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It was the eve of the King's Tournament Faire and the sun sank towards the western trees, turning afternoon into early evening. Warm, golden orange light struck Castle Dierlan and the township of Willamswood at a sharp angle. This was normally an hour of bustle and commotion as people returned home from their shops or fields, but now shadows stretched long across nearly barren streets.
Instead, the citizenry flocked towards the festival grounds at the edge of town. Canvas pavilions painted in myriad colors sprang up in clusters, full of merchants and musicians and mummers alike. The air was rife with smells of roasting meat, bread, beer, fresh-cut onions, horses, smoke, trampled grass--they swirled together in the nose like a fine bouquet. Laughter and music permeated every nook, and the low sun caught the dust in the air kicked up by so many dancing feet. A warm haze had settled over the festival grounds as the commencement feast got underway.
For the lowborn citizenry, the commencement feast was a large and joyful open-air celebration moreso than a formal dinner. It was a grand affair, an act of charity, wherein food and drink were provided to all of the people who came to attend the faire. Brown bread trenchers of vegetable stew and horn steins of earthy red wine filled every hand, and on every tongue were rumors of the days to come. Some of the fighters--Prince Lionel probably foremost among them--had their praises sung the loudest, and plenty of coin exchanged hands as people placed bets on the upcoming matches.
A little ways off, beneath a grand pavilion loosely encircled by guards, the nobility was gathered. Their celebration was more subdued, more sumptuous. Long tables and padded benches gave them places to sit, while attendants served them course after course of fine food. Every taste was catered to, though the cuisine was by and large Tharrelundian: bacon and peas, quail, treacle tarts, white bread loaded with butters and compotes, beef tongue sausages, mutton and potato pies ... no belly would go empty that evening. Servants bustled up and down the rows with pitchers of steaming mulled ginger mead, making sure the highborn cups remained full.
At the head of the long tables was a slightly shorter one lofted upon a stout wooden platform. Here sat King Garrold, with his family at his side. This table was reserved strictly for the visiting sovereigns--watchful honor guards kept vigil around it.
Meanwhile, Sir Adelbard Laudessagne of Upper Sueldey sat halfway down one of the lower tables, sandwiched between Sir Roland Michelage and Sir Gellert Grimslay. Adelbard wore fine Beauvraldi attire, consisting of a short coat in cobalt blue velvet and a tight-fitting doublet in a paler shade. His auburn hair was tied back with a ribbon, though a few locks escaped its hold. He spoke little as he regarded the faces of the nobility around him. Roland had already consumed his fair share of the ginger mead, and now bantered with the man across from him, roaring with laughter. Adelbard eyed the side of the other knight's face. It was good to see the man laugh, of course--he had a beautiful bright ringing laugh, like church bells. But Adelbard worried about Sir Gellert sitting so close to them. Another few cups of mead and Roland was likely to get ... handsy ... and nothing like that ever escaped Gellert's sharp eyes.
Adelbard blushed as he lowered his head into his own cup. Dark eyes flicked up and down the table to regard the others sitting there. On Gellert's other side was his father Lord Nolarth Laudessagne, and beyond him his siblings Reneldis and Gauson, as well as Gauson's wife. Adelbard recognized many of the other faces at the table, though their names weren't clear to him. There were plenty of wholly unfamiliar faces as well, for everyone participating in the joust had been invited to the highborn pavilion. Some had come from lands as distant as Lasmia. One or two of them looked rather unsavory to Adelbard, scruffy fellows with patchy attire, little better than mercenaries.
(Sorry this is a) kinda long, b) a little late, and c) not really high quality
But it's high time I kicked things off!)
Instead, the citizenry flocked towards the festival grounds at the edge of town. Canvas pavilions painted in myriad colors sprang up in clusters, full of merchants and musicians and mummers alike. The air was rife with smells of roasting meat, bread, beer, fresh-cut onions, horses, smoke, trampled grass--they swirled together in the nose like a fine bouquet. Laughter and music permeated every nook, and the low sun caught the dust in the air kicked up by so many dancing feet. A warm haze had settled over the festival grounds as the commencement feast got underway.
For the lowborn citizenry, the commencement feast was a large and joyful open-air celebration moreso than a formal dinner. It was a grand affair, an act of charity, wherein food and drink were provided to all of the people who came to attend the faire. Brown bread trenchers of vegetable stew and horn steins of earthy red wine filled every hand, and on every tongue were rumors of the days to come. Some of the fighters--Prince Lionel probably foremost among them--had their praises sung the loudest, and plenty of coin exchanged hands as people placed bets on the upcoming matches.
A little ways off, beneath a grand pavilion loosely encircled by guards, the nobility was gathered. Their celebration was more subdued, more sumptuous. Long tables and padded benches gave them places to sit, while attendants served them course after course of fine food. Every taste was catered to, though the cuisine was by and large Tharrelundian: bacon and peas, quail, treacle tarts, white bread loaded with butters and compotes, beef tongue sausages, mutton and potato pies ... no belly would go empty that evening. Servants bustled up and down the rows with pitchers of steaming mulled ginger mead, making sure the highborn cups remained full.
At the head of the long tables was a slightly shorter one lofted upon a stout wooden platform. Here sat King Garrold, with his family at his side. This table was reserved strictly for the visiting sovereigns--watchful honor guards kept vigil around it.
Meanwhile, Sir Adelbard Laudessagne of Upper Sueldey sat halfway down one of the lower tables, sandwiched between Sir Roland Michelage and Sir Gellert Grimslay. Adelbard wore fine Beauvraldi attire, consisting of a short coat in cobalt blue velvet and a tight-fitting doublet in a paler shade. His auburn hair was tied back with a ribbon, though a few locks escaped its hold. He spoke little as he regarded the faces of the nobility around him. Roland had already consumed his fair share of the ginger mead, and now bantered with the man across from him, roaring with laughter. Adelbard eyed the side of the other knight's face. It was good to see the man laugh, of course--he had a beautiful bright ringing laugh, like church bells. But Adelbard worried about Sir Gellert sitting so close to them. Another few cups of mead and Roland was likely to get ... handsy ... and nothing like that ever escaped Gellert's sharp eyes.
Adelbard blushed as he lowered his head into his own cup. Dark eyes flicked up and down the table to regard the others sitting there. On Gellert's other side was his father Lord Nolarth Laudessagne, and beyond him his siblings Reneldis and Gauson, as well as Gauson's wife. Adelbard recognized many of the other faces at the table, though their names weren't clear to him. There were plenty of wholly unfamiliar faces as well, for everyone participating in the joust had been invited to the highborn pavilion. Some had come from lands as distant as Lasmia. One or two of them looked rather unsavory to Adelbard, scruffy fellows with patchy attire, little better than mercenaries.
(Sorry this is a) kinda long, b) a little late, and c) not really high quality
But it's high time I kicked things off!)
The king grunted as he twirled his glass of red wine in his hand. He knew that other houses were making an appearance, and he didn't have the energy to banter with them.
He sighed as he sipped some of the wine. It was good, but not good enough for his tastebuds. He then turned to Tatum who sat on his right.
"My son, keep your eyes on every single knight, warrior, and noble feasting here today. These will be the people who will try to steal what's rightfully yours. You need to have the courage and strength to hold on as king and make this kingdom more and more prosperous. I'm counting on you."
He sighed as he sipped some of the wine. It was good, but not good enough for his tastebuds. He then turned to Tatum who sat on his right.
"My son, keep your eyes on every single knight, warrior, and noble feasting here today. These will be the people who will try to steal what's rightfully yours. You need to have the courage and strength to hold on as king and make this kingdom more and more prosperous. I'm counting on you."
Scirye sat in her appointed seat, her eyes drifting down the tables looking at everyone that was seated. As she sat there eating, she tried the determine which of the men would be fighting for her hand. She wasn't talking very much, not being very happy with the whole arrangement.
Lady Knight Myantha of House Eckbert had taken a seat near a fellow Knight, who was also of the fairer sex, her ocean blue eyes scanning the table of knights as she refrained from touching either food or drink at the table for the time being. Of course, she was dressed well and more like a man than a woman. The woman wore a tight and traditional tunic, from her home in Deucalund, in the colors of House Eckbert: black, brown and white, and trousers... and her long dark hair was tied up to keep it out of her way. As far as age, the Knight could've been anywhere between 20 and 30, she had one of those faces... where age was difficult to discern with precision.
After a while, she did start picking at some food, and attempted to start a conversation with the white haired knight who was sitting at her right. "From where do you hail?" Her own accent rather strong and hard to miss, identifying her even more as being a knight from Deucalund.
After a while, she did start picking at some food, and attempted to start a conversation with the white haired knight who was sitting at her right. "From where do you hail?" Her own accent rather strong and hard to miss, identifying her even more as being a knight from Deucalund.
Synthia of House Knighthart was a bit surprised to be addressed by the dark haired woman at her side, but offered a polite smile and turned her own blue eyes to study the stranger. The accent and attire certainly indicated that this woman was from Deucalund, and Synthia had no reason to doubt this. "I am from House Knighthart, here in Tharrelund. We are a small house, but loyal to the King." She said, pushing some of her strange white hair back from her face. Internally, she cursed herself for forgetting to tie it back. Pausing to drink some of the wine, she glanced around the table to see if there was any other knights she knew, but she recognized only a few and was friendly with even fewer. "Where do you hail from?"
"...If you ask us, that greasy old puttock must have fuddled his brains out of his ears. Wasting that perfectly marriageable daughter of his for the prize of some ransackle tourney. What kind of foolhardy monarch offers out his eligible scions as if they were... as if they were whores to be ridden by, oh, any common hedge-knight with a station stretching only so far as his sword-blade?"
The Imperial Prince Lionel of Aveland gesticulated wildly in the direction of his sister, a leg of half-chewed chicken grasped loosely in his meaty fist.
"La, brother ours. In faith it would appear that you were not being entirely honest when you promised our dear father to mind your tongue at the feast," Princess Ariella chided her boorish twin with a playful grin.
Prince Felix sat quietly in his seat to the right of Lionel and Ariella, observing the brazen banter of the half-siblings he had seen maybe three or four times over the short fifteen years of his life. He felt as awkward and out of place as a ragpicker's halfwit. Surrounding him were the members of his family, and all of them - save only for his mother - were strangers.
On Felix's left sat his eldest half-brother, the Crown Prince Leonhardt, Duke of Gisberlaine and heir to the Imperial Throne. He was engaged in quiet conversation with his wife, the Duchess Mirabelle, looking every bit as radiant and captivating as her Beauvraldi pedigree should suggest, in spite of being heavy with child.
Mirabelle had acknowledged Felix once earlier, curtly, flashing a smile as lovely and sharp as a bejewelled dagger. She had asked him something about the equestrian pursuits of his cousin at Chateau Barbican, and he had scrambled for something to say, but could respond only with a murmured excuse for his ignorance on the subject. Her polite response was pitch-perfect, but he could tell she had retreated behind it, disappointed by his dullness, and returned her attentions to her husband.
Felix had nobody to talk to, and even if he did there was nothing he could say that would possibly be of interest to anyone in attendance. He felt rather like an impostor, sitting there in the company of his betters, bedecked as he was in the Imperial livery. He glanced down at the leogryph of the ancient House Chalise and the dragon of House Martele, emblazoned on either breast of his mi-parti doublet, regarding one another over contrasting fields of azure and gules. His fellow princes were similarly attired, but their noble bearing effortlessly befitted the raiment of their house, while Felix felt that he merely occupied the finery of the Chalismartels as some foreign and unwished-for guest.
Of the Emperor's offspring, Felix was transparently the odd one out. Leonhardt, Lionel and Ariella all shared their father's essential Chalisian mien, with the wild golden curls of their lion-manes and the regal regard of their sparkling sapphire eyes. Felix on the other hand took after his mother, sporting the dull brunet curls and mousy brown eyes of the Lothlandic Ravenglass family. He was literally the black sheep of the dynasty. Him and his mother both.
Felix stole a glance in her direction. The Empress Niviane was seated further down the table, though she caught her son's nervous gaze and returned Felix a reassuring smile. She was positioned, as her matrimonial duty demanded, next to her husband the Emperor, though the couple did not so much as spare a glimpse in one another's direction. Emperor Rickhardt VII Chalismartel was seated in eminence, close enough to the central position of the Maervagardian family that he had the ear of the King Garrold of Tharrelund - indeed, the two monarchs appeared to be so deep in conference that their plates were untouched and their goblets still full to the brim.
The Prince glowered down at his own plate. He had no appetite either. He looked without pleasure at the array of beautiful dishes prepared for the feast. His stomach was already heavy and nauseated from nervousness, without having to worry about the added insult of food.
Tomorrow, the tourney would begin, and he would squire for his brother Lionel as the older prince competed on the field and in the jousts. Half of him was eager, ardent, desperate to prove himself. Especially to his father, who had at long last deigned to recall Felix and his mother from glorified exile, here to represent the unified family of the Avelandic Dynasty at the King's Faire.
The other half was not looking forward to it. Not at all.
The Imperial Prince Lionel of Aveland gesticulated wildly in the direction of his sister, a leg of half-chewed chicken grasped loosely in his meaty fist.
"La, brother ours. In faith it would appear that you were not being entirely honest when you promised our dear father to mind your tongue at the feast," Princess Ariella chided her boorish twin with a playful grin.
Prince Felix sat quietly in his seat to the right of Lionel and Ariella, observing the brazen banter of the half-siblings he had seen maybe three or four times over the short fifteen years of his life. He felt as awkward and out of place as a ragpicker's halfwit. Surrounding him were the members of his family, and all of them - save only for his mother - were strangers.
On Felix's left sat his eldest half-brother, the Crown Prince Leonhardt, Duke of Gisberlaine and heir to the Imperial Throne. He was engaged in quiet conversation with his wife, the Duchess Mirabelle, looking every bit as radiant and captivating as her Beauvraldi pedigree should suggest, in spite of being heavy with child.
Mirabelle had acknowledged Felix once earlier, curtly, flashing a smile as lovely and sharp as a bejewelled dagger. She had asked him something about the equestrian pursuits of his cousin at Chateau Barbican, and he had scrambled for something to say, but could respond only with a murmured excuse for his ignorance on the subject. Her polite response was pitch-perfect, but he could tell she had retreated behind it, disappointed by his dullness, and returned her attentions to her husband.
Felix had nobody to talk to, and even if he did there was nothing he could say that would possibly be of interest to anyone in attendance. He felt rather like an impostor, sitting there in the company of his betters, bedecked as he was in the Imperial livery. He glanced down at the leogryph of the ancient House Chalise and the dragon of House Martele, emblazoned on either breast of his mi-parti doublet, regarding one another over contrasting fields of azure and gules. His fellow princes were similarly attired, but their noble bearing effortlessly befitted the raiment of their house, while Felix felt that he merely occupied the finery of the Chalismartels as some foreign and unwished-for guest.
Of the Emperor's offspring, Felix was transparently the odd one out. Leonhardt, Lionel and Ariella all shared their father's essential Chalisian mien, with the wild golden curls of their lion-manes and the regal regard of their sparkling sapphire eyes. Felix on the other hand took after his mother, sporting the dull brunet curls and mousy brown eyes of the Lothlandic Ravenglass family. He was literally the black sheep of the dynasty. Him and his mother both.
Felix stole a glance in her direction. The Empress Niviane was seated further down the table, though she caught her son's nervous gaze and returned Felix a reassuring smile. She was positioned, as her matrimonial duty demanded, next to her husband the Emperor, though the couple did not so much as spare a glimpse in one another's direction. Emperor Rickhardt VII Chalismartel was seated in eminence, close enough to the central position of the Maervagardian family that he had the ear of the King Garrold of Tharrelund - indeed, the two monarchs appeared to be so deep in conference that their plates were untouched and their goblets still full to the brim.
The Prince glowered down at his own plate. He had no appetite either. He looked without pleasure at the array of beautiful dishes prepared for the feast. His stomach was already heavy and nauseated from nervousness, without having to worry about the added insult of food.
Tomorrow, the tourney would begin, and he would squire for his brother Lionel as the older prince competed on the field and in the jousts. Half of him was eager, ardent, desperate to prove himself. Especially to his father, who had at long last deigned to recall Felix and his mother from glorified exile, here to represent the unified family of the Avelandic Dynasty at the King's Faire.
The other half was not looking forward to it. Not at all.
Genevieve paced anxiously back and forth along the range where the archery tournament was to be held, making sure everything was in proper order. She had spent months busily fashioning longbows and arrows for this tournament -- and though keeping up with it alongside the regular demand had been grueling, she was proud and excited at the prospect of having her crafts used at an event like this.
The wind carried the sound of laughter and the smell of food, and Genevieve suddenly realized how hungry she was. With a final glance at the range, she ambled towards the tables, sticking near the back and looking out over the crowds of people as she searched for a suitable place to sit.
The wind carried the sound of laughter and the smell of food, and Genevieve suddenly realized how hungry she was. With a final glance at the range, she ambled towards the tables, sticking near the back and looking out over the crowds of people as she searched for a suitable place to sit.
Tatum approached Genevieve with a bright smile on his face.
"My apologies, but I couldn't help but notice that you have a fascination with archery range. Are you by chance competing in the tournament tomorrow?"
He said this with the most of interest. A nervous smile appeared on his face and he began to nervously rub the back of his head. He took a liking to archery, and would've considering becoming an archer if it wasn't for his father's wishes of having a knight as his heir.
"My apologies, but I couldn't help but notice that you have a fascination with archery range. Are you by chance competing in the tournament tomorrow?"
He said this with the most of interest. A nervous smile appeared on his face and he began to nervously rub the back of his head. He took a liking to archery, and would've considering becoming an archer if it wasn't for his father's wishes of having a knight as his heir.
Genevieve turned around with a small smile at the question, mildly surprised.
"No need to be sorry, sir! I'm not competing," she replied. "I'm a fletcher. I made the arrows and some spare bows for the archery tournament... really, now, I'm just making sure everything is in proper condition for tomorrow."
She looked at the stranger more carefully -- she had to look up, as he was quite a bit taller than she was. Although he spoke with confidence, Genevieve thought he appeared to be slightly nervous. She smiled again. "Are you competing tomorrow, then?"
"No need to be sorry, sir! I'm not competing," she replied. "I'm a fletcher. I made the arrows and some spare bows for the archery tournament... really, now, I'm just making sure everything is in proper condition for tomorrow."
She looked at the stranger more carefully -- she had to look up, as he was quite a bit taller than she was. Although he spoke with confidence, Genevieve thought he appeared to be slightly nervous. She smiled again. "Are you competing tomorrow, then?"
Dergesh had heard several hunters talking about a festival on the king's birthday. Wether that was true or not, he was going to check it out. After gathering his things from his pine abode deep in the wilds, as well as stringing up some leather and freshly skinned fur to dry on a rack, he set off on his donkey to the city they were speaking of.
The next day, he found the ramblings to be true. He left his donkey at the nearest stables, and ventures into the festival...
The next day, he found the ramblings to be true. He left his donkey at the nearest stables, and ventures into the festival...
Tatum smiled. He even chuckled a little from that question.
"No, no. I wouldn't dare try to compete in the tournament. If I were to win, then I'd have to amrry my sister!" Tatum replies as he laughs. He took a bow.
"Prince Tatum Maervagard, at your service."
"No, no. I wouldn't dare try to compete in the tournament. If I were to win, then I'd have to amrry my sister!" Tatum replies as he laughs. He took a bow.
"Prince Tatum Maervagard, at your service."
Queen Murielis Maure sat at the king's table alongside the other sovereigns. She was a round woman, made all the rounder by the swell of her gravid belly. Her mousey brown hair was braided up in a series of elaborate plaits, partially covered by a barbette and golden fillet. Though in a place of honor, she was seated a little further from the Tharrelundian king than Rickhardt was, and she shot frequent glances towards the two men. Perhaps she was trying to listen in--perhaps she was merely curious.
Beside her, her husband did a better job of enjoying the feast. King Consort Rinon Sounarde had a cup of fine red wine in one meaty paw, a mutton pie in the other, and a broad grin upon his lips. He looked to his queen, who shared a warm smile with him and patted his arm. Their young daughter, Princess Belsant, sat in a chair all her own, though their toddler son Vonert was perched upon the knee of his be-wimpled governess.
Queen Murielis turned her attention to young Princess Scirye, who gazed forlornly upon the faces of those in attendance. "You do not look happy, your highness," the queen told her, voice sweet as honeycomb. "Is this not a joyous occasion?"
---
Adelbard, meanwhile, caught the conversation of the two lady knights across from him. He hadn't expected more than a single lady knight at the tourney, yet he had so far counted no less than three. "What will happen if one of them wins the joust?" he asked Gellert, rubbing his chin as he watched the one with white hair. "She cannot wed the princess."
"I know not," grumbled the older knight, who was glaring at the increasingly drunk Sir Roland. "T'is folly. Perhaps her hand would go to the runner up--and yet what if that is a woman as well?" He snorted. "Not a likely occurrence ... women do not have the constitution for the joust."
Roland's hand fell upon Adelbard's back in a heavy clap, making the knight bristle and turn to face his red-cheeked companion. "Think you have a chance with either of them, Sir Adelbard?" Roland asked in a voice that carried down the table. It took Adelbard a moment to realize who the Michelage was talking about, and he glanced across the table to the lady knights once more. Doubtless they'd be able to overhear him. "They are comely, if rather gruff! I would prefer the company of Princess Scirye--and when I win the joust, I shall have it!"
Adelbard grinned into his cup. Roland's words were broad and boastful, but the man would bite the pillow for near any boyish grin flashed in his direction. "As you say, Sir Roland," Adelbard muttered. "T'is a shame. When you become Prince Consort, no doubt you will have little time to spar with a humble Laudessagne like myself. I will miss ... crossing swords with you."
Roland spluttered into his cup, and Gellert shot the both of them a sharp glare.
Beside her, her husband did a better job of enjoying the feast. King Consort Rinon Sounarde had a cup of fine red wine in one meaty paw, a mutton pie in the other, and a broad grin upon his lips. He looked to his queen, who shared a warm smile with him and patted his arm. Their young daughter, Princess Belsant, sat in a chair all her own, though their toddler son Vonert was perched upon the knee of his be-wimpled governess.
Queen Murielis turned her attention to young Princess Scirye, who gazed forlornly upon the faces of those in attendance. "You do not look happy, your highness," the queen told her, voice sweet as honeycomb. "Is this not a joyous occasion?"
---
Adelbard, meanwhile, caught the conversation of the two lady knights across from him. He hadn't expected more than a single lady knight at the tourney, yet he had so far counted no less than three. "What will happen if one of them wins the joust?" he asked Gellert, rubbing his chin as he watched the one with white hair. "She cannot wed the princess."
"I know not," grumbled the older knight, who was glaring at the increasingly drunk Sir Roland. "T'is folly. Perhaps her hand would go to the runner up--and yet what if that is a woman as well?" He snorted. "Not a likely occurrence ... women do not have the constitution for the joust."
Roland's hand fell upon Adelbard's back in a heavy clap, making the knight bristle and turn to face his red-cheeked companion. "Think you have a chance with either of them, Sir Adelbard?" Roland asked in a voice that carried down the table. It took Adelbard a moment to realize who the Michelage was talking about, and he glanced across the table to the lady knights once more. Doubtless they'd be able to overhear him. "They are comely, if rather gruff! I would prefer the company of Princess Scirye--and when I win the joust, I shall have it!"
Adelbard grinned into his cup. Roland's words were broad and boastful, but the man would bite the pillow for near any boyish grin flashed in his direction. "As you say, Sir Roland," Adelbard muttered. "T'is a shame. When you become Prince Consort, no doubt you will have little time to spar with a humble Laudessagne like myself. I will miss ... crossing swords with you."
Roland spluttered into his cup, and Gellert shot the both of them a sharp glare.
Scirye had been grimly listening to the conversations that reached her ears, when Queen Murielis addressed her. She turned her attention to her and plastered a fake smile on her face. "T'is father's birthday celebration, what could be more joyous." She said sweetly, hiding her true emotions inside like the good girl she was. The truth was, she rather hoped the lady knights would win. She would rather remain unmarried, than be given to some stranger as a prize. And for what? Winning some tourney that was for the king's enjoyment? Did her father really care that little about her?
Olivia he Pomp, oherwise known as Berclav the Brave in certain places of Lasmia, strode on her horse towards the outlying traveler's inn. Pulling up on the reigns, she woahs her horse, slowing it to a canter. She wore her tunic and breeches, light brown and dusty from the road. A shield hung over the horse's side and its saddlebags were stuffed full. Stopping near the stableboy that greeted her with a "Hullo! One shilling and I'll stable this'n good." Digging into her pouches for a coin, she tossed it to the lad, dismounting, "Make sure of it. And see to his hooves, they are due for cleaning." The lad nods, "Yes'm."
After paying for a room, she visited it with the saddlebags slung over her shoulder. Booting the door open, she tossed them upon the bed and rubbed at her shoulder. It was a modest room, a bed, a chair, and a small table. Tossing her shirt aside, she dug into the bags and pulled bandage cloth. In her preparations, she wrapped her chest and secured her breasts close with a deep exhale. Breathing in, she sat on the bed and grabbed for a smile mirror and a bag of soot. Admiring her upward pompadour of black, slicked hair, she smiled to herself before applying dabs of soot under her eyes and around her chin and cheeks, her female grace falling to a dirtied, feminine male.
Dressing up for the feast, she carried only her shield and chainmail, her tunic showing the black raven upon her chest; the same heraldry of her shield. Marching into the feasting grounds with her back straight and eyes set steely forward, she observed the gathering before gesturing with her gauntlet towards one of the criers, "Announce me, servant." The man stopped for a bit, before he looked down at the shilling in her palm. Taking it, "Course, ser..?" Olivia answered with practiced masculinity, "Ser Berclav the Brave, Knight-errant of Lasmia." Turning to face the crowds, the servant bellowed out, "Ser Berclav the Brave, Knight-errant of Lasmia!"
After paying for a room, she visited it with the saddlebags slung over her shoulder. Booting the door open, she tossed them upon the bed and rubbed at her shoulder. It was a modest room, a bed, a chair, and a small table. Tossing her shirt aside, she dug into the bags and pulled bandage cloth. In her preparations, she wrapped her chest and secured her breasts close with a deep exhale. Breathing in, she sat on the bed and grabbed for a smile mirror and a bag of soot. Admiring her upward pompadour of black, slicked hair, she smiled to herself before applying dabs of soot under her eyes and around her chin and cheeks, her female grace falling to a dirtied, feminine male.
Dressing up for the feast, she carried only her shield and chainmail, her tunic showing the black raven upon her chest; the same heraldry of her shield. Marching into the feasting grounds with her back straight and eyes set steely forward, she observed the gathering before gesturing with her gauntlet towards one of the criers, "Announce me, servant." The man stopped for a bit, before he looked down at the shilling in her palm. Taking it, "Course, ser..?" Olivia answered with practiced masculinity, "Ser Berclav the Brave, Knight-errant of Lasmia." Turning to face the crowds, the servant bellowed out, "Ser Berclav the Brave, Knight-errant of Lasmia!"
The rather lovely Lady Knight Myantha chose not to address the men across from them, maintaining a polite but icy smile. "I hail from Deucalund." Unlike the white haired lady at her side, she had a feminine figure that someone women would kill for and no obvious muscle. But, she seemed to lack no confidence as far as being a knight and participating in the joust.
Her blue gaze wandered towards the tables where the Royals were seated, as if she were searching for someone. "'Tis a shame that the nobles of Eckbert were unable to join this festival. But, I was in the region and decided I ought to compete and show everyone what a Knight of Deucalund is capable of." Turning her gaze, finally upon the men, she offered a coy smile to the middle knight, since he seemed to be the least offensive of the trio.
Her blue gaze wandered towards the tables where the Royals were seated, as if she were searching for someone. "'Tis a shame that the nobles of Eckbert were unable to join this festival. But, I was in the region and decided I ought to compete and show everyone what a Knight of Deucalund is capable of." Turning her gaze, finally upon the men, she offered a coy smile to the middle knight, since he seemed to be the least offensive of the trio.
The white haired knight was well aware of the things the other knights would say about her and the other lady knight at her side. "Gentlemen. Perhaps you should cease your drinking before the Joust... else, it will be a sure victory for the ladies." She'd barely touched the drink, because she wanted to be in complete control of herself during the Joust. If she was drunk, like some of these men, she would end up on her rear end in the dirt... alcohol did terrible things to one's balance on a horse and worse things to one's ability to remain steady in a Joust.
King Garrold enjoyed talking with the Emperor. He felt as though the two had become friends, and in fact,, he and the Emperor usually got along pretty nicely. As they continued talking, the king managed to notice that his son was missing.
"Scirye," he grumbled. "Would you go and fetch me my son?"
"Scirye," he grumbled. "Would you go and fetch me my son?"
Scirye looked at her father when he addressed her, the smile disappearing from her face. Your son? She thought. What happened to him being my brother? She kept those word in and simply nodded as she stood. "Yes father, I will fetch my brother for you." She said hoping to get her point across before walking to the archery field.
Still having the servant's ear, Olivia spoke quietly, "And who would be worthy of my company? I am a knight after all.." Her brown eyes looked between the tables, as the servant points towards the table where the other knights sat, "There m'lord, is where thy knights settle." Offering a single nod, Olivia strolls towards the table where the two lady knights sat. Sitting on the man's side of the table, her hands upon her thighs as she settled with a loud thump. Casting her hand over the table of food and drink, she looked to the others at her table, "Tis' almost modest to Lasmia's hunted beasts. The largest boars of any kingdom; twice the size of the healthiest man they stand, with tusks like sharp blades. Pierce straight through a man if he is caught unawares."
Smiling to herself, she sat upwards and squared her chin, "If thy servant's lungs where not loud enough, Ser Berclav of Lasmia." With a trill of her hand in front of her chest, she struck an indignant pose and proceeded to stock her plate full of food, "Only several moons can bring upon such a hunger in me. Mine fasting is finally at an end."
Smiling to herself, she sat upwards and squared her chin, "If thy servant's lungs where not loud enough, Ser Berclav of Lasmia." With a trill of her hand in front of her chest, she struck an indignant pose and proceeded to stock her plate full of food, "Only several moons can bring upon such a hunger in me. Mine fasting is finally at an end."
Garrold eyed his daughter as she left. He would've retorted, but his wife Mercia stopped him. She placed a hand on his shoulder and he nodded. He then turned his attention to the Emperor.
"My apologies, she is quite the handful."
"My apologies, she is quite the handful."