bet their reputations on this."

Both young men were confused for a moment, but quickly understood what their grandfather had meant. "...House Kalfas has everything in their favour, then." Riseig commented, "Hardly a tournament then, isn't it?"

Uchtred grunted in agreement: "Indeed." His attention then turned when he felt a tap on his shoulder from Enya, who seemed eager to get elsewhere. "Deda, can I sit with Lord Frost?" she whispered as to not draw the attention - and teasing - of her brothers. Uchtred looked surprised for a moment, before turning his gaze towards where Oliver was seated along with his entourage. For a moment he hesitated, but then let out a sigh along with a wordless nod. He didn't want to confine her and, besides... it would not hurt to develop an alliance. He knew of her encounter the previous day in the Imperial Garden. Perhaps the young lord was a good fit for her?

With a smile, Enya pecked her grandfather on the cheek before quickly scampering away from House Kragh's viewing box and made her way towards where House Frost were. She was stopped by two guards blocking the entrance however, who were concerned as to her presence. "Sorry, I was hoping to speak with Lord Frost." she said, before looking behind them and waving in an attempt to garner his or one of his courtiers' attention.

---
​

The Melee was then given its official brackets, designating who would be fighting who and how the tournament would progress. Pamphlet forms were distributed to the masses while larger versions were posted on the walls of the tournament arena itself for easy reference. With this many contestants, it made it easier for one to understand what combats were coming up next as there were four main groups. Siert found himself lumped in, with the Silver Lion, in Group A, Kyraug was in Group B, and Goldbert was assigned to group C. And what was also notable was that the arena was expansive enough to allow for eights fights to occur in their designated sections - simultaneously.

An effective cost and time saving measure, but that was not the concern of the Emperor as he was still reeling from the continued embarrassment of Prince Landon on the field. Ser Eren grew concerned as it seemed that the Emperor was ready to burst a few blood vessels from gritting his teeth. Prince Davin, was also furious along with his other two brothers and turned to his father: "What a gods damned stain." he said, "He besmirches our House's prestige. He should be-"

"I will not hear your previous demands again, Davin." the Emperor spoke, concentrating on Landon's continued baffling performance. "He is your brother, and you will treat him as such."

"I treat him as a brother, father. A drunk, hedonist brother who is unworthy of the throne-" Prince Davin began to say, but was shot down by an intense glare from the ailing sovereign. But his attention then turned to Eren with exasperation: "Get Landon out of the field, now."

---
​

All the participants understood their assignments that were presented, and were also met by Ser Faralt greeting every one of them with handshakes. One by one, each contestent were spared a few words of encouragement as well as comraderie, as he seemed to take the competition in good spirit. To Goldbert and Siert he did the same, giving the former a pat on the shoulder: "An honoured brother of the Watchers, here! May your fortunes ring true." he said with a grin before moving on quickly. However, the last that Faralt had greeted was Kyraug - much to the anticipation of the other contestants as they wondered how he would react - and looked over the Vadyeen.

"I look forward to seeing you fight. Care not for what the crowd thinks of you, for I will respect you as I do any other combatant." he said with a serious expression, and shaking Kyraug's hand without hesitation. There was no emnity nor disguised insult in his words that the Vadyeen could discern but, rather, what was actual respect offered to him. Shortly thereafter, Prince Landon took the cue to announce to the crowd once again: "OUR CHAMPIONS ARE HERE! AND NOW, WE MAY BEGIN THE MELEE!" he shouted, summoning horns to herald the beginning of the tournament. In turn, the crowds went wild in anticipation. But Landon could not enjoy the spotlight for long, as soon after Ser Eren and two of his Redguard approached much to the annoyance of the eldest Prince.

"Come now, Ser, the crowds love it!" Ser Landon complained, but realized the intensity of Ser Eren's disposition. Though the Lord Commander did not betray any emotion, the words he spoke were enough shirk the man's ego for the time being as he begrudgingly was led away. The First Rounds had begun; Siert faced off against Ser Derton of House Godder, Kyraug facing against Ser Ruzar of House Sfortza, and Goldbert facing off against Ser Haillet, a hedge knight and the man he had encountered already in the staging grounds.

"Looks like we will face one another after all." the man commented as he walked over to Goldbert, before giving a two finger salute. "See you on the field."

---

The Fairgrounds - The Grand Tournament
K0mori [Rutu]
​

Both Calder and Ser Harald were taken aback by the strangeness of Rutu's response, as a moment of awkward silence passed between the four of them before the latter spoke up: "I see." Ser Harald stated with a stoic look. His face betrayed only a slight tinge of disdain for the Glyrran as the very edge of his lip twitched, but Calder looked more fascinated than anything with his wide eyes and mouth slightly agape. The Wulpine was there to fill in the dead air as he let out a nervous chuckle: "My apologies, I simply though because of the... robes... and all, that you might be from here. " He then cleared his throat awkwardly: "House von Holt? That's-"

"The masters of the Redlands, currently." Ser Harald then spoke up, before looking to Marina. "And how fares that situation, these days? Last time I was there I lost my oath brother."

"Oh boy..." Calder muttered, realizing that he had just inadvertently opened up an old wound. And he quickly sought to change topics and turned to Rutu: "Would you, ahem, like some company on finding whatever it is you seek?" he asked awkwardly, ruffling a hand through the fur atop his head.

 

[Emperor Sagan]

Even as the first rounds of the tournament began, Annaliese Valentova yawned. The appearance of Ser Faralt all but guaranteed who would win the championship now. He was pretty to look out, from afar, and she beckoned for a small pair of magnifying scopes on a little stick - an oddity she had purchased from a traveling merchant that had visited Vallach. She had forgotten where it had come from, and only the best glassmakers in Vallach were able to replicate the lenses to some degree without the ability to tear it apart. Perhaps one day if they ever cracked she would allow them to be dismantled, but not any time soon.

She watched with the slightest hint of disdain as the competitors all shook hands and exchanged silent - from where she was - words with each other. Most of it was probably for show, but she was hoping to see some blood stain the dirt of the tournament grounds. Where was the fun without that? Otherwise, she could go watch her knights and men-at-arms spar in their training fields all day. At least back home, she knew their sweat was, in part, because of her watchful eyes upon them.

"Hmm," she hummed, panning her little viewing glasses around the arena. They didn't see all that much farther than her own eyes, but they were a quaint novelty that offered some magnification, at least, and they made her look decidedly sophisticated. But aside from the cheering citizenry, stiff nobility, dirty soldiers, and drunkards stumbling about, there was a dreadful lack of excitement. Once again, back home would have been more exciting. She was like an owl in habit, always curious and always watching, picking her stages by whim. Would she watch a town square? Would she peer into windows from afar? Would she invite herself to the dinner table of strangers?

Her gaze ended up panning over the box for House Froste nearby. She had yet to personally make acquaintance with the new Lord Froste, something she was intending to do when convenient and could lavish upon him gifts. While he seemed a somewhat melancholy sort - which was to be expected, given the circumstances of his ascension - she knew everyone liked gifts. Well, maybe not everyone, but anyone who mattered appreciated them. At the very least, Froste seemed the polite sort and would have to acknowledge her. The thought got a grin from her, knowing that those who played by the rules were too predictable.

The amusement on her face began to fade fast, however, as she spotted a familiar-looking young woman approaching the Froste entourage. She squinted through her looking glasses as she tried to remember who this probably unimportant person was, until she realized it was Lady Enya from House Kragh. She recognized her from their arrival to the capital and meeting with the Emperor. Valentova's face reddened. "T-That low-born brat... that hussy, that... that wench! Who does she think she is attempting an unchaperoned meeting, now of all times?" she hissed, earning a few glances from her compatriots in their box. Annaliese realized that she was being beaten at her own game - breaking the rules. She was planning an orthodox meeting with Froste, and here this Kragh harlot was simply walking on over.

"Is everything alright, my valiant Lady?" Ser Rudolf Friar asked, dryly, peering in the direction of her venomous gaze. "Your color is rising."

"I was supposed to be first!" she snapped. "I was to court him first! With my attention and gifts, nothing else would have mattered! Now some love-sick dove is fluttering around, ruining my plans!"

Valentova's close assembly hid their collective surprise, exasperation, and dismay with practiced ease. Ser Friar cupped his chin in contemplation, while Ser von Babel was torn between being attentive to his mistress and watching the opening of the tournament. Prince Desmond squirmed beside her. "Sister... you're squeezing my hand too hard...."

Annaliese softened her temper, somewhat, smiling at her brother as she released his hand. "My apologies, my precious flower. I must ask you to sit here under Ser von Babel's care," she said, getting a reassuring nod from her satyr marshal, "while myself and Rudolf take a little... trip to visit Lord Froste. I will not-" she said, her voice rising with a high-pitched crash, "- be out done! Rudolf! What gifts do we have on hand?"

Her chamberlain and chief secretary stared back at her in a placid manner. "Liquor, your grace. We have rings upon our personages, or amulets and earrings. Prince Desmond has brought along a small collective of his poetry... his personal poetry... and some of our knights could be reimbursed if they were to offer one of their prized weapons." It was as she expected and feared - she was caught empty handed completely. Even her fastest servants couldn't run to the palace and back with an armful of treasures. To be out-maneuvered in such a fashion....

After a brief frenzy, and with much assistance from Friar's wisdom, Valentova decided upon a curious and fortuitous item to be in their possession at the moment - a small bone flute, a simple spare, that Prince Desmond had with his belongings. He had more and better ones back at the palace, both here and back home, but this one was still fine enough that he could easily part with it. It was carved from the bone of a Vallachain ghost stag, with the material gently burned for a twisting, umber coloration. Desmond must have only used it a few times, for the slim pine case was immaculate.

---

Armed with such a gift, which even if Lord Froste himself wasn't inclined towards music, an instrument such as this was a passionate, polite, and cerebral gift. It bore not the heavy representation of pure jewelry or a weapon. Together, Lady Valentova and Ser Friar, accompanied by two knights in gleaming crimson armor, worked their way from their box and towards the party of House Froste. Valentova walked quickly but with ease, but her gloved hand was white-knuckled upon the hilt of her parasol, and Ser Friar remained as stoically impassive as ever, his thin eyes piercing into every face they passed.

Upon their arrival, she loudly cleared her throat at the guards of House Froste. They had arrived just behind Lady Enya. "Goode soldiers - might we chance an audience with your master, Lord Froste? It is a fine day for such things, and we come baring a fine gift!" she said with a polite, harmless giggle, almost bashful in nature and entirely pleasant as she smiled like a proper maiden. Still, her teeth were clenched firm. Her breathing was heavy and predatory, and the slightest - the oh so slightest - sideways glance towards Enya nearby was as sharp as obsidian, softened only by her practiced facade of civility. Indeed, she nearly resembled a wolf in slippers and a soft bow, or perhaps a rabbit with sharpened fangs and a bloodied mouth.

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Siert looked at the legend that approached, seeing him prance about the place. Enamoring himself with not simply the rapturous spectators of the nobility and peasantry, but the combatants as well. He inclined his head towards the Southron Wind, a gaze mixed of envious awe. He gulped down a spot of phlegm. Ser Faralt's skills were truly something to behold, Siert admitted to himself, painfully understanding, that it would take decades of armed combat with the greatest men-at-arms to even attain a degree of the Ser's mastery. He despaired at the thought for a moment, before banishing it as the locus of attention stepped before him and a Watcher to Siert's left. He shifted, clenching and unclenching his toes in the tight sabatons, working the feeling back into them. Extending his hand to shake, Siert mused on the contrast. Where Ser Faralt was noble with long, blond hair; clothed in the plain, shining plates; exhuming an aura of righteousness — Siert is lowly with short, clay-coloured hair and beard; armoured only in this old panoply of grey plates, chipped at odd angles, and a featureless helm that obscured his face; a mercenary both in soul and profession. "My gratitude, Ser. Savour the spoils." The sellsword grinned unseen, humouring the idea of Faralt's presumptive victory.

As the blaring light that was the Southron Wind passed, a wave of relief awashed Siert's muscles, flexing his arm to expedite the process. He paced towards a wall with the bracket sheet, metal sabatons crunching the dirt-gravel beneath. Stopping in front of the paper, he lined a metal digit against the names, sliding up and down until he found himself in the top left. Crossing his arms across his chest, the chainmail coif clinking against the vambraces, Siert sighed apprehensively. Wishing that Ser Locke had been his first opponent so that he may finish this task quicker and disappear seamless into the crowds of peasants, serfs, merchants, and tradesmen. Perhaps enlist the service of a tavern wench to celebrate.

Lost in his musings as he was, Siert did not register the batrachian Vadyeen's presence as the sellsword almost rammed a shoulder into him. Siert stepped back at the last, possible moment. "Oh," The helmet bowed slightly. "Sorry, lost in thought, I was." Siert spoke sincerely. He was not the type of coward—or a nobleman—to masquerade insults between the veil of mistakes. "Good fortune on your set." He could not put a name to the face, but certain that he'd be one that made it to the final rounds.

Bruinsma passed through the gathered contestants, assuming his position for the tournament to start proper. He inclined his head to watch Prince Landon proclaim the beginning of the Melee, eyes drifting to the roaring horns which set off the crowds into rapturous applause that shook the very air. He paced to his entrance of the staging grounds, eyes on his shield-wielding opponent from the opposite side, they both enter although Ser Derton swung his arms to try and hook all the attention to him. The man wearing his house's armor, baroque plates of dark blue. He wore the Godder heraldry on his left breast.

Coming to a halt, Derton drew his sword then a line in the dirt before his feet. "Hear ye, hear ye, my foe." Derton spoke, voice slick with trained superiority. "For the honour of House Godder, I shall bring you down." Siert squinted through the helm's slit, pulling out his arming sword from its sheath.

"Have you no words to bandy? The silen-"

Derton's words were cut short. His mind took a second to recognize the oncoming figure, only enough time to bring up his shield in a defensive manner, his blade's tip pointed forward. Derton surprised by Siert's ferocity and the speed in his charge. Before the impact, Siert's arming sword slams Derton's blade, driving the weapon down and exposing his left side. Siert hit him. It was like being struck by a charging, hornless bull. There was an ear-splitting crack of metal meeting metal, faceless heater shield ramming the Godder heraldry. Forcing Derton's elbow to bend as Siert pushed in his shield. Unable to recover, Derton took the blade's edge scrapping his cuirass' side. His lips parted, jaw tensed. Derton angled his chest and foot, slipping out from Siert's bulldozing. He stepped to the left, Siert's right, and attacked. Derton's blade went high to low and hard, from top left to bottom right, swishing through the air, only for its edge to bite the arena's sun-bathed air.

The sellsword, demonstrating reflexes as sharp if not sharper than Derton's, threw himself back to avoid the cleaving strike. Siert was still impressed, however, his foe regained his composure shockingly fast and immediately retaliated. It reminded him fondly of the sparring duels he once conducted with another freelancer, but that moment passed for reminiscing.

This time Derton went on the offensive. Unleashing a torrent of stabs at Siert. He managed to flick his shield-arm up in time to block the blade's tip one, two, three times, only for the fourth to slide over the top of his shield. His eyes grew wide with shock, head snapped to the side as the edge connected to his helm's cheek, the metal screeched in his ear as the thinnest spark flew away. Siert clenched his teeth, arm pivoting up to knock away Derton's weapon. His sword a blur as Siert slashed down on Derton's pauldron, before bringing his blade around and going wide at his head. He tilted the blade the last second before impact, smacking his opponent with the flat side. The helmet rang with the blow causing Derton to reel back. Giving ground, headache blaring like a percussive drum. Siert rasped for air, forehead beginning to pour salty sweat down his brow. He smiled. Derton could tell that he was smiling through the helm.

The champion of Godder roared at him, moving away from the corner he had been forced into, but not charging. He began striking from every guard—overhead, underarm, scything, swinging to break Siert's focus and find a gap in his defenses. Unrelenting. Mighty. Swiftly. The shield trembled against the blows, each one a thunderous crack in the arena. In his frenzied strikes though, Siert found the barest glimpse of opportunity. As eagle-eyed as Coen. He stepped back in tandem with the swing, Derton miscalculated his advanced. He swung overhead, rotating his hips and shoulder to deliver more power as Siert cut down on Derton's wrist as he tried to pull it back. Derton winced, yowling from the pain. It hurt even through the vambrace and chainmail sleeve. Siert sent the knight's sword skidding from his gauntlet. Siert pulled his left side back, tilting his shield in the process, then jabbing it forward. The heater rim cracked against Derton's visored helm.

Derton stumbled then fell flat on his back. Form splayed out on the dirtied ground. His chest pressed against his cuirass, lungs gasping for that precious, precious air. Siert stood there, sword and shield relaxed, staring. Derton's helm turned side to side, trying to find his sword, still brimming with the will to fight. His blade-arm ached from exertion and the blow to his wrist. Siert shifting his helm to the sword, he watched as Derton clawed at it, trying to reach the hilt. The crowd went dead with silence.

The mercenary removed his arm from the shield's straps then tossed it aside, the noise startling Derton. Siert's shadow stretched over the fallen foe. He extended his left hand to the man. Derton couldn't believe his eyes. There was a clean, legato sound. Derton laughed through the pain, jovial all of a sudden. "Qui-quite the fiend, my foe." Derton rasped. Both men smiled now. "Me? I should say the same for you, those strikes nearly killed me." Their laughter joined as one. Derton weakly raised his left arm only to find Siert gripping him by his forearm. The crowd cheered in sonorous ovation towards the performance.

Derton stammered to his feet with Siert's assistance, hands clasping his knees to breathe. A metal gauntlet patted him twice on his shoulder. "Should House Godder have need of a sellsword, I would be more than happy to take up the offer. For a price, of course." Siert offered. "Of course, of course, I'll be sure to pass... Well, there's no need, Lord Godder is up there." Derton gestured with his head. Siert could smell the tangy aroma of blood coming from the man's helmet. A rivulet leaked down his nose. "I owe you a beer. Find an apothecary or whatever healer also, trust me on that."

The knight of Godder was taken aback, but nodded at his words. "You'll owe me the finest ale." "Count on it." Siert slammed a closed fist to his chest, a salute that he infrequently used.

The two men departed.

Yet despite his victory, in the shadow of the entrance tunnel, Siert shivered in his armour. Fists clenched, the whole of his body rigid and shaking. He allowed the adrenaline to flush out of his system. Taking too long to calm his breathing, to placate his heart's thrumming, pounding its furious tattoo in his breast. This was a warm-up, he tried to hide as many movements and tactics as he could, he didn't know if the Lion was watching. He had to walk a balanced line, not to be too brutal or too fair. The poisonous thrill of battle was always hard to shake, the warm breaths steamed up his nostrils. Until he heard the feather-flutter of an avian behind him. Coen planted himself on his shoulders again, poking at his helmet. "Ha-ha, there you are, you birdbrain. Enjoy the show?" Coen only answered by flapping his wings against the metal helm. "Yea, yea, you're more interested in the next one. It'll be deadly, for sure."

 

[Vexumin]

Kyraug looked over the brackets only briefly. All he felt he needed to know was the name of the man he would be fighting. Much more than that would not matter. Why stress over every last inidividual that could eventually challenge him. No, what was important was here and now, not later. With that he stepped towards the other contestants that were relaxing until the combat began. What Kyraug didn't expect was the Blade of the Southron Wind himself to go around to each individual fighter.

He watched the knight wander between people. Kyraug wondered what the goal of such an action was. To seed worry and fear from his presence? To ease the fighters tension when it comes to his entry into the tournament? Could be all manner of things. Perhaps he simply cared for his fellow man.

Ser Faralt continued to make his way between fighters until he finally arrived at Kyraug. The Vadyeen was honestly surprised that the knight decided to approach him at all, especially in front of a crowd. This was sure to stir some of the nobles, especially families with frequent conflict against Kyraug's kind. He straightens as the man steps forward.

"I look forward to seeing you fight. Care not for what the crowd thinks of you, for I will respect you as I do any other combatant."

Kyraug kept his face neutral. Such honeyed words from a human. Kyraug almost immediately dismissed them as such. Lies told by a human. It would be simple to leave it at that, but this time was different. Kyraug could see it in Ser Faralt's eyes. He was not spewing out words to improve his image or make a statement. It was simply respect from one warrior to another. So Kyraug endeavored to return that respect as well. He extends his hand as Ser Faralt does, taking the knights hand in a firm shake.

"I hold little respect for most humans, aside from those that fed me and made a place for me. However, you seem a man of honor and integrity. I wish you well in the tournament."

Considering Kyraug and the life he has lived, that was the highest of praise he could offer a complete human stranger that he only just shared words with for the first time. It was likely that he would not spare such words for another competitor again. And with what was said out there for all to hear, the two separated.

It was an odd encounter, but oddly refreshing as well. Kyraug has never had even a small chat such as that with a human beyond house Bralmeyer’s numbers and enjoyed it. That made the man a bit unnerved, but he shrugs off the feeling in no time at all. Kyraug turns to walk along only to nearly bump shoulders with a different man. It would have been a rough collision if Kyraug hadn’t slid aside at the last minute. Interestingly enough though, the man also had the reflexes to step aside. Even if Kyraug hadn’t been aware, there would have been nothing to notice.

Kyraug stared at this strange man a moment, taking him in. Certainly not the most noble of the lot, not that Kyraug would ever dare declare such an observation out loud. Even so, the man was armed well. Very well, in fact.

"Oh," The helmet bowed slightly. "Sorry, lost in thought, I was." Siert spoke sincerely. He was not the type of coward—or a nobleman—to masquerade insults between the veil of mistakes. "Good fortune on your set."

Kyraug didn’t even give the encounter a second thought. If the man had any poor intentions toward him, then they would have bumped shoulders and that would be that. This man didn’t do any such thing though, so Kyraug had faith that this was not a bad or begrudging individual.

”Ah, no. Pardon me, sir. My pacing about does no one any good. I wish you well in your fights as well… but I doubt my well-wishing shall be needed.”

With that Kyraug went on his way, offering one last glance back at Siert before he rejoined the other fighters. Perhaps the two of them would meet in combat. Perhaps not. The Vadyeen wasn’t certain of anything. Whatever the case, he would be prepared.

Soon enough Kyraug was ready for his first match. This ought to be an interesting time. As he was called forth along with one Ser Ruzar, a large man adorned in much armor came forward. The way the fellow looked at Kyraug was about right. The usual amount of animosity. It almost comforted Kyraug, that he could see clear and easily readable intent on the mans face.

As they walked, they had few words to share with each other, but once they took their place in their small arena, the man raised the visor of his helmet, a glare sent the Vadyeens way.

“It was a mistake to let one of your kind participate. I’ll make this quick.”

It was attempt at mercy from a man who likely hated Kyraug’s kind. Mercy that would likely not be required in the end. Kyraug had already sized the man up. The Vadyeen, when he stood tall and proud, was taller than many a human, his long, slender legs giving him the advantage when it came to looking down his nose at those who would undermine him. Ser Ruzar was large, equal in height to Kyraug at the Vadyeen’s tallest.

The knight was also broad. That was probably the one thing he had on Kyraug. The man looked like he would be easy to hit but impossible to truly harm. That wouldn’t be a problem for Kyraug though. This fight was predictable for the most part. He could already see the way that Ser Ruzar shifted his stance, adjusting the way he wielded the large blade carried in both hands, as they waited for the fight to begin.

When it started, no words were shared. Only a shared ambition. To win. To claim victory for their respective houses. Combat initiated with Ser Ruzar stomping his way forward. He carried his long blade with a modicum of expertise, keeping the point of the blade directed at Kyraug, clearly keeping the weapon between the two of them. In true combat there is no fancy footwork or displays of mastery. There is only the outcome. Who knows best between two fighters how to come out on top.

The first strike to be sent was a lunge from Ruzar, sending the tip of his blade flying, seeking Kyraug’s heart. The Vadyeen leaned back and away from the tip of the blade, the ringing song of metal sounding as his own blade connects with the longsword. The first strike has been delivered and deflected, but Ruzar was not about to relent. He continued to press the advance, twisting his blade and then thrusting once again in a downward motion, attempting to get around the guard of Kyraug’s weapon, but now that the two were so close, Kyraug was doing all he could to manipulate the weapon, preventing it from making contact.

Ser Ruzar was good with his weapon, Kyraug had to give the knight that, but he knew he was better. Just better enough to get around the mans guard. One strike. One strike with his sap was all Kyraug needed to change the tides of this fight.

The blade poked and slashed, seeking whatever purchase it could in the Vadyeen’s swift maneuvering. Kyraug leans back as the blade slashes near his throat. He has been able to narrowly avoid each strike so far, but Ruzar was getting closer to landing his marks.

Stab, stab, slash that then shifts into a stab. Finally Ruzar’s blade manages to nick Kyraug’s left arm, the one wielding the blade. The metal tore through leather and flesh, the warmth of blood immediately starting to flow from the wound. It wasn’t too deep, but it was a hinderance. Kyraug was now on a timer. One wound would only lead to another in time. Ruzar grins behind the visor of his helm, the wicked smile seen in his eyes. He took great joy in landing the first blow.

But that was all he would get.

Kyraug‘s legs flex and he leaps far back from the knight, utilizing a little of his heritage to give himself a moment to take a breath. Ruzar also takes the moment to gather himself now that a little distance was made between them. The knight once again points his blade at Kyraug.

”Seems you’re good at something in the end. Running! I’ll give you that much,” Ruzar shouts across the distance between them.

Kyraug takes in one long, deep breath, letting it out shortly after.

”Then I will no longer run.”

Kyraug points his own blade as well, ushering Ruzar into the fight again. The man obliges, charging forward, blade poised and at the ready. Kyraug charges forward in turn. They run towards each other and Ruzar stabs at Kyraug once again. The Vadyeen slides, taking advantage of his lighter armor to perform more evasive maneuvers. The dirt flies as Kyraug closes the distance, raising the sap in his dominant hand and slamming it against the knights knee. The crack of the weapon slamming against metal was like thunder.

Ruzar barks out a shout in pain and surprise. He nearly falls, but manages to recover before he hits the ground, staggering his way back onto his feet. However, one can see the pain he is suffering through. The limp of his leg as he shifts his footing. He won’t be able to pursue so closely anymore. The man growled in defiance.

”Coward!” the man shouted, but Kyraug did not entertain his raving with a reply.

The Vadyeen circled the wounded man, his crimson eyes traveling up and down the mans defenses, like a predator observing prey. It got to Ruzar, that much was certain. He kept shifting, keeping his blade between himself and his opponent.

”Come at me already!“

With the mans shout, Kyraug advanced. The longsword lashed out and Kyraug parried the blow, deflecting it with his own blade. Ruzar staggers once again, unsteady on an injured leg. He tries to retaliate, get his blade between them, but Kyraug was too close. The sap is swung once again, this time hitting the man on his armored left hand. The metal dented in from the impact, but nothing would break from the strike. Even so, the bone was fractured and the pain was enough to make the knight howl in fury.

Kyraug leaps away again, content with the blow that was struck. Ruzar’s arm shook from the pain. He tried to grip the hilt of his weapon, but he was unable to keep his hold of it strong. It kept slipping from his fingers. All he had left was an arm and a leg. He knew this was the end. He couldn’t swing his sword well enough with only one strong hand, but he refused to give in.

Kyraug waisted no time. The fight was over, but if this stubborn man would not give in, then he would have to end it forcefully. The Vadyeen sped back into the knights reach. In desperation he swung the blade one handed at Kyraug. Too slow. The Vadyeen was in range once again, but he was done widdling down Ruzar’s defenses. The sap closed in once again, targeting the knights helmet. The crack sounds again as the sap connects, striking the lower part of Ruzar’s helmet, just along the side. A dead center strike along the mans protected jaw.

Ruzar’s head snaps to the side and he falls to the ground, unconscious. Kyraug spared the man a broken jaw, striking only hard enough to rattle the poor fellows brain a little.

The duel was done. Kyraug payed little attention to anything other than the wound he had received. It still bled and he was keen on patching it up before the next bought, so without any words or celebration for his victory, he walked off the field. Ser Ruzar was carted off in time. People would stare at Kyraug as he made his way. The way he fights is not elegant or flashy. Not demonstrating strength or bravery. It was a brutal, painful art.

 

[Infab]

The group that consisted of House Froste looked on, waiting for the battles to begin below them with mild interest. Most of said interest belonging to simply the two of Titus and Oliver. Maria was people watching, her lone good eye looking about at members of the other Houses. Wondering how they each were taking things.

As she looked over towards House Kragh's seating area, she noticed the girl from before depart from it. Heading in their direction. A faint smirk appeared on Maria's face at the sight of her approach, and she glanced to Oliver.

"You're about to have a guest." she said, leaning over and speaking into the young Lord's ear. He looked around at her, raising an eyebrow, before pointing out Enya as she arrived and spoke to House Froste's guards.

"Sorry, I was hoping to speak with Lord Frost."

"Let her through." said Maria, motioning to the guards as they looked back to her. Then, Maria stood up from her seat and stepped out of the way. "Whilst young Enya sits with you, I shall be going to speak with the girl's grandfather. If you don't mind, that is." she said, resting a hand on Oliver's shoulder as she stepped around behind him.

Oliver nodded, glancing up to her as the guard let Enya pass. At the same time as this all occurred, however, the arrival of Lady Valentova and Ser Friar forced Titus to look in the opposite direction of Enya and the others. Two visitors? Both young women!

"Goode soldiers - might we chance an audience with your master, Lord Froste? It is a fine day for such things, and we come baring a fine gift!"

Titus stood immediately from his seat, motioning for the guards to let her through when they looked back to him. "Welcome, Lady Valentova. Please, you may use my seat." he said, giving her a proper bow and motioning to his chair as he stepped over behind Oliver's. Next to Maria, whom looked between both Valentova and Enya with surprise.

"It seems you'll have your hands full, my lord." soon whispered Maria, leaning down so that only Oliver could hear. As she straightened up, she glanced to Titus. "Watch him. And them."

And without another word, Maria departed from House Froste's seating area. Venturing across to where Enya had just came from. The area where House Kragh sat, watching the duels below. As she arrived, she eyed the guards with her lone eye for a moment, before speaking.

"I am Lady Maria Cavell, stewardess of House Froste. I wish to speak with Lord Kragh, if he is taking guests." she said, eventually glancing past the guards to Uchtred.

 

[Breadman]

Looks like we will face one another after all...See you on the field.

Goldbert returned the salute to Ser Haillet. The scoutmaster might have entered this tournament through underhanded means, but that did not mean he shouldn't show honor when facing his fellow contestant. He was the only one he could show any respect in a proper way anyway. He didn't even know who the grand champion that shook his hand was, tho he did appreciate the compliment he recieved. If he were to win this thing, he'd have to return the favor somehow.

The two men prepared to face each other in their own little part of the grand arena. Even through hidden faces, they still locked eyes with one another. Both of them pacing to his side in a circle, trying to seize the other one up. Sooner or later, one would have to make a move and that could be the end of it. A few seconds more that felt like hours and Haillet made the first move, lunging towards Goldbert and forcing the watchman to dodge to his side. He tried to counter the attack, but the blade of his sword would meet the heraldry of Haillet's shield instead. The knight would push him back, forcing Goldbert to rethink how to engage him. Knowing that the High lord was watching, he would adopt a familiar tactic.

Goldbert lunged towards Ser Haillet in an attempt to push straight through the knight's defenses. He was quick enough as the shield hand was too slow, but now both their blades were locked with each other.

 

[K0mori]

With the first fights underway, Dominik leaned forward in his seat, carefully studying the actions of the competitors as best he could. With multiple bouts happening at the same time, it was difficult to remain focused on any one battle for an extended period of time. For a time, he watched the context between Ser Derton and a man named Siert. The former's arrogance and showmanship was quickly thrust aside by the latter's aggression, which was a dynamic Dominik had witnessed plenty of times before. In those encounters, however, it was the knavish upstart who was normally put down by the more noble sort. That wasn't what Dominik was seeing here.

Instead, Siert proved himself as flexible as he was eager, finding an opportunity amidst Ser Derton's barrage and exploiting it with a textbook disarming that led to a swift victory. As soon as the knight of House Godder took the edge of Siert's heater to the helm, Dominik's balled fist rocketed from his lap into the air, mimicking the crossing motion. Dominik glanced over at his Lord, whose eyes widened at the sudden movement.

"Wish you were down there?" Lazarus asked, an uncomfortable smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

Dominik's heart sank a bit, but he tried to laugh off his excessive enthusiasm. "...I should say I'm impressed by the one called Siert; he fought well, sir."

"Ah," Lazarus replied somewhat flatly. "Is he anything like the Vadyeen I've been watching?"

"Oh?" Dominik looked over to the aftermath of Kyraug's struggle with Ser Ruzar. The latter being a mountain of a man, Dominik couldn't help but guffaw at his current status, which was lying in a heap after being knocked out cold. "Well sir, no, I think not."

Lazarus took a sip from his goblet as if waiting for an elaboration. When none came, he pressed his bodyguard. "How so? You didn't watch the other fight, clearly."

"I saw a man take a blow to the helm that will leave him aching for days, sir, but he left the field on his own two legs. If that was anything to go by, Ser Ruzar brain must be churned up like butter after whatever that Vadyeen did to him," Dominik replied.

The Lord gave a slight chuckle, leaning back in his seat. "I suppose you're right. But on the other hand, yours was a match between two men of the realm. What I just watched was a brute and a savage having their own personal war."

Dominik felt uncomfortable with Lazarus' contempt for the inhuman warrior. Dominik had seen Kyraug around the grounds ahead of the match, and while he hadn't had reason to interact, hadn't seen anything which would indicate that the Vadyeen was any less of a legitimate combatant. "Aye, sir," he said quickly and without enthusiasm, bringing their conversation to a close. However, it wasn't long at all before a new sort of spectator sport seemed to grip them.

"Now... What's this with Lord Froste?" Lazarus mused aloud. Dominik followed his gaze to another section of the nobles' seating to find the young man accompanied by two young women. One, he recognized as the Lady of House Valentova, and he shuddered, remembering the mess that Rutu had gotten herself tangled up in. The other, however, he didn't recognize, and he simply assumed that Enya was a member of House Froste's entourage. Lazarus, however, had already taken note of her and knew that she was of House Kragh. "The boy's got himself some company."

"That's Lady Valentova, and, um... Who is that, sir?"

Lazarus took on a look of greater captivation than he had shown for any of the combat thus far. "No one impressive, but a Kragh nonetheless. I've heard rumors about Valentova; this ought to be funny."

Dominik didn't quite understand what was so interesting about the meeting taking place, and so he kept an eye on it even as a fight unfolding between Ser Haillet and one called Goldbert threatened to tear it away.

---
​

"The masters of the Redlands, currently." Ser Harald then spoke up, before looking to Marina. "And how fares that situation, these days? Last time I was there I lost my oath brother."

Marina went a bit cold, not wanting to speak on her Lord's behalf, but also wanting to seize the opportunity to vent her frustration at the futility of their House's endeavors under Lazarus's leadership. She swallowed, nervously, and then answered with carefully chosen, but no less meaningful, words: "it progresses much the same as it always has, Ser."

"Oh boy..." Calder muttered, realizing that he had just inadvertently opened up an old wound. And he quickly sought to change topics and turned to Rutu: "Would you, ahem, like some company on finding whatever it is you seek?" he asked awkwardly, ruffling a hand through the fur atop his head.

"Who am I to deny your benign company," Rutu replied, "any more than that of mine own shadow?"

Marina looked tiredly at her. "Rutu, must you really waste the time of every poor soul who tries conversing with you? Just answer the question."

"And what question have I failed to answer?" the glyrran replied. "T'was not my place to answer."

The chamberlain's face turned from exasperation to frustration quickly. "He asked whether you would like his company, not whether or not he could come. Of course he can walk with us! We're in public and he can walk where he damned well pleases!"

Rutu frowned. "You will anger the spirits with your shouting," she said softly, twirling her hands about in the air plaintively. "I would appreciate any company which would offer a more peaceful sound."

Marina pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers and massaged it a bit. "So, there you have it," she said to Calder. "I think, if you should come with us, it would be good for me as well."

 

[joshuadim]

The Melee - The Grand Tournament
Breadman [Goldbert]
​

Goldbert and Ser Haillet were both locked in what appeared to be an equally matched melee, as steel rang in the air and the crowd waited in anticipation. A fight between a member of the Watchers and a lowly hedge knight seemed to defy expectations - as compared to the knights of higher houses and nobility were a rather commonplace sight here. In a dramatic fashion, both men strained against one another with their swords in front of them. Each were trying to get the upper hand through brute strength, as beads of sweat fell down their brows. It was then that, through gritted teeth, Ser Haillet iniatiated: "Listen. I need you to let me through to the next round." he whispered to his duelling partner, "There is a lot at stake for me here. I can reward you handsomely from my benefactors."

He pushed, to keep the veneer of the fight going, forcing Goldbert a step back as the masses cheered on their battle. "If you agree, I will tell you where to find a stash of goods meant for me. I need not for it. I serve a higher purpose than simply gold." the hedge knight then said, before finally making a move to break the stalemate. He flung his sword up, exposing the two of them as they flailed around. Goldbert would receive a push from the knight's leg to force some distance in between them and to regain their postures. It was then that Ser Haillet flourished his blade and went into a lower, crouching stance.

From under his helm, Goldbert could see two eyes look straight at him with expectation. Wordlessly, he was asking the penultimate question: doth thou accept?

---

House Froste's Viewing Box - The Grand Tournament
Infab [Oliver, Titus] Emperor Sagan [Annaliese]
​

Enya had hoped for some time with Oliver, but that was dashed upon the entrance of Lady Valentova as she made herself known for entry as well. And what made her all the more uncomfortable were the subtleties within her demeanour, which in turn made Enya look at Annaleise with some modicum on concern and uncertainty. But, ultimately, the two were seated on opposite ends of Oliver as Enya shifted uncomfortably when taking her place. Did this other woman have a problem with her? Had she offended her in some manner? Enya was oblivious to whatever purported slight had been committed against the head of a house, but she composed herself quickly and nodded to Oliver.

"Lord Froste, I was hoping we could speak more. I enjoyed our conversation yesterday." Enya said as an introduction, "Though, I appear to have... uhm... intruded? Or... impeded on a meeting you were to have? I apologize if that is the case."

Enya then turned to Annaliese and offered a smile to try to reconcile whatever ill-will she might have accumulated: "And my apologies to you, my lady."

---

House Kragh's Viewing Box - The Grand Tournament
Infab [Maria]​

With Maria's approach, the two guards noted her presence with one moving inside to inform their liege. House Kragh had been, thus far, observing both the fight below between Goldbert and Ser Haillet. But his interest was also with the Highlord of the Wall, as he could tell that a member of the Watchers being down in the fray was not in the cards. There was also still the matter of approaching the Highlord regarding Reimar's interest in heading north. He decided to speak with the man after today's events, and to make some stipulations; he would not risk his grandson as a simple footman. He might be a bastard, but he was a Kragh and his family - as inheritance laws in the northern regions still allowed for bastards to be in the line of succession.

It was then that the old bear felt a tap on his shoulder that stirred him out of his thoughts, as he turned his head and grumbled. The guard's whispers informed him of their guest and he nodded. "Indeed. Let her pass." he said, which in turn allowed Maria to enter. "Lady Cavell, a pleasure to have you here. I would stand, but my knees are not what they used to be, I'm afraid." Lord Kragh said with a dry humour before motioning to the seat that Enya had once taken next to him. "Please, sit."

When she did, Uchtred then spoke up again: "What do you make of the tournament thus far? A farce, is what I say." he asked, before moving the subject elsewhere. "Though, I suppose that is not what you are here for." he asked, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

---

The Fairgrounds - The Grand Tournament
K0mori [Rutu]​

Calder gave a magnanimous bow to compensate for his own impropriety in decorum towards both Rutu and Marina, "I thank you, my ladies." he said with a distinct formality that caused Ser Harald to scoff. "If only you behaved like this in court too." he said jokingly, in turn catching an annoyed glare from the Wulpine runt. But Harald then helped Calder along as he nodded his head towards something in the near distance, further along the many vendors and stalls that had been propped up. "I saw a stall from one of the river-folk. Smoked and charred sprats, fresh from the waters. I'm peckish myself, so I'll have a bite first."

Ser Harald began to practically march towards the smell of food, which then Calder waved both Marina and Rutu along. "After you, my ladies." the Wulpine warrior said, following them as they would approach the seller in question. A slender, furred being, standing no taller than a large child, sat on a stool with an assortment of fishing equipment and hooks lay around him as well as a small barrel filled to the brim with the oily fishes in question. There was also an open flame that was charring and smoking a whole collection of them on small wooden skewers, creating a strong smell of crispy fish that was rather delectable thanks to a hint of spices added on top.

"I'll take three skewers for myself." Ser Harald said, making known his appetite.

"Just one for now." Calder then said. Both orders were acknowledge by a nod as the otter shifted a few skewers to finish cooking.

"Four silver piece. And for the ladies?" the otterfolk asked for Rutu and Marina.

 

[Breadman]

The watchman stepped back and lookked to the hedge knight. His eyes pleading for his forfeit and withdrawal from the tournament he just wormed his way in. Not without a prize however. Indeed some unknown stash hidden somewhere with unknown riches awaited him if he were to just do as he was asked. An honorable exchange between the two seeing as Haillet seemed to have a calling of his own. Some higher moral authority over him. Goldbert always admired men like that. Better men than him.

Behind the metal mask, the knight could see one eye belonging to the rogue glimmer. A faint hope would come to him that the man would see reason and accept the trade offer. Perhaps he didn't think what such a thing would be worth to a watchman or maybe he thought too highly of the man standing before him. Goldbert shook his own head to decline the offer. If he would not surrender, then he would have to be eliminated the hard way. The knight began to move forward and raised his arm for a strike, but he had made another miscalculation about Goldbert. He had assumed that the man was honorable. That delission would last for a few moments more as the watchman blocked the sword strike and so both of them crossed steel once again.

"Higher cause you may have, ser." Goldbert's voice came from behind the metal mask. His demeanor changed. Gone was that puckish rogue, now a cold watchman on the field "But I have seen things that make your causes and bribes mean nothing to me." He pushed with the sword, forcing the knight to take a step back. The eye fixated on the knight's eyes and something spoke to him. Something sinister. 'Laugh.' Ser Haillet tried to stiffle a chuckle, then a giggle and finally a cackle would pour from his mouth like a fountain. The man soon would bend over in histerics as the laughing fit took over. Goldbet took advantage by moving behind him and giving a kick to the man's arse, forcing him on the ground.

While the hedge knight was on the ground, Goldbert moved quickly to place his foot on the sword hand, pinning it. His own blade now resting near the knight's neck. This fight was over and so he admited defeat by bowing his head low.

Goldbert turned and headed back to wait for the next round to start. He cursed himself for the trick being used so early, but perhaps this would be the only time he could use it. Ah well. A win is a win.

 

[joshuadim]

The watchman stepped back and lookked to the hedge knight. His eyes pleading for his forfeit and withdrawal from the tournament he just wormed his way in. Not without a prize however. Indeed some unknown stash hidden somewhere with unknown riches awaited him if he were to just do as he was asked. An honorable exchange between the two seeing as Haillet seemed to have a calling of his own. Some higher moral authority over him. Goldbert always admired men like that. Better men than him.

Behind the metal mask, the knight could see one eye belonging to the rogue glimmer. A faint hope would come to him that the man would see reason and accept the trade offer. Perhaps he didn't think what such a thing would be worth to a watchman or maybe he thought too highly of the man standing before him. Goldbert shook his own head to decline the offer. If he would not surrender, then he would have to be eliminated the hard way. The knight began to move forward and raised his arm for a strike, but he had made another miscalculation about Goldbert. He had assumed that the man was honorable. That delission would last for a few moments more as the watchman blocked the sword strike and so both of them crossed steel once again.

"Higher cause you may have, ser." Goldbert's voice came from behind the metal mask. His demeanor changed. Gone was that puckish rogue, now a cold watchman on the field "But I have seen things that make your causes and bribes mean nothing to me." He pushed with the sword, forcing the knight to take a step back. The eye fixated on the knight's eyes and something spoke to him. Something sinister. 'Laugh.' Ser Haillet tried to stiffle a chuckle, then a giggle and finally a cackle would pour from his mouth like a fountain. The man soon would bend over in histerics as the laughing fit took over. Goldbet took advantage by moving behind him and giving a kick to the man's arse, forcing him on the ground.

While the hedge knight was on the ground, Goldbert moved quickly to place his foot on the sword hand, pinning it. His own blade now resting near the knight's neck. This fight was over and so he admited defeat by bowing his head low.

Goldbert turned and headed back to wait for the next round to start. He cursed himself for the trick being used so early, but perhaps this would be the only time he could use it. Ah well. A win is a win.

In defeat, however, Haillet was not without his own conviction. In the moment that passed, he glared out at Goldbert from under his helm. Despite his visage being covered, it was all too telling the unbridled fury that resided underneath. Yet not a word was uttered as he stormed off the field, leaving the remainder of the duels of the first round to continue onward. But that was not the end of the hedge knight, as he rounded past the staging ground behind the stands and made towards a more secluded area. To many, it would seem as though he was taking the loss poorly. And rightfully so in their minds, given the stakes at play for prestige in front of the entire realm.

But Ser Haillet had, in fact, not focused on that aspect of his loss. But, rather, what his job was. In the shade of a tent, he sat down on a small stool. It was then that a voice was heard from inside, its owner concealed from view: "You failed." a man spoke, "Already knocked out of the tournament."

"That gods-damned bastard cheated!" Ser Haillet hissed, "I felt something creep into my mind... it was magic."

"So brazenly that Watcher does so?" the mysterious figure then said, musing quietly. "Well, at least it is not entirely a failure, then."

"How? I can't get on the field now. I won't be a standard bearer. I won't get a clear-"

"Perhaps. But you can get close to him." the voice then said, "You will make an appeal directly. Under the guise of appealing for your honour, you will bring charges of cheating forward. And it is there, you will be close enough to make your move."

Ser Haillet was quiet for a moment, before sighing. "...and your own? They are ready?"

"Indeed. We simply wait for your signal."

 

[Emperor Sagan]

It was, with some degree of rare introspection and a moment of bewilderment, that Lady Annaliese Valentova found herself seated beside her prospective partner for courtship; and, seated directly beside him on the opposite side, was some ridiculous damsel playing the same game as her. Just merely to a lesser, inferior degree. Valentova could see that Enya brought no gift - such a foolish move! If she thought herself gift enough, then she had best reconsider. You belong in a tavern you filth, she thought with a tremble, her teeth locked tight even as she smiled as the woman spoke.

"Though, I appear to have... uhm... intruded? Or... impeded on a meeting you were to have? I apologize if that is the case." Enya then turned to Annaliese and offered a smile to try to reconcile whatever ill-will she might have accumulated: "And my apologies to you, my lady."

"Oh, darling, it is quite alright. You've not upset me in the slightest," Valentova said, unable to cease her smile. "It seems we both felt the moment most opportune to join Lord Froste on this... delightful day." She paused only briefly, glancing aside to watch a bout ongoing in the tournament. There was much occuring at once. Her gaze swept the field of violence and lingered on a particularly ferocious struggle taking place between two unknown individuals to her - Siert and Ser Derton. The intensity of the struggle sent a slight warmth through her chest, but her attention was immediately lost when she noted their amicable parting, and instead she glanced aside to see some Vadyeen - Kyraug - obliterating some fellow with a blow to the head that left him motionless on the ground. Unlikely it was a death, but one could hope there would be some excitement.

She turned back to Lord Froste, and as a result, Enya due to proximity. With the subtlety of a fox, at least in her mind, she leaned slightly into Lord Froste to present the gift she had brought. "I mustn't forget this," she said, holding the pine flute case over and cracking it open so that the small instrument could be seen. "A bone flute, my lord. It is a Vallachian item of importance, for it offers the soul great respite while connecting oneself to the world around them - and that of the beyond and parallel. It is simple to play, but difficult to master. It offers a journey of fulfillment." The words she spoke were kindly, if not almost recited, as if she had spoken these exact words before at some point in the past. "... this is, of course, no burdeon to be placed upon you. If you find yourself disinclined or unable to make use of it, it remains an object with a gentle aura. Something to instill peace upon thy personal surroundings."

Valentova then added, her eyelashes fluttering, "it is a modest gift, my lord, but I do hope you will find it fulfilling."

Behind the seated women and Lorde Froste, standing beside Ser Titus, also stood Ser Friar. The chamberlain said nothing as he maintained a scholarly stance with his arms clasped before him, hidden within his sleeves. He stood with the silent patience of a leviathan glacier at rest. His eyes seemed to be afixed upon the activities of the arena, yet his almost disinterested and immovable expression hinted that his attention was much more active and closer than immediately apparent.

---

Prince Desmond Valentova sat quietly without the commanding presence of his sister to anchor him to where he sat. The arena was dreadful. The endless fluttering of the crowds, the near overpowering noise... it was suffocating. He had never witnessed such a racket in Vallach. Only the Red Carnival or the Exorcisma Noctis produced similar excitement, yet... he couldn't understand why this one so unnerved him. Perhaps it was merely being so far from home. The brightness here was just as bad as the noise, and it took him nearly an hour this morning for his eyes to stop watering and adjust to the sun. The thought of it caused him to grip his handkerchife tightly in case it began again, so that he could dab his eyes dry.

"Ser von Babel?" he spoke up after a moment, feeling ill at ease by his lonesome in such a crowded space. "I-I believe I will go for a walk through the markets outside. Just for a little while."

The imposing satyric knight glanced aside at the prince, his brow raised in question. Desmond gulped hard and toyed with his silk handkerchief in his hands. "I shall take along Ser Tamos and Mamzelle Kristina. I don't... don't think Sister would be happy if we both vacated this position. It would be bad upon our representation." His latter words were hollow and clearly spoken by his elder sister through him from another time.

"My prince, I am uncertain how wise it would be for you to wander...." Ser von Babel said, his voice soft despite the strong baritone supporting it.

Desmond appeared immediately crestfallen, for he knew this would be the response. He twisted his handkerchief into knots absentmindedly. "I, well that is to say, I fear my constitution will fail if I remain here any longer. If I am to faint... here... Sister would be... displeased."

The knight-master and marshal of the realm stroked his fiendish goatee in contemplation before, ultimately, giving a definitive and heavy nod. "Very well. Lady Valentova did make her wishes for you to... make friends known. If you can demonstrate that you met some fine folk worthy of her attention, then perhaps she will find no fault in this. And I would avoid purchasing any trinkets. You know how much she prefers to bestow them upon you."

Prince Desmond nodded, a beaming smile stretching across his face. "Oh, yes! She promised to take me to see the Wenzarian Ducks on the outskirts of the city later, and she said she would let me pick any of the wooden statues I wanted. They are so delightfully cute, they fit in the plam of your hand! She even said she might buy real ducks to take home!"

Ser von Babel nodded, inwardly content that the young prince was not in so poor health that he couldn't excite himself with the prospect of a trip later. Instead, his heavy gaze shifted to the two knights the boy had picked to be his guards - Tamos and Kristina. They were, like most of the knights among the Valentova entourage, members of the Drowned Rose and wore their crimson armor and tabards with pride. These two in particular, only a few years older than Desmond himself, were dependable but inexperienced. Babel would have preffered himself to go along, but that would leave the box here absent of any decsision makers for the house. And the only more experienced knight avaliable was Ser Raeleon, a serious old man who would die a thousand deaths for the house, but was too stern to travel with the prince. Babel could recall Desmond fainting once from Raeleon clearing his throat.

"Go, then," von Babel said. "And do not be away for long, my prince."

---

It was not long before Prince Desmond, along with his two knightly escorts, were wandering the fairgrounds outside the main arena. His complexion had already improved a small degree now that he was away from the uncertainties of the cacophonous tournament. And without the presence of his sister, he felt a modicum of an adventuring spirit. Like he was already all grown up and capable of being on his lonesome for good. Not that he ever wanted to be away from his sister, but not having her dictate the moment was a rather rare luxury he was keen to enjoy. Still... he felt a sense of guilt and more than a little uncertainty. Without her, what if he did something wrong? Or what if something bad happened?

His spiralling mind and wide eyes were quickly arrested by a curious party gathered around an otterfolk food vendor. The exotic Glyrran woman he thought he recognized - from when they met the Emperor! He stared at her for a moment, shyly, before he was taken in by the formidable appearance of the two knights with them, a Wulpine and an older man that reminded Desmond of Ser von Babel somewhat.

He realized to his rising embarassment that he was staring too much, and fearing that he would look silly once spotted, he sheepishly approached them and gave a polite - though nervous - bow. His delicate appearance was at odds with the helmeted, red armored knights behind him.

"H-hello, fair patrons," he spoke, his pale eyes peering out around his curly blonde-white locks. He held his hands locked before him in a well-practiced and high-mannered aristocratic cradle that made him look as if he was still inside a palace. His cap, a large bicorne adorned with stately lace, only half-shaded his face as he peered up at the party.

While he more closely resembled a ghost mouse from the fields of Haazendal, his following words were certain to strike a spark in the minds of those knowledgable of the houses of the realm. "I'm Prince Desmond, of House Valentova."

He blinked around towards Ser Harald and Calder, and asked, "are you knights?" And without so much as the slightest hesitation, he peered around to Rutu and Marina, asking the former, "and you, are you a sorceress?" He spoke the words knights and sorceress with the gentle astonishment and innocence one could expect from a boy not much older than twelve or so.

 

[K0mori]

"Four silver piece. And for the ladies?" the otterfolk asked for Rutu and Marina.

Marina had no appetite due to her poor mood, and glanced over at her companion. Rutu, however, had her eyes closed, as she gently lifted her head back and smelled the aromas wafting on the air, breathing in deeply before exhaling in a sigh. "...The simplest crafts are often the most underappreciated. It smells wonderful; I will have one," she declared, and even before she had finished speaking, Marina was taking out her satchel to retrieve a silver piece for the purchase.

He blinked around towards Ser Harald and Calder, and asked, "are you knights?" And without so much as the slightest hesitation, he peered around to Rutu and Marina, asking the former, "and you, are you a sorceress?" He spoke the words knights and sorceress with the gentle astonishment and innocence one could expect from a boy not much older than twelve or so.

Rutu's mysterious smile widened as a single fang appeared between her drawn lips, her mischief-filled eyes measuring up an easy mark. It was always the ones who were easily impressed who greased the wheels of her business, as their excitement was infectious; even ones with more critical eyes might willfully suspend their disbelief, if only to protect the sort of childlike joy which plays on their dumber companion's mind. The fact that Desmond was a Prince of House Valentova made it all the more tempting to bring out her best routines; she had promised a future meeting with the Vallachian scholars to share her craft, and if she were to invent an excuse to avoid such an encounter at a later date, a proper show right now might set about the rumors she would need to permeate their ranks in her absence and lend credence to her station.

"I am many things to many people, good Sir," she replied softly with a deep and theatrical bow, holding her fish skewer aside and nearly hitting Marina in the face with it. The latter, amazingly, leaned backwards as she did, having automatically anticipated the maneuver. Rutu straightened up and properly introduced herself by name. "I consider myself an emissary of the ancestor spirits in service of Lord von Holt. My name is Rutu."

Marina watched her, hiding her frustrations as she knew that in the presence of nobles, this was the exact moment that Rutu's antics would actually begin to matter, and their Lord would be cross if he learned that his chamberlain had ruined the bit. She also gave a polite bow, choosing not to introduce herself, as the young man hadn't asked.

---
​

"What the...?" Dominik muttered, watching Ser Haillet double over in what appeared to be laughter, quickly losing control of what had appeared to be a tense battle. His fist clenched as Goldbert circled around behind Haillet and kick him down to the ground, effortlessly winning. Had he truly said something funny? Or was Ser Haillet injured in a way which forced him to double over in a manner which resembled laughter, and Dominik was merely misreading him?

He was shaking his head as Lazarus turned back to him from watching Lord Froste's encounters unfold. "Hm? What did I miss?" the Lord asked.

"I'm not sure, sir, but something strange just ended that fight between the hedge knight and the watchman down there," he said, pointing at Haillet as he stormed off the field. "I think he might have been laughing."

Lazarus looked at the man for a moment, and then shrugged. "That would be quite a loss of discipline," he remarked, disinterestedly as he took another sip from his goblet.

Dominik sunk into his seat a bit, crestfallen at the misfortune of sharing such an exciting day with a man who seemed to care more about gossip than about anything that was taking place on the field below. It was doubly frustrating, because Dominik knew that Lazarus understood combat; the man had been educated in the basics of swordplay as a lad, and was discerning enough to hire Dominik on the merits of his technique as much as his reputation. He had to remind himself that Lazarus tended to focus on whatever matters concerned his political fortunes, and that the games below were probably just frivolous entertainment in the Lord's eyes.

Truly, the actual game afoot was taking place in the stands, but Dominik still would have preferred someone who would appreciate the battles with him.

 

[Infab]

"Lord Froste, I was hoping we could speak more. I enjoyed our conversation yesterday." Enya said as an introduction, "Though, I appear to have... uhm... intruded? Or... impeded on a meeting you were to have? I apologize if that is the case."

"Its perfectly fine. This kind of caught me off guard as well." responded Oliver, looking between the pair as they got comfortable in their seats. Titus stood directly behind him, arms folded as he glanced down at the trio before him. Then, he glanced to Ser Friar next to him. He pondered if he should attempt to make conversation, or remain silent as the young lord and his guests spoke.

"I mustn't forget this," she said, holding the pine flute case over and cracking it open so that the small instrument could be seen. "A bone flute, my lord. It is a Vallachian item of importance, for it offers the soul great respite while connecting oneself to the world around them - and that of the beyond and parallel. It is simple to play, but difficult to master. It offers a journey of fulfillment." The words she spoke were kindly, if not almost recited, as if she had spoken these exact words before at some point in the past. "... this is, of course, no burden to be placed upon you. If you find yourself disinclined or unable to make use of it, it remains an object with a gentle aura. Something to instill peace upon thy personal surroundings."

Valentova then added, her eyelashes fluttering, "it is a modest gift, my lord, but I do hope you will find it fulfilling."

Another item to catch the young lord off guard. Oliver took the case, opening it up and inspecting the bone flute. He had a little experience with musical instruments, having toyed with a lute and other items when he was younger. His father would often hire traveling bards to perform during festivals and events in Tarth, and he would sometimes be allowed to meet and speak with them along with his father. He had never actually taken the time to truly learn an instrument, though.

"Uhm, thank you!" he said, surprised by the sudden gift. Now he needed to find something to gift her in return. It was only right, but it'd be tricky. He had no idea what Lady Valentova would even want or have a use for.

​

"What do you make of the tournament thus far? A farce, is what I say." he asked, before moving the subject elsewhere. "Though, I suppose that is not what you are here for." he asked, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"​

Maria looked out over the arena, taking in the sights of the various people in the stands and fighting below. "Its certainly a grand event for a farce, and already some are trying to use it to their advantage. For example, House Kalfas..." she said, her voice trailing off as she looked towards Ser Faralt.

"Anyway, I decided to come and pay a visit while Lord Froste is currently engaged in conversation with a pair of beautiful young women. Perhaps we could chat on some current affairs?" she soon said, redirecting her attention to Uchtred. "...I'm sure you've already been approached by one or more of the princes. They seem to already be searching for allies in case the worst occurs."

 

[joshuadim]

The Staging Grounds - The Grand Tournament
Vexumin [Kyraug], Worthlessplebian [Siert], Breadman [Goldbert]​

By now, much of the first round had finished as those who survived now remained in the Staging Grounds behind the stands. A few more matches remained, but the one that the entire city was waiting for was to come up next. Ser Faralt was at the far end of the area, practically unapproachable as a crowd of swooning women had taken residence where he sat in preparation just beyond the fence borders. He was chatting away with them with the charisma afforded by his looks and charms, playing much into the idol-like worship thrust upon him by adoring fans. His other companion, a young black-haired Southron man, was sat nearby as well as he tended to the legend's sword. Every meticulous wipe of a polishing rag made sure to keep the sword in perfect condition, as he brought it to eye level lengthwise to see any imperfections.

When all was said and done, the time had come; Ser Faralt bid his adoring audience farewell as he took possession of his weapon from his companion. The two shared a brief word quietly, before hugging. Then, the Blade of the Southron Wind made a brisk pace towards the arena.

Goldbert, Kyraug, and Siert, like all the other remaining competitors, were witness to this either directly or in the background as they went about their business. But it was then that the Watcher was approached by a fellow contestant. Ser Triest, a man Goldbert's age with curly brown hair and a youthful visage, looked nervous as he approached: "Watcher, you have experience with fights like this I suppose?" he asked, "I... I'm afraid I will be facing Ser Faralt in the next round. I don't stand a chance, all things considered. Yet you don't seem troubled by the possibility of going up against him... how?"

Siert in the meantime could see his quarry, drinking wine from a flagon, resting his laurels after having crushed the one called Munguth - a lowly retainer - under his mace. Ser Locke, the Silver Lion, seemed confident of his chances to go far in this tournament, unaware that there was a plot at hand to crush that hope. It was then that, while sitting, that his gaze fell upon the mercenary's and the two locked eyes. The Silver Lion narrowed his eyes, before pointing a finger to his mace before redirecting it to Siert. A threat as clear as any for the next round.

Kyraug in the meantime was approached by a young man who looked more like a commoner than a fighter. His hair was rather unkempt, but he retained a burly disposition. Coal stained under his fingertips and even parts of his skin, as if he had left a forge not too long ago. But what was more pressing than that was the pleasant vigor in him as he met the Vadyeen with a friendly demeanor: "Hail, friend. I saw you fight well. I'm Jendrick... you must be Kyraug, right?"

---

House Froste's Viewing Box - The Grand Tournament
Infab [Oliver, Titus], Emperor Sagan [Annaliese]​

Despite the words from Lady Valentova, Enya could not help but remain uncomfortable in her presence as she sat on Oliver's other side. She knew something was off here but couldn't exactly pin it down at first. But it was when Annaliese presented a gift to Oliver that the pieces began to quickly fall into place in her mind. She tried to not let it show, but her brow visibly furrowed when the idea popped into her head: Is she... courting him? And she sees me as a threat? Enya thought to herself, before the next line entered her mind. Am I interested in him? She took a quick glance to Oliver, who seemed to have appreciated the gesture from Annaliese, before brushing it off just as quickly from her mind. She rationalized that she had only just met him only the day prior - in the Imperial Garden - and that he was a friendly face to speak to.

Especially given the circumstances of her existence here in Ifosea, a friendly face among a den of schemers and liars was more comforting than water in a desert. But still... why did Lady Valentova feel this way? She would need to clear this up with her, perhaps at the post-tournament festivities. She switched the subject to keep a conversation going: "What do you think of the melee, Lord Froste?" Enya asked, "Ser Faralt is to be on the field in any moment. I've heard stories of his prowess... seeing it in action would be a spectacle."

It was then that she saw from the edge of her vision that familiar, golden-haired figure approach to the adoration of the masses. Enya turned her head with a smirk: "And I suppose we'll see it now."

---

House Kragh's Viewing Box - The Grand Tournament
Infab [Maria]​

"Indeed." Lord Kragh said dryly, "Five players on the board, all of whom are out for each other's throats. I saw that Cabrus approached Lord Frost, likely trying to gain his support and succeeding. The poor boy is already pushed into politics not even after his father is long gone." It was evident that Kragh held great distaste for these matters, especially the conduct of the four spawn of the Emperor, before sighing. "I was approached by Lord Kalfas. He demanded my neutrality through all this. It was evident that I would not play a part in this, but Leon wanted a guarantee from me. He must be playing his cards, even though he knows my grudge with him."

A set of old, weary eyes then rested to Maria, indicating his frustration with all this. "...and now, I have to deal with this mess whether I like it or not." Lord Kragh said, "I have been appointed Hand of the Emperor. My duties begin after these expensive - and unaffordable - festivities." He then turned his gaze to the arena, seeing now that the crowds had erupted again to the presence of Ser Faralt's approach on the field. Uchtred let out another sigh, his gaze falling to both Risieg and Reimar for a moment before turning back to Maria. "For the sake of the realm, I ask that you keep an eye on Cabrus for me. He already believes he has House Froste's support, which means his guard will be down. Report to me whatever it is he is planning, or doing, when you can."

---

The Fairgrounds - The Grand Tournament
K0mori [Rutu], Emperor Sagan [Desmond]​

With a silver piece taken, the skewer was given just as quickly and handed to Rutu for her enjoyment. The crispy fish looked as appetizing as it smelled, causing her mouth to water from the aromas. It beckoned her to eat, but it would have to wait as she became preoccupied with recounting her "sorcerous" ways to an inquisitive young lordling. Both Calder and Ser Harald observed as the latter chewed on his portions. The former was smitten by this display of enigmatic performance towards Desmond, while the latter was hardly convinced by it. He was almost tempted to make his opinions heard, but stopped himself as the child seemed more than entertained by the whole matter.

"Ahem, why yes, I am a knight." Ser Harald then spoke up to Desmond, quickly finishing his snacks and wiping his mouth. "I'm Ser Harald, the man-at-arms for House Kragh. And this is..." the older knight said, turning to Calder. The Wulpine was still mentally discombobulated before receiving a quick elbow to his arm that snapped him out of his fascination with the Glyrran before darting his gaze between Ser Harald, Rutu, and Desmond before clearing his throat. "Ahem, I'm simply a retainer to House Kragh." the Wulpine then managed to get out, slightly embarrassed from his episode.

"If you don't mind me asking lad, what brings a little lordling all this way? Does the tournament not entertain?" Ser Harald then asked of Desmond.

 

[Breadman]

"Quite frankly ser..." Goldbert looked to the other contestant. The eye beneath the mask being about the only friendly face he can muster, so the more jovial tone would have to make up for it. "...I am terrfied!" The sudden honesty is followed by a brief laugh "But, I am terrified every time I leave my post to venture into the wild up north. I have seen wildlings, beasts and strange things that make southerners seem...well a bit tame. No offense intended mind you. If a man from the south evokes the feeling of fear, then he is not to be underestimated, but repsected." If only the other man could sense how much the watchman was lying. "Take my advice." He placed his hand on the other man's shoulder. "Fear is a strong motivator. It can grant you courage and sharpen your wit if you use it."

 

[Vexumin]

Withdrawing to the resting area of the arena's ring, stepping into the shadows of the space, Kyraug immediately went to tend to his injury. His pace was a glide across the ground towards where his master had arranged a group of servants to tend to him when the conflict was done. Someone to mend his wounds if he received them. There would certainly be more to come. As he finds himself sitting, his dueling blade and sap are taken from him.

"An excellent bought, Kyraug. I am certain that the master will be pleased with the performance."

"I am certain as well, Healer Illec. Thank you. I was wounded. Left arm. Bicep. Not too pressing of an injury."

"Hmm. Very well. shirt off, if you would not mind, sir."

The healer was an acquaintance. Kyraug had been patched up plenty of times by Illec when he served the pervious lord on his attacks into Vadyeen lands. He has fought plenty against his own kind. Some have punished him more than others, but he would reason that he has yet to spill enough blood for his crimes against kin. Whatever the case, the two knew plenty of each other, and one could even say that Illec was a professional at getting Kyraug all fixed up.

One of the first things the healer did when he began treating Kyraug as a patient was become very familiar with his physical form. Learning how his body differed from humans and discovering the best way to treat a Vadyeen of his species.

After a moment, Kyraug removes the leather chest piece he wore with a little help from another servant and then removed the tunic dressed underneath. His body was slim. Compact. The muscle was taught no matter what, as if in a moment he could flick an arm out as fast as a drawn slingshot. It was especially true for his lower half. Some might find the visible outline of muscle under his flesh unsettling, or they could find it impressive and interesting. It depended on the individual. Though someone of his kind might even consider it attractive. Toned.

It was the body of a fighter. A servant who had to embody grace and represent his lord at all times, even here. He took a moment to relax, even as the healer started fetching the tools of his trade, which in this case was medical equipment. However, Illec had a bit of a strength that was the reason for his hiring in the first place. He had rare power. Of course, it wasn't the kind that could allow him to dominate a kingdom, but his service was bid for and won by House Bralmeyer. Illec was a true healer. A manipulator of the worlds energies. He could mend a wound without having to depend on time. However, his practice was painful.

Thankfully Kyraug had grown used to it.

The medical tools were a pair of wooden clamps. They were fastened around the cut in Kyraugs arm so that the wound was sealed and no blood could spill from it further. Then Illec raised a hand, passing it over the flesh very slowly. Almost too slowly. The clamp hurt as it pinched shut the injury, but it was just a temporary discomfort. The wound began to slowly, seemingly mend itself. The flesh closing completely and seamlessly. The process would take a bit, but that's when an unfamiliar sort approached.

Kyraug in the meantime was approached by a young man who looked more like a commoner than a fighter. His hair was rather unkempt, but he retained a burly disposition. Coal stained under his fingertips and even parts of his skin, as if he had left a forge not too long ago. But what was more pressing than that was the pleasant vigor in him as he met the Vadyeen with a friendly demeanor: "Hail, friend. I saw you fight well. I'm Jendrick... you must be Kyraug, right?"

Kyraug frowned past his focus at this interference of him working through the discomfort of Illec's efforts. He opened an eye and beheld the unfamiliar fellow with a reasonably cautious and wary gaze, but not aggressive. Just careful. One could never be too much of that in a tournament with who knows how many fingers dipped into the results and all trying to arrange everything to go their way. He looked over the young lad with a curious gaze, his other eye opening to offer a complete examination.

"You are correct. I am Kyraug. Well met, Jendrick. What business do you have with me?"

Kyraug never made a habit of openly guessing someones profession. There was always the chance that offense could be taken to an observation. He could just inquire about if Jendrick was a simple blacksmiths apprentice or something of the sort, but for all he knew this young fellow was the blacksmith. He could even be rather skilled at his work. He wondered if Jendrick was approaching in regard to his blade. His dueling blade to be specific. It could likely use a touch up after locking with that longsword that Ruzar swung around.

 

[Emperor Sagan]

Lady Valentova smiled sweetly as Lorde Froste took the offered gift, the bone flute. The burden had been placed and he would be forced to respond in some manner, given that he was a wise enough lord, and one surrounded with likewise intelligent retainers who would not allow him to move forwards without an appropriate response. The key was to keep the chain working, back and forth, until she had either aroused legitimate interest or merely put him in a position to find her the correct - and the only - suitor available. An alliance through their marriage would be quite formidable, especially given the rumblings of the political future. And if I can succeed in securing his infatuation... then that is all the better, she thought with a silent laugh to herself.

She continued to smile, though her eyes flashed as she looked upon Enya again, sat just on the other side. She was a pretty girl and seemed to have good manners and a well-placed mind - an altogether superior quality that she shared with herself and few other noble ladies among the varied courts. Naturally, Valentova knew she was the best out of all of them, there was simply no question nor consideration of this, but should she not have been in competition, Enya was likely to be near the top as well given her standing.

Valentova could imagine Enya as a good servant, a fussy little maid with her hair covered and apron dirtied by cleaning. She would make her crawl on the floor and scrub every single inch of her manor, even in the rooms that had not seen a soul for a decade or more. Maybe she could even work in a dirty old barn, but if that was the case, Valentova knew she had little chance of watching that pretty face get spoiled - why in all the hells would she ever set foot near a barn? No - that Enya would be a good maid. Always there, watching, knowing what she lost out in achieving. She could see herself wedding Froste and making Enya watch them together. Now that would be amusing, though it would be less so if she tried to stab her with some silverware, or something. The cutlery was far too nice to use for such a thing.

Clearing her throat slightly, Valentova leaned into Froste and smiled wider, essentially repeating what Enya had asked. "Oh, I say, what a fascinating tournament it has been. What are your thoughts on such events, sir? Will you perhaps ever take to the field yourself one day?" Valentova had already grown board with the squabbling little warriors in the arena. While it was fun to watch them harm each other to the point of death, she had already forgotten several names and faces, and only saw the light glinting off the armor and weapons. There needing to be some proper blood-letting before she found any interest. If she wanted to see people bash each other back and forth with little consequence, she could throw coins on the street back home.

---

Prince Desmond gave a gentle, genuine smile as his suspicions were confirmed. The Glyrran woman was a sorceress, and Harald and Calder were knights. Well, the Wulpine seemed somewhat out of it and merely professed himself to be a retainer, but he seemed the soldierly sort; his elder master certainly was. Many of the Vallachian knights were veterans, but many were also only experienced in the skirmishes they fought between each other, besting a rival order's knight before sending them back to their domain as a mess of embarrassment and bruises. The more he looked at the foreign knights, the more they seemed... dirty, but in an experienced way, like they were used to eating stale bread in a big war.

At Rutu's words, Desmond's eyes sparkled with interest as he looked up at her, and he held tight on to his bicorne so that it did not tip. Little tassels swung back and forth from either end. "Wow," he whispered. "My sister knows a lot about spirits, too. We have lots of them back home, and in our house, too. The woods are filled with them. You can see them watch you from the fog sometimes, but they aren't mean if you are nice back," he explained very casually. "Sister knows a lot about protecting our windows so they don't enter our manor."

By the way he said sister it was clear he had the utmost reverence for her - and perhaps a little bit of awe and fear mixed together. While their family was rather insulated from the rest of the mainland, any who were particularly knowledgeable of the central mountain region, or of Vallachia as a whole, would know of Lady Valentova's monopoly on attention. The fact that she no doubt ruled her brother as she did her realm would be no surprise, though he was clearly well taken care of. "What are your favorite kind of spirits? I like the vegetable ones... they hide in the fields and run around, sometimes, and make funny noises. I tried to catch one in a jar, once, but something else was following us in the field so we went home."

He glanced around at Marina as the other woman bowed, and after watching her for a moment with a sense of interest, he posed another question, "are you Lady Rutu's apprentice witch? My sister always said pretty people make good apprentices."

Likewise, after a moment, he glanced around at Ser Harald who asked him what he was doing walking about. With some shyness returning, he said, "the arena is too loud and there are too many people. I don't like it, it is very different from home. So I came out here to walk around. I am very happy to have met some very nice people."

Needless to say, this perhaps was difficult to do given the two knights accompanying Desmond, standing dutifully behind him and watching his back and sides for any danger. Tamos and Kristina, both of the Drowned Rose, adorned in crimson armor and cloth. Their sizes were both evident of their youth being not terribly far off from Desmond himself, and despite the wealth and high quality of their equipment, an older man such as Ser Harald would realize they were likely to be inexperienced, but enthusiastic, guardians.

 

[Infab]

"I have been appointed Hand of the Emperor. My duties begin after these expensive - and unaffordable - festivities."

Maria raised an eyebrow behind her mask. "...You have my sympathy, my lord. It is certainly a position that tests both the mind and body." she stated. She knew all too well what the position did to people, having served under Lord Froste while he held the chair. She had advised him to the best of her abilities during his tenure, and hoped Lord Kragh had someone to support him in the same manner. "Regardless as to what occurs during your tenure, you'll have House Froste to back you. Should you need an outside opinion on things, both Titus and I are happy to assist for the good of the Realm." she soon said, with a slight bow of her head.

"For the sake of the realm, I ask that you keep an eye on Cabrus for me. He already believes he has House Froste's support, which means his guard will be down. Report to me whatever it is he is planning, or doing, when you can."

"Understood. Once I know a bit more, I'll send word. For the moment, he seems to seek to use Tarth as a sort of escape from his siblings when they all eventually seek the throne. The idea that his own kin will have him killed has him terrified."

"What do you think of the melee, Lord Froste? Ser Faralt is to be on the field in any moment. I've heard stories of his prowess... seeing it in action would be a spectacle."

"Oh, I say, what a fascinating tournament it has been. What are your thoughts on such events, sir? Will you perhaps ever take to the field yourself one day?"

"So far, its been interesting." responded Oliver to both. "I'm more used to there being... well, blood and injuries. Tarth's competitions are more physical."

Titus spoke up from behind him, adding to the conversation. "During the last tournament in Tarth, one of the knights took a mace blow to the jaw. Knocked him out cold, and shattered the bone. A wonder it didn't do more." he stated.

Oliver glanced back. "I didn't see that one! Lady Maria pulled me away just after your longsword duel. Who was it that was injured?"

"Ser Dietrich, of House Wolland. New amongst our ranks, quite talented with a polearm." responded Titus.

"Wonder if he'll try and return for the next tournament..." muttered Oliver, before returning his attention to Enya and Annaliese. "Anyway... Ser Titus has been teaching me combat arts, so perhaps I may get the chance to take part in events like this."

As he finished, he looked down to the golden haired man proceeding onto the field. Ser Faralt, in the flesh.

Oliver smirked, glancing back to Ser Titus. "Think you could beat him in a duel?" asked Oliver.

Titus shrugged. Maybe, maybe not. He wasn't going to try, of course. It didn't look good for a knight to embarass someone of a higher standing in a tourny duel.

 

[K0mori]

At Rutu's words, Desmond's eyes sparkled with interest as he looked up at her, and he held tight on to his bicorne so that it did not tip. Little tassels swung back and forth from either end. "Wow," he whispered. "My sister knows a lot about spirits, too. We have lots of them back home, and in our house, too. The woods are filled with them. You can see them watch you from the fog sometimes, but they aren't mean if you are nice back," he explained very casually. "Sister knows a lot about protecting our windows so they don't enter our manor."

By the way he said sister it was clear he had the utmost reverence for her - and perhaps a little bit of awe and fear mixed together. While their family was rather insulated from the rest of the mainland, any who were particularly knowledgeable of the central mountain region, or of Vallachia as a whole, would know of Lady Valentova's monopoly on attention. The fact that she no doubt ruled her brother as she did her realm would be no surprise, though he was clearly well taken care of. "What are your favorite kind of spirits? I like the vegetable ones... they hide in the fields and run around, sometimes, and make funny noises. I tried to catch one in a jar, once, but something else was following us in the field so we went home."

Another Vallachian, another series of increasingly worrisome assertions about the spirituality of the natural world. As before, it would do no good for Rutu to break from her script; until the whole game was exposed, she would need to pretend that nothing which was mentioned to her in plausibly good faith was outlandish, as she was the most outlandish and unpredictable of all. But... Vegetable spirits? Spirits in jars? Protective wards on windows? Rutu had been forced to think on her feet before, but always to fool the skeptical, never someone so credulous.

"I would venture to say," she replied, burying her nervousness to the deepest pits of her stomach, "that all who are novices in the ways of the ethereal forms are best acquainted to those benign and elusive sorts. And as to favorites... I know some by name, though they will sense my lack of reverence if I speak of them when they have not chosen to be heard. Their guidance is everything to me."

Marina watched in stunned silence at the smoothness of Rutu's obfuscation. She had managed to treat the weird Prince's assertions as if they were utterly mundane in order to pivot away from the subject, and then established a motive to conceal any further details. It was entirely possible that Prince Desmond's sister was merely toying with him in the same way that Rutu toyed with others, but his claims of seeing spirits with his own eyes, and the sincerity with which he spoke of it, gave her reason to pause and worry. As she wondered how long Rutu could keep up the charade, Desmond turned his attention onto her.

He glanced around at Marina as the other woman bowed, and after watching her for a moment with a sense of interest, he posed another question, "are you Lady Rutu's apprentice witch? My sister always said pretty people make good apprentices."

"Oh," she blushed, flattered by the implication before realizing that, no matter how much more legitimate her role was than the fraud next to her, she would need to reply that she was merely the Chamberlain. "I- I'm the Chamberlain of House von Holt, and my name is Marina. As you might assume, the Witch's activities incur a cost to the realm, and so my Lord has entrusted me with the purse..."

"And I am most grateful for your assistance," Rutu interrupted, treating Marina is a lowly assistant and throwing salt into the wound, even if the words were spoken warmly as if they were a compliment. While Rutu bit down on her fish and savored the taste, Marina flushed again, but this time out of anger.

With words that tasted like soap in her mouth, she replied, "you're very welcome, Rutu."

 

[Worthlessplebian]

After that toxic thrill of battle passed, after Siert steeled his nerves, he retreated to the resting area of the arena's ring. He had paced to a secluded spot, the familiar scrape of sabatons against wooden floor loud in his ears. The mercenary wanting to shield himself from too many eyes chose that particular spot, far off to the corner below a low wooden beam, providing adequate space for Coen to spread his mighty wings as well. Perhaps he should not be so sequestered from interaction, but Siert believes he could ill-afford to mingle too much with the contestants now. He raised an armoured finger, requesting a mug of water to cool off the lingerings of that combative fervor, finding a lack of stomach for spirits, diluted or pure. Strangely, Siert felt an ache in his fingers, stretching down from his knuckles, as they closed around the pine mug's handle. He forced himself to ignore the sensation, but Coen, mysteriously attuned, diverted his attention to his master-friend. The raptor shifted his head, shooting Siert a penetrating look. He was vaguely aware of Coen's probing, forcing himself not to meet the flying predator's keen gaze. In truth, Siert simply couldn't fathom an answer for himself, let alone Coen. Something about the job had left a bad impression on the mercenary. It was obvious, through the spider-web of royalty and nobility, that the Lion held significant importance to House Kalfas, rather for their rivals which is why Jomier had requested his... Enfeeblement, he was certain that much, but the finer details that escaped Siert.

He turned his torso, chainmail clinking as he does so, finally attending Coen's worries, who perched himself on the back rest of a chair. "It's alright, Coey." Siert assured, his other hand reaching out to caress the bird's feathers. The bird recoiled as the hand approached, Siert caught by surprised, hesitated then withdrew the gauntlet. The man frowned slightly, slumping his shoulders. "Fine," Siert relented, flapping his hand loosely. "this task of mine - ours, the twine between it and the larger frame painfully eludes me and I have little wish to be the pawn again in a greater game of politicks. Coin or not." Siert said, the barest hint of anger colouring his voice deadly. However, the confession, as it were, seemed to lighten the burden upon his back. The ache in his fingers all but cleared out as if it were never there. And Coen seemed all the happier for it, puffing his chest feathers proudly.

Siert, not one to abandon festivities, joined the joyful mood. A soft, ghost of a smile that parted his bearded features. He lifted up his mug to gulp down the final droplets of crystal water. When he spotted the Lion sitting on a table, not too far for them to see each other. Siert was staring over the rim of the mug. Ser Locke had been filling his gullet from a flagon, slowly Siert lowered the container and the twin warriors locked eyes. The mercenary narrowed his eyes, following Locke's gesture, a decisive threat. The mercenary grunted. Siert's smile widened slightly, the light, what little of it there was, gleaming from his polished teeth. Whatever Jomier's plans were, the mercenary will certainly relish the opportunity to carry this mangling step out.

joshuadim

 

[joshuadim]

House Kragh's Viewing Box - The Grand Tournament
Infab [Maria]
​

"As it should instill fear in him. He would be a fool to think otherwise. There have been multiple instances of kinslaying across different dynasties for the Imperial throne." Uchtred said with a slow nod to Maria, "Though I doubt his own capabilities, it's important to keep an eye on all the actors in this scene. Landon and Davin in particular interest me more than Maril as well - the latter is a shrewd young man with a penchant for scheming and planning. And Landon has the strongest claim as the eldest." Another wave of cheers rattled the viewing box as the masses anticipated the coming duel, barely able to contain themselves in the moment.

"What would be your opinion on this matter? If I were to divert my efforts on surveying one of the two, and focusing my attention on maintaining the upper hand... who would you think is the better subject?" Uchtred then asked as the fight starring Ser Faralt began none too soon.

​

---

House Froste's Viewing Box - The Grand Tournament
Infab [Oliver, Titus], Emperor Sagan [Annaliese]​

"I've only heard the stories of Ser Faralt's deeds." Enya said, her eyes trailing the blond mane that strutted across the competitive field amidst the glory to be held. "They say his blade sings in the air as it flows, and that his feet carry the breath of the wind itself." She then turned her gaze to Ser Titus and a smile: "With all due respect, Ser... I don't think any knight of the realm can win in a duel against him."

A high-pitched horn sounded to signal the beginning of the duel, as Ser Faralt and Ser Kesel stood opposite one another in their arena. The latter took a long stance with his longsword at his front, looking as though he were ready to lunge with one foot forward and the other behind - both bent slightly to indicate his readied momentum. Ser Faralt, on the other hand, took an inside stance that brought his blade inwards from the hilt and pointed outwards towards his target. The steel rested on his wrist, glinting from the sun above as he took a deep breath. His concentration plunged into the still depths, drowning out the world around him as his eyes narrowed and his lips tightened.

Ser Kesel then charged with a valiant cry, intending on striking the legend in his midst with a piercing strike. He only found the air, however, as Ser Faralt twirled out of the way with the grace of a eagle; his footwork kicked up clouds of dirt as he moved, using his momentum for a horizontal strike that his opponent barely managed to block. This sent the man off-kilter as he stumbled backward two paces, and the crowd enjoyed the theatrics as they shouted in favor of their champion. Ser Faralt was not finished with his assault, as he leapt forward as though he were only wearing his garments underneath - unrestrained by the weight of plate armor - and came in with a upwards arcing strike.

Ser Kesel was forced to respond with another guard that he barely managed to put up, unable to match the speed of his opponent as he stumbled once more when the blades connected. It was then that his guard opened, and Ser Faralt took advantage of the situation to strike with the pommel of his blade directly into the man's helmet before sweeping with his leg to topple the man completely onto his backside. And just as Ser Kesel recognized his situation, the Blade of the Southron Wind held his weapon to the man's throat and forced him to concede.

In as short amount of time as it took a man to finish a bite of a smoked and roasted sprat, the fight was over. And it was this decisiveness that so enamored the crowd as the commons cheered. And, just as visibly, Lord Kalfas looked more than pleased with himself as he observed his entry into the tournament set a precedent that he expected would wash over the rest of the rabble. A few of the women in the crowd even threw roses, in the hopes that their sailing love would land into the hands of such a ostentatious figure. And Ser Faralt indeed caught one in his hands, much to the delight of the women who now squabbled over whomsoever's bounty this was.

Ser Faralt strode around for a moment, taking in the sights and sounds of his first of many victories today before coming slowly to House Froste's box. Situated just at the ground level, it was at the perfect level for the knight to look at its inhabitants before delivering the rose he had received himself towards the subject of his own delight: Enya.

At first, she didn't recognize what was happening and stared at the rose for a moment out of confusion. But reality quickly struck as her gaze then darted between Ser Faralt and his gift before meekly grabbing the flower offered. To say she was embarassed was an understatement, as her cheeks burnt red hot like iron fresh from a forge as she realized the amount of eyes were on her in that moment. And, just as quicklky as he had arrived the knight left to return to the staging grounds. It was especially embarassing for Enya given that she was in the presence of Lord Froste, but also that of someone who had already made known the distaste of her presence.

She kept her eyes averted from both of them as she remained fixated on the rose before finally speaking up: "...quite a performance from Ser Faralt."

---

The Staging Grounds - The Grand Tournament
Vexumin [Kyraug], Worthlessplebian [Siert], Breadman [Goldbert]​

"Business?" Jendrick asked out of a naive confusion, "Does talk need to be business?" He ran his fingers through his hair as he let out a nervous chuckle, "Not that I imply you are not worth business, either with me or anyone else... or that you aren't worth my time..." The young man stopped himself as he recognized his rambling before shaking his head. "Regardless! I just wanted to, er... talk. I suppose. We're in the same bracket, after all. None of the other knights want to talk with you... I figured that maybe I'd be the first." He looked over the Vadyeen again once over before clearing his throat: "I don't suppose you have a specific smithy for your needs already? I've never worked with anyone that wasn't a man, forgive my curiosity."

Ser Triest remained quiet as he listened to Goldbert's words of advice regarding fear itself, and also remained fixated on the idea of 'beyond the wall' itself. For many southerners like him, Ser Triest had never ventured northwards far enough to come close to Rainor's Wall. It might as well have been myth to the likes of him, yet sat before him was a man who had braved not only its ramparts but also whatever it was meant to keep out of Imperial territories. This instilled some measure of confidence into the knight as he gave a nod to the watcher before speaking up: "I must assume you've... seen things beyond Rainor's Wall, then?" he asked out of curiosity.

For Siert in the meanwhile, the threat he reciprocated back to Ser Locke only stirred annoyance rather than any visceral reaction from the Silver Lion. But what was more important was that a familiar voice returned to the vicinity. "The bets have you at a significant disadvantage." Jomier muttered to Siert, just near the railing that kept the contestents penned in for the time being. He retained the hood and cloak around his form, keeping himself incognito for the most part as he surveyed the area. "At around fourteen and a half to one. I... might have embellished the stories of Ser Locke even further to exacerbate that, but I've also put hefty deposits under your name. The payout will be quite substantial, if I say so myself."

The Kalfas lordling seemed almost pleased with himself in the moment, though retained an audible hesitation given that through all this things could *still* go wrong at any moment. "What do you think of your quarry?"

By now, Ser Faralt had returned to the Staging Grounds of the tournament. Having barely broken a sweat, he took a seat once more as his companion took great diligence in maintaining his weapon while the knight himself bathed in the entourage of girls that had taken residence in his corner for the duration of the competition.

---

The Fairgrounds - The Grand Tournament
K0mori [Rutu], Emperor Sagan [Desmond]​

"Hrm. I understand. I don't like crowds myself." Ser Harald said to the little lordling in front of him, "Not just loud, but smells bad too. Never know when's the last time one of the common folk took a bath, or if they did whether or not they took it with the pigs." He meant it as a joke to try to get the child to laugh, but also held a somewhat serious tone. He looked over Desmond's two guardians, cocking an eyebrow as he immediately recognized their inexperience despite the bravado their armor showed. These were the ones to be protecting a noble? He eyed over Tamos for a moment before scoffing.

"You ever wield a sword before, boy?" Ser Harald asked of the lad, who looked surprised by the sudden question. Calder rolled his eyes as he let out a soft groan, indicating that this was not the first time such a thing had occurred with the man-at-arms.

"Uhm... aye, Ser."

"Show me your form."

The young man looked baffled as he stammered for a moment before reluctantly drawing his blade and then assuming a guarding pose. While he had the spirit of the technique down, Ser Harald snorted as he saw the inadequacies in his form. He slapped Tamos' wrist, causing him to lose balance for a moment as he wobbled before reorienting himself as best as he could. This was met by an upwards push from Ser Harald onto his arm, which in turn left Tamos to stumble back a bit before losing the position of his blade and for it to rest onto the ground. Ser Harald's point being made, he then looked at the young knight seriously: "You're supposed to be a knight of your house, are you not? How can you defend your lord if you can't even hold a blade proper?"

Before Tamos could respond, stammering over his words in trying to formulate something, Ser Harald stepped in closer until he was directly in the young man's face: "Gods help me, if I hear that your lord ever receives so much as a scratch I will find you and I will puppet you with my gauntlet up your arse for bringing shame upon knighthood. Do I make myself clear?"

The young man wanted to protest, but was shut down with the gaze that he had received from House Kragh's man-at-arms so effectively that he could only muster a weak nod.

Calder, eager to move on beyond this unnecessary demolition of a young knight's pride, shook his head and muttered a half-hearted apology into the wind before turning to Rutu. "If you would entertain my curiosity... how does your people's mythos work? Your spirits and all? My people have their own beliefs, though merged with the Old Gods that the North worship, in terms of our ancestoral worship and our folklore. I have not met a Glyrran 'till today... I'd like to bring some stories with me for when I return home."

 

[Infab]

"What would be your opinion on this matter? If I were to divert my efforts on surveying one of the two, and focusing my attention on maintaining the upper hand... who would you think is the better subject?"

Maria tilted her head, pondering the pair of princes for a brief moment. Landon was more up front about his methods and dealings. He had the strongest claim as eldest, and likely believed he had the throne already. His actions going forward would be just to get people onboard with his regime when the time came. And now, at the moment, he was pushing for the public's favor, with Ser Faralt's involvement in the games. He could be figured out quite easily.

"I would say Prince Davin, my lord." responded Maria finally. "Prince Landon does things in the light. You know what he's doing, as he's rather public about it. He already thinks he has the throne, and is just solidifying his claim with these public showings."

She watched the fight below for a moment, until Ser Faralt's victory came. Then, she watched him walk over to House Froste's box to hand a rose to the young Enya. She frowned slightly. Rather bold display, especially in front of Lord Froste as he entertained his guests. Disrespectful as well.

"And as you can see... Ser Faralt seems to have taken interest in your daughter." soon said Maria, glancing back to Uchtred. "That could lead to an interesting situation, and its happening right in front of you. Davin, however, works in the dark. His thoughts, plans, and schemes develop there, never to see the light until they're put into action."

​

"...quite a performance from Ser Faralt."​

Oliver didn't respond, simply gazing at the rose himself. Titus, however, did speak. "Indeed. Quite the performance." spoke the knight. The tone of his voice gave hints as to how he felt about what had just occurred. His expression beneath his helmet would speak volumes more.

 

[Breadman]

"Things many men would consider outwordly." Goldbert looked around and spoke in a hushed tone "I dare not speak of some of them as I may draw attention from the wrong type of people. But I can recall trolls, rocs and a maneater of some sort in the frozen wastes. We suspect the reason why it takes the wildlings so long to assemble is that they are busy themselves cleansing whatever frozen beast they can find. Or worse, tame them." He was silent for a moment. "But...there is something worse out there. Every fairy tale and story you know about witches and warlocks, ser? All true. In the long nights when you're alone atop the wall you can see forests of uncut wood. Undisturbed for generations. You can look down and amongs the trees they stand, looking up. Their heads adorned with bones of animal and human orgin and you can feel their eyes pierce yours even so far away." His tone changed back to his more cheerful one "But should you wish to risk it. They can be friends in the darkest and coldest nights."

Unlike the previous answer, Goldbert barely embelleshed anything. And while the young man across from him might find the entire thing rediculous, to the scoutmaster, the truth was what gripped his heart in cold fear.

 

[Vexumin]

"Business?" Jendrick asked out of a naive confusion, "Does talk need to be business?" He ran his fingers through his hair as he let out a nervous chuckle, "Not that I imply you are not worth business, either with me or anyone else... or that you aren't worth my time..."

Kyraug cants his head, his eyes peering a bit. Who is this fellow? Was Jendrick nervous? Just curious about one of the fighters of the tournament? The Vadyeen wasn't sure. He had to owe it to the young fellow though. He had a point. Not all conversation had to be business, but this was a competition. Someone could make attempts to inhibit his performance here. Affect just how far he'll go. Kyraug was sure that there was a whole stream of dealings just behind most of the fighters or out of sight of them. He was sure that there might be some concerning him as well, but what they entailed, he wasn't sure.

However, he knew for a fact that there were some who would see him even getting far in the tournament as a mark of shame for the Empire.

He hums softly for himself, shaking his head slightly. Only enough that a keen eye might catch him lost in his own thoughts. It was a bad habit of his to do too much thinking. He never has the time to relax. This tournament doesn't help.

The Vadyeen smirks slightly as he continues to listen to Jendrick talk.

"Regardless! I just wanted to, er... talk. I suppose. We're in the same bracket, after all. None of the other knights want to talk with you... I figured that maybe I'd be the first."

There the answer was, but it was no less surprising to the Vadyeen. Kyraug blinks and straightens a bit, reexamining Jendrick as a potential adversary, although he hadn't seen him at all in his own section of the tournament brackets, meaning that if Jendrick or he were to make it far enough, they would only meet just before the semi-finals. A considerably lesser threat. Kyraug could be in for a surprise though.

"Makes you a finer fellow than the rest, sir. It would offer you the greatest advantage against me as well, if we meet in combat. I find difficulty in harming those I know personally and am on decent terms with."

"I don't suppose you have a specific smithy for your needs already? I've never worked with anyone that wasn't a man, forgive my curiosity."

Kyraug barks out a small laugh. "You'll have to forgive me, Jendrick, but knowing that you are also participating in the tournament, I will have to refuse. Not that I doubt your integrity or that of the smithy in question, but I must admit that I fear interference. Without my dueling blade, I may as well be without an arm. Tampering could spell danger in any future bouts. However, you seem like a good sort, so I would not mind a conversation. Have you fought your first opponent yet?"