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Alas, Camelot!
The Lady of the Lake! her arm clad in the purest, shimmering samite held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by DIVINE PROVIDENCE that I, Arthur, was to be King of the Britons! Thus, we begin. |
"Cannae forget your duties, Kier. Important day in the 'morrow, Kier. We cannae sleep in." His steps heavy against the stone floor, Kier flung his arm out, an oversized hat flopping in his grasp. "We my fuckin' arse!" It was an important day, at least by knightly standards. Not that that was about to make him rush around. More than he already had. Running around half of the palace was quite enough, thank you very much.
Kier stopped in front of a set of doors and sighed. The chapel. If she wasn't here, then he was doomed. Missing from a tournament because of some servant boy. That might finally be enough to turn her sword on him. Maybe. Probably. He ran a hand back through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. There was no way he could watch if he was stabbed through. With that thought, he took a breath and shoved the doors open. "Amélie! Miss Amélie!" |
She'd awoke with the sound of the chapel doors crashing inward, senses honed in hissing desert dawns surging to awareness before she recalled where she was. Could she have looked more pathetic to any of the other faithful who'd stopped by for matins this morn? Slumped awkwardly over the prie-dieu, disheveled and destitute, Amélie rather doubted it.
Lifting her head, she fought back a wince at the ensuing ache. She must have spent the better part of the night with her neck lolling over the lip of the prayer bench. She couldn't even remember falling asleep. The first sight to greet her was the statue that had kept her company in her lonely vigil, the beloved Saint-Marie la Madone, her flawless visage as irenic as the voices of Heaven who refused to break their silence. She stared into the Virgin's eyes for a moment, thinking, asking, Where does atonement end, and grace begin? For what hast thou forsaken me? But she knew. The blood had seeped so deep within her as to stain her very soul. And even heathen blood was a blight in the eye of Christ, whatever the vicars might say. It had to be thus. She could hear footsteps approaching, more irritated calls. A moment, she thought. But a moment more. Righting herself into a more contrite pose, she bowed her head and began to murmur, "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum..." |
What was she-? Oh. No. Of course. He could have groaned, if that weren't entirely inappropriate and disrespectful and bound to send him deeper into Hell when the time came. Kier stopped beside the bench his ever-so-devout knight had chosen, and for a moment, his eyes turned to the image of Moire.
He never did like to ruin moments like this. Looking to Amélie, his voice far softer than when he had entered, he said, "Miss Amélie, I'm sorry, this isn't the time. Did you forget already?" |
"et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."
Looking up to her varlet, Amélie was at first bewildered by his apparent concern, and his need to disturb her repose, until she heard the words he'd spoken. "Mon Dieu, the tourney!" she cried, pushing herself to her feet and wringing her hands through her sleep-mussed hair. "They're like to call me to the list any moment! And me, more sloth than knight, and profane no less..." She crossed herself in a hasty apology to the Lord for using the chapel as her bedchamber. No doubt, the monks had not the heart to rouse her, mistaking her wretched prayers for a piety they might envy. Enough of that. The day demands. "My armor, Kier," she spoke through a yawn, "At once, if you please. We cannot tarry, lest we dishonor the entire Ordo Humilis. And I'll need Sombre dressed and saddled. Spare my lance, I'd not kill whomever they set against me." Looking out through the high windows of the nave, she attempts to discern the hour and fails. Looking back to Kier, she sighs. "I make of myself a disgrace. I am sorry." |
He bowed his head. Kier was sure he was better off not mentioning the ungodly hour he'd woken to prepare, along with the usual chores, those very things. Or that all of this discussion was wasting even more time. If only he'd noticed her absence before he'd tended to Sombre. "Aye, Miss Amélie."
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Late morning passes amid a spectacle of pageantry on the tournament grounds -- acrobats, flame-swallowers, and more, entertaining the assembled gentry and common-folk before the main event begins. Lords and their households have come from all across the empire for the Holy Mustering, and take this day each as a last moment of ease before the storm of the Invasion of Logres begins. Hundreds of knights are slated to compete, with a mystery prize awaiting the victor. Later, still hundreds more of men-at-arms and lesser knights shall test each other in the grand melee, with a hundred pounds of silver to go to the victor. There is an air of expectant tenacity upon the tourney ground as the heralds begin to call forth the first contenders.
High up in a canopy shielded from the summer sun sits the Holy Emperor Charlemagne, his wife the Empress Hildegard, and their daughter, now restored to health by the wonders of the Living Saint, tiny Theodrada. With them are the paladins Ogeir and Maugris, who have both declined to join the joust, as well as various dignitaries and favored peers of the Emperor's Court, foremost among them, of course, His Holiness Clement VI, the Vicar of Christ on Earth, Papal Regent of the Holy See of Christendom. Charlemagne conducts himself with reserved levity, well aware of the hellish toil awaiting these brave men in the coming weeks. Nonetheless, he is eager to watch his Paladins -- recalled from their many quests -- join the lists together for the first time. Even Sir Bors, late of beleaguered Camelot, has elected to test himself against Charlemagne's finest knights, and it is his name that is called first by the heralds. Resplendent in his silvered armor -- full, articulated plate of the finest craft embossed with gilded filigree of rearing lions and blued etchings of majestic flowers -- he arrives, astride a silver-coated destrier draped in equally extravagant barding. Even at his age, he looks every bit the champion legend makes him out to be. Doffing his helm to reveal his shaven head, scarred by a vicious blow on the crown of is skull, he bows in reverence before taking his place on the parade ground. In short order his opponent is called forth, Sir Fierbras, the Saracen, exalted among the Paladins. He wears a resplendent gown of gilded scale armor, descending well past his waist to drape his plate-armored thighs and shins. A crimson sash of wafting silk drapes his chest, and his pointed helm bears a flowing crest of dyed horsehair in the same deep red. Wishing peace to his Emperor, he too prepares for the pass, saluting Sir Bors and the mutual honor between them. Both men are brought fresh lances, and the crowd falls quiet. And yet, notably absent from the proceedings is the Saint herself, the Holy Maiden Jeanne of Arc. While she came preaching words of holy war, such violent sport is beneath the watching gaze of angels. She instead tends to the sick and destitute in the greater confines of Avignon, bringing succor and weal to all those who could not attend the events. The lack of her presence to sanctify the event has cast the slightest shadow over Charlemagne's mood, though he does his best to pay it no mind and watch the test of mettle and skill about to unfold. |
"I do not see the point, Charlamagne. Why have them fight if they are not going to kill each other?"
Ylnjor took the drawn out time to pronounce every word as he spoke. He had done a lot of speaking today. It seemed as if speaking was all he really had to do these days. He sat slouched back in his seat near Charlemagne, his head supported to the side by two fingers and thumb. He could feel himself becoming fatter and dough-like by the minute. The so called 'jousting' raised all the excitement of crop farming for him. He didn't give Charlemagne a chance to defend the sport or even answer his question before he continued on in his slow drawl. "They line up. They have two sharp sticks and run at each other. What is the outcome? A man is hit with a large stick. Or if that does not happen, the opposite man is hit with an equal stick. Gripping sport, you have here, Charlemagne." |
Before tensions can flare at the foreigner's barb, Ogier the Dane calmly responds, chuckling in good humor. "We are not so warlike as our northern brothers, my friend, here in the heart of holy France. 'tis mere sport, as you say. I'd not want to stand in arms against either of man down there, though, I tell thee true."
He passes a keen-eyed glance to his sovereign.Or mayhap we might oblige the ambassador a duel with Sir Fierbras this even, in true northman fashion? He does so enjoy taking steel to heathens." The massive man barks a laugh, and Charlemagne joins in, albeit distracted by the thundering of hooves. Below, the two knight-lords charge down the tilt at each other, lances poised, and meet in a shattering crash. Splinters fly as Bors' lance shatters against the square of his opponent's shield, and sends the Paladin careening backwards over his horse. Much to the astonishment of all watching, Fierbras flips garishly in mid-air and lands soundly on his feet, bowing first to the audience, then to Sir Bors, and then deeply to Charlemagne before departing to his tent. Raucous cheer follows him out. |
Ylnjor laughed under his breath at the retort, becoming more interested in the conversation. He gave Ogier a not-quite toothy grin.
"I would hate to deprive your countrymen of such a fine example, as you have so few. But it would allow me to work off the fat that I have put on while basking in this...luxury, that has been graciously provided to me." Ylnjor turned back in time to catch Fierbras' display of acrobatic talent. He laughed under his breath, bringing his hands up for a congratulatory clap for the knight. "If he is as good with a blade as he is with falling off of a horse, perhaps I would be in trouble Ogier." |
Joining in the applause, Charlemagne stands and gestures in benediction to his champion as he bows. Seating himself once more, he addresses Ylnjor with a comfortable smile.
"Fierbras brings us great honor, it is sooth. And he is perhaps quicker with a blade than any in my court, though no doubt Roland would contest that claim." The Emperor takes a hearty swallow from his goblet. A servant is quick to offer Ylnjor a matching cup. Charlemagne continues,"Mayhap the melee would be more to thine interest, Nord-son? It would please us to see thee prove thy prowess among the flower of France's chivalry." With another hearty laugh, Ogier adds, "Aye. I'd be keen to test you myself, Ylnjor. I shall even set aside my dear friends," he pats the hilts of Curtana and Sauvagine sheathed at his hips, "and fight with mortal steel. There is honor in this, no?" |
"Honor? That you would grace me with mortal instruments in contest for my mortal coil? Perhaps so. It would give a mere man such as I a chance."
He frowned, taking Ogier's reply as a slight insult that someone would have to handicap themselves so he would be on even footing with an adversary. Ylnjor waved the servant away, not caring for the bitter poison that passed for a drink. "None for me. Were I to partake, I would surely dishearten Charlemagne as I beat his men down in my drunkeness. I accept both invitations. I could use the practice before Valhalla calls me." He grinned again, trying not to laugh as the thought of thumping heads threatened to excite him. |
The familiar weight of her armor has a calming effect on Amélie, and she feels at ease in the martial confines of the tournament grounds. Amid the sea of pompous heraldry and bustling squires, she sees no familiar faces or coats of arms, no surprise with the number of visiting lords come to join cause with the Emperor in his holy war.
Amélie had hoped to find Dame Bradamante and offer her her well-wishes before the joust, but there is no sign of the lady-paladin, nor any of the exalted peers. Halting amid the swarm of bodies to make sure she has not lost her varlet, Amélie says to Kier, "It will be the Devil's errand getting near enough to catch a view of the joust." She looks around once more, frowning. "Though in such company as this, you are like as not to be better spared observing my humiliation." Attempting a smile, she adds, "Christ Jesu would no doubt have it thus, nay?" She pushes away memories of the blood-washed walls of Jerusalem, along with thoughts of the coming carnage in the north that will, if anything, eclipse the horrors she witnessed and inflicted in God's chosen land. |
It was unfortunate enough that a spectacle like this, as much as he'd been looking forward to it, demanded such crowds. Kier had never been good with them. Especially the kinds of crowds filled with people stronger and larger than he was. With violent careers. And excited for fighting.
Guiding that stubborn old horse to boot. It left Kier looking like a twitchy, eager little rat in the bakery. He hardly took three steps without checking his side. When Amélie came to a stop, he nearly tumbled right into her. Rocking back on his heels, he blinked at her as she spoke and frowned at her last comment. "Nae. Humiliation goes down better with company that's seen their own share." |
Standing under the glare of the sun, Amélie's pulls back her camail and arming cap, running a hand through her hair and rubbing at the discomfort on her scalp. She checks the fastenings of her armor yet again, conscious of its foreign design among the suits of gleaming plate worn by her peers. The gold-work threading between the overlapping plates of her jack seems garish, pretentious, not to mention unbecoming of a poor knight. It had been a gift passed to her during the crusade, a reward for service and survival from the chapter master, more than she ever deserved, but she'd not dishonor him by giving it away.
"I shall have at least one praying my success from the tiers, then." She manages an actual smile, and slides her camail back into place once more. "Mayhap I might do thee honor. I'll certainly try." Striding over to Sombre's side, she pulls her helm free from the saddle-bag, wincing at the thought of its weight. It is of little moment, though; the desert sun was far hotter, and she bore that bane amid thirst and starvation, beset by murderers and traitors, and returned alive. Perhaps not unscathed, but alas. To live is to be scathed, and face the scourge of God. Swinging herself into the saddle, she nods to Kier in salute, and pulls down the lip of the aventail covering her mouth to tell him, "I must away to more worshipful company, though I should be more fit among your own." She lingers a moment longer, growing dour, and murmurs, "Pray for me," before driving Sombre forward. I wish to win. I do, and how I rue it. Hubris and pride, as Satan should weep. God forgive me, for I shall surely not forgive myself. |
More worshipful company. Company she belonged with, no matter how she denied it, for Kier knew just what his own meant. Those unworthy in the eyes of God, born without virtue and destined to failure. How she saw herself. How she saw him. For one of them, it was certainly true, though he had no desire to know which. He bowed his head at her parting words. "Aye. Of course, Miss Amélie."
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Mistral had risen early that morning, both out of habit and out of excitement for the tournament. With one Sir Guillame’s pages handling the morning chores, Mistral found herself without anything to do apart from take in the city, and the people, and the other knights , their horses, their armour, their banners...This was the image of knighthood she had has as a child, and though she knew somewhat better now, it was still the image she liked best.
Claude was standing and dozing. He wasn’t a magnificent horse by any means, but he was fit, big, and steady, and had no problem with pushing his way through a crowd. Mistral paced, walking over to the page once more as he readied her horse, and turned away again after the page gave her yet another exasperated glance. With Claude ready, the page helped her up, and she thanked him for his help before riding towards the lists…almost. The page made a quick grab for the reigns and led Claude and Mistral at a responsible pace to where the other knights were gathering. |
There will be some time before she is called to the lists, with dozens of prestigious knights ahead of her to joust for the Emperor's honor. Amélie is glad for the opportunity to see the paladins test each other's mettle, though it is humbling to see their magnificent skill-at-arms. Even though she knows they have all shed their blood and slaughtered heathens on the sands of the Holy Land, to her they seem untouched by such murderous work, pristine in glory while the weight of lives taken clings to Amélie like damnation.
She feels unease at the expectation riding on her -- to try her honor before her liege-lord and all the assembled potentates of the Holy Empire -- and likewise at not knowing who her opponent will be. Though she trusts Sombre with her life, Amélie knows that her skill with the horse is lacking; far too many battles waged on foot and atop castle walls for her to practice the knightly sport. Still, she killed enough Saracens in devastating charges with her brethren to know how to place a lance. She scratches Sombre's ear where it pokes up through his plate barding. He is a dutiful beast, and fierce at need. He at least will not fail this day. With a final sounding of heraldic trumpets, Amélie at last hears the pronouncement: "And now, as it please His Grace, representing the Ordo Humilis, Dame Amélie de la Roche-Blanche, oath-sworn of the Dame Bradamante, veteran of the Crusade, and Poor Knight of Our Lord Jesu the Christ. Come thee forth, ma Dame! Crossing herself with a hasty prayer, she rides forth onto the parade ground. |
Mistral tried to conceal some of her excitement. Most of these knights she knew by name, but she had never seen them before, and now she was in their company.
She tamped down the pride she began to feel at hearing her name called for the joust, for it was both unknightly and unChristian, but still, she had a smile on her face as she urged her horse forward. She was still new to the joust, but could hold her lance, and Claude could be depended upon to run a straight line. Greeting her opponent, who she was pleased to find was another woman, Mistral offered her sincere “God be with you” before taking her place at the start of the list. |
The light of the sun rose above the tall Oak and Maple trees, beading through the leaves. Below, Gwion stretched along the grasses, the light slowly waking him up. Tossing and turning to nightmares on the uneven ground, an agitated agate thrust itself into his back. Leaping high, quick enough to put butterflies into his head, Gwion swore, “By the fickled fae whom of all men hate, the worm of a beast whoso woke me shall suffer death boiling their flesh over a slow crockpot!” Looking through blurred eyes, Gwion searched for an intruder, dagger at the ready, yet found no one. Letting loose a breath, Gwion laughed at how paranoid he could be sometimes. Popping his joints to much pain, Gwion proceeded through exercises to loosen himself up. He swung the dull side of his Ear-dagger, Ladykiller, against a piece of deadwood nearby, using it to limber his limbs. Now somewhat “home” in his skin, Gwion went about clearing his “camp” – untying his hidden rucksack from its position in a dead pine. Checking the sack, and seeing the supplies still there, Gwion sighed in relief. Sleeping like he did had its risks, and he didn't relish waking to a blade or having naught but his armor present. His head however still felt clouded, with minor jolts of pain running within from above his eye. He grabbed a small pouch of brown medicinal meal, another pouch of sand, and proceeded to search out a source of water. His mission could proceed after he took care of himself. |
The weight of the Emperor's gaze on her is difficult to withstand as she rides out to pay him worship before the joust. Amélie is unsure whether she is known to him, though if the Lord Charlemagne, with his depth of piety, disdains her for her perfidy, he does well to hide it. If anything, the assembled peers look to her with respect, which does little to ease Amélie's trepidation at performing before such a prestigious audience.
Lord, let me only not slay who rides against me. Permit me not to shame myself with that murder which comes so easily to these crude hands. For once, I might be a knight as legendry purports, glorious and pure, if thou but allow it. Jesu Domini, so I pray. Amélie is surprised to hear the name of another woman called as her opponent, and narrows her eyes behind her visor at the other's slight frame and diminutive stature. She hears a call from the ranks of attending knights, a shout of encouragement to this Mistral, and looks to see the crest of Sir Guillame de Marachel himself urging her to victory. All at once, the misgiving she held at facing this seeming-weak opponent falls away. That she is a student of Sir Guillame, perhaps the greatest knight in all the world, presents an entirely different reservation. Before me marshals the blossom of France's chivalry, well-tended and fresh-cut to bask in the waxing sun of God's favor. I am unworthy of this. Nonetheless, Amélie readies herself, accepting the lance that is brought to her and breathing deep. She can feel Sombre grow tense beneath her, sensing the imminent charge. Somewhere, Kier is watching this. Does he know the name of de Marachel? He outdid himself to bring her this far this morning, and now, how can she but betray that effort? Nonetheless. When the heralds sound their horns, the honed instincts of war seize Amélie and Sombre, and she drives the destrier on in a hammering charge, the lance angled over the divide at the smaller woman's shield. Her own is heavy, but it maters not. This will be over soon. |
Mistral started slightly at the suddenness of Dame Amelie’s charge. She urged Claude forward, and the horse took his customary few steps to get up to speed, but quickly enough was galloping down the line. Through the slit in her helm, Mistral sighted her opponent and leveled her lance.
Mistral bit back at her own anxiety, facing the big warhorse and its strangely armoured rider. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears within the confines of her helm, was even annoyed by the sound of her own breathing. There was the crowd, and the drumming of hooves, and then Mistral felt like she had charged headlong into a tree. She tried not to lose her breath, white knuckled her lance, and heard the shower of splinters that bounced off her armour and helm. Staggered, she gasped for breath but held her seat, supported by unseen arms while she cleared the daze from her head. Without realizing it, she had closed her eyes in the last half-second, and now they were open wide as she reigned in, Claude, trying to turn him at the same time to see what just had happened. |
Amélie did her best to keep the lance level as they came together; she was unused to this crosswise style of of mounted combat, and the weight of the sporting lance was awkward as it dipped and rose with Sombre's galloping.
Keeping her head tucked low, eyes fixed out through the top rim of her visor, she braced for the impact, leaning into the strike as she collided with the other knight. The strike was true, square on the face of Mistral's shield an instant before the smaller woman's own lance impacted her own. It was like trying to unhorse a stone wall. The lance exploded in her hand, the sheer force of it twisting Amélie at the waist and wrenching her lower back over the cusp of her war saddle. And instant later, Mistral's lance smashes into her shield arm, deflecting off the rounded boss and imparting its force to the domed face braced against her forearm. Even through her armor, the pain is incredible, the steel rim of the shield driven into the bone. And then she is falling, driven bodily back off the horse, her right foot slipping free while the left remains tangled in its stirrup. Dragged by Sombre, Amélie struggles to retain conscious as blossoming pain devours her arm and back. Black sparks pulse across her vision. Not even sure if she is even breathing, Amélie defies it all and forces herself to sit up, instincts honed in merciless battle flaring to force down weakness and shock. She drags her foot free and rolls to her knees, gasping. Struggling at the clasp, she wrenches off her helmet with shuddering hands, spitting out a broken tooth with gobbets of blood. Dazed, a familiar rage pounds in her skull and she finds herself reaching for a sword that is not that there before her senses returns. There is no fell foe about to end her life, no descending axe to parry and struggle at with mortal ferocity. There is only shame, and broken things. Spitting again, she pulls up her right foot and rises with tentative effort. Her hip feels bruised at the least, along with her ribs, the left ankle likely dislocated, and the less said of her shield arm, the better. Limping, she leans on Sombre and leaves the parade ground. |
Ylnjor erupted in to thunderous laughter as Amélie was wrenched from her mount. He rocked back and forth, clapping his hands together and continuing his horrible cackling at the knight's unfortunate fall. After a moment he brought a hand down on Charlemagne's shoulder, giving him a small shake as he attempted to calm himself.
"Charlemagne, I have seen the error of my ways. This is great sport. Especially if women have such fancies as to compete." With that he stood up, bringing his hands up to his mouth to shout down at the felled woman. "Oy, you! Better luck in the kitchens! Let's hope for your husband's sake you can handle a spoon better than you can a lance!" |
What was a jovial, if somewhat strained, atmosphere in the emperor's company fast becomes direly hostile. A grimace of constrained outrage tightens Charlemagne's features at the ungracious laying on of hands, and his attendant paladins are quick to take to their feet. Ogier has a hand on the sword at his right, Curtana. Perhaps only his Paladin's code prevent him from blasting the barbarian dignity to ash where he stands.
More collected, Sir Maugris attempts to intercede, stepping forcibly between Charlemagne and Ylnjor to confront the foreigner as much to put space between him and the Holy Emperor. Clearing his throat, the lithe sorcerer speaks in mollifying tones. "While such camaraderie among the chieftains of thy... spirited... people may be the norm, I must implore thee to never again defile the Emperor with thy rude touch. As His Grace," he nods to Pope Clement behind them, "will attest, Lord Charlemagne's flesh is sacrosanct and inviolable. It is utter profanity to disdain such a forbidding. But how couldst thou have known?" Something sinister and threatening crawls in his eyes as he speaks the last, a promise of unspeakable sorceries merely awaiting his beckon. "As it stands, I may only adjure thee to behave thyself, lest my companion here grow imminent wroth. He has not the boon of patience with which the Great Powers hath graced myself." "Aye," the Dane growls, his hard brown eyes unblinking in their glare. "'As it stands,'" he does his best to affect Maugris' sibilant accent, "My hope to meet you in the melee is redoubled. May God see it so." The glance he passes to Charlemagne as he seats himself speaks of brutal vengeance. |
Mistral blinked her eyes, rapidly. Claude was walking in circles and she realized that she was leaning heavily to one side of him, and she forced herself to sit upright and settle properly into her saddle. The supporting arms she had felt were withdrawn and it took much effort to keep herself steady. She abandoned her broken lance to one of the pages and looked to see how her opponent had fared.
Not well, it appeared. She was off her horse, and doubled over, spitting blood as she groped for something at her side. Was that me? flashed though her mind as she watched the other knight leave the field. She had unhorsed people before, usually the bullies at school when they were practicing, and she had hit the dirt several times herself, but this was an altogether new image. Mistral debated in her head whether she should apologies, or offer a rematch, when a brutish voice yelled from the stands: "Oy, you! Better luck in the kitchens! Let's hope for your husband's sake you can handle a spoon better than you can a lance!" She bristled inside. That was something she had heard many times before, and she had the same response to it. She called to the man sitting by the Emperor, “And you think you have enough practice with yours that you can so surely insult another’s prowess? You insult my fellows and you insult me! His Holiness permitting, I challenge you to a joust, here and now.” |
Ylnjor looked back and forth between his suddenly hostile company, glaring hate and death between them all. He had never felt more insulted. Rage boiled within him. It threatened to overtake him, to make him assault his humorless hosts until he was struck down.
“And you think you have enough practice with yours that you can so surely insult another’s prowess? You insult my fellows and you insult me! His Holiness permitting, I challenge you to a joust, here and now.” That was all he needed to hear. The other female knight was challenging him! What a rich day this had turned out to be. Ylnjor turned away from Maugris, calling out to the woman below. There would be time to answer for his supposed transgressions later. "None needed, I accept!" Ylnjor hauled himself over the side of the canopy, making his way down to the grounds before he could be hindered. He unceremoniously clambered over obstructions and the crowd until he was in the arena, grinning with malice at the woman who had challenged him. She looked frail to him, an easy win for someone of his stature. He gestured towards her, being as condescending as possible as he spoke. "You're sure of yourself, girlie. Care to make a wager, or do you need permission for such things as well?" |
Mistral glared at the foreigner. “I will not dishonor God by making wagers, but if you like, you can seek atonement for your words by going with us on our coming campaign and being my page, or that of the knight you insulted.”
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"He maketh sport of us." Maugris practically hisses the words -- a sure sign of his rising ire.
A moment passes in audacious spectacle, and then Charlemagne suddenly laughs: rich, powerful, and long. He turns a wry eye to his Paladin, a remnant of the man behind the irenic mask of imperial lordship. "Is that not what we are here for this day?! Let us all make sport, while yet we may!" He lifts his arm in eagerness, then brings it swiftly down. "The terms are set! Let it be thus! Commence! |
For one moment, there was silence. Though he was surrounded on every side by countless faces, as Kier looked on on the match between the two knights, all he could hear was his heart hammering. A heavy breath. His very nerves crackling beneath his skin. Amélie's body against the ground. Her armor as she struggled. To get free. Against her own panic. Silence.
And he, he only had thoughts of her. Broken. Damaged. Shamed. The clamoring of the crowds went on with one less among them. Kier made his way to his knight and her horse, uninterested in what had earned such a commotion. "Miss Amélie-?" |
Sombre practically carries her as she makes her way off the field. Her left foot drags uselessly and she leans against his muscled side in helpless weakness. If she had the strength, she would haul herself onto his back and let him carry her away from this place of pain and humiliation.
I have done you proud, have I not, my brother knights? Well are we dubbed the Ordo Humilis. She hears the barb thrown at her, words meant to wound, but the voice is sourceless, meaningless in the black haze of her wounded thoughts. They signify nothing, anyway. As though she found pride and honor at her ability to murder the best of men. She was a stain upon the august tapestry of this noble company; a rude, illiterate butcher among the highest lords of the land. What husband would even have such an abominable mate, filthy with thoughts of rage? Not the Lord to whom she was wed through Christ, most certainly. Hearing Kier's voice nearby, she slows her ragged departure, tilts her head up by margins and opens a swollen eye. "I do not... even know where my failure lies this time." The words are a struggle. "I do not... belong here, Kier. Could you... could you help me away? I must be alone." She tries to look back at the tourney ground, but fails with the throb in her neck. "And my shield, if you could. I seem to have... mislaid it." |
The page boy who tended to Claude that morning appears again, this time bearing a fresh lance in both arms while another lad leads a heavy, black horse into the field and walks it over to Ylnjor. A third boy brings in another lance, and holds it towards the Northerner. “You can use this, sir?”
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He stared at the battered knight, his mouth open in disbelief. Even in such a god awful state, she worried for her shield of all things? Kier shifted his weight, his eyes flicking from her to the grounds and back, then nodded. "A-aye," he cleared his throat, "aye, of course, Miss Amélie." Without thinking on it further, he gestured for her to stay while he moved past her.
Already, it seemed, two were preparing for their own turn. Unbothered by the damage one of their own had taken. Except... That was the same knight being tended to, wasn't it? There was no reason for her to be fighting again so soon. Not that she looked as if she'd been so much as bruised. |
Ylnjor mounted the horse he was brought, awkwardly hoisting himself up in to the saddle. After situating himself he growled at the boy offering the lance, swiping it away from his arms.
"Of course I can use this. Unlike the last one." He held the lance and shield awkwardly, attempting to adjust the weight and get a feel for the heft of it. For a moment, he felt doubt. Then the moment was gone, and his usual bravado returned. "If those are the words you must use to squirrel your way around a bet, then so be it. If you win, I'll follow the hopeless one." He laughed to himself, caught up in the absurdity of the whole affair. "By Valhalla, I'll give Charlemagne up there his blasted alliance, if it will unseat the codpiece from his pet's backside! A kingdom at your side for a lance in mine!" |
Even stranger was the voice of the knight's new opponent, carrying across the grounds as easily as the whole of the crowds. Kier couldn't help but look over, startled by the strange way the man looked and spoke, participating in something like this. He wanted nothing more than to wait and watch.
Instead, he tripped over the very shield he'd been searching for. He twisted, arms flailing, and fell back into the dirt, cursing the whole way down. One leg bent awkwardly on top of the shield, he laid there for a long moment, his face and ears burning. Graceful. That, Kier decided, was quite enough looking for one day. Scrambling back onto his feet, he lifted the shield with a grunt of effort and hurried to find Amélie before she could wander off to be 'alone'. |
Mistral lowered the visor on her helm again and stared squarely at her new opponent. It was fun before. Now, it was a matter of honour and she would see this man hit dirt. Preferably on top of a steaming pile of horse manure as well but she tamped down that thought as unbecoming of a true knight.
More sure of herself this time, and with a cry of “beauseant!” Mistral urged Claude forward, though the horse lacked his master’s determination and started at his usual slow clop until he got up to speed, but with a little more of a bounce than usual. Again, she could hear her heart and her breathing in her ears, but she focused everything she could on her lance. It felt lighter this time, other hands helping to keep it level and steady, and she sought out the center of her opponent’s shield. She braced herself for the coming blow, steeled her grip and shoulder, and when she felt the first scrape of the Northerner’s lance, she twisted and thrust out with her lance, hard, into his shield. |
Ylnjor never had a chance.
His thrust had been easily deflected. Her aim felt as if it had been guided by the hands of a higher power, striking true. He was carried off of his horse, hanging nearly comically in air before the fall to the ground knocked air from his lungs. His world was pain. His head swam as stars exploded in his eyes. The agony wracking his body was shattering. The roar and laughter of the crowd overwhelmed his hearing. His head rolled back and forth, scrambling to make sense of where he was. Had he really been defeated? Had he been carried off so easily by a woman? For all his boasting, had he been defeated in such an ungracious way? He continued to lie there, slowly attempting to regain feeling in his body that wasn't fire and ache. All the while, the laughter of the crowd at his buffoonery kept him company. |
Mistral walked her horse up to the fallen man and looked down at him. “The matter is settled. You will keep your word, yes?”
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Ylnjor attempted to scowl at her, but his face did not want to cooperate. After a time he rolled over, slowly picking himself from the ground.
"If I still have air left to keep it. A bet is a bet. Hel take me otherwise." Ylnjor gave in to the pain without warning, and hit the ground once more. A fresh wave of agony washed over him. Pain was quickly replaced with rage. Hatred flowed through his veins, and with a great might he lifted himself from the ground, attempting to pose with some shred of dignity that he might still have. His face betrayed the seething bitterness that roiled inside of him. |
Charlemagne rises, clapping magnanimously at the display, a broad smile on his face.
"Well done, Dame Mistral! Well done, indeed! Thou hast sealed the alliance with our northern brothers. Thou hast conducted thyself with great worship this day, and done worship to ourself as well." He spreads his robe-draped arms magisterially. "Thou mayest seek a boon of us, if it please thee. Thou but needest name it, it shall be thine, noble knight." |
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