(121-02-19) A Tilt In The Rain
A Tilt In The Rain
Summary: Jousting!
Date: (19/02/2014)
Related: Tourneyyyyyyyyyyyyy ones.

Tourney Grounds, Oldtown
The Tourney Grounds stand just outside of the walls of Oldtown. There is a raised platform of several levels for noble viewers, with space for comfortable chairs and little tables to be set in place, and tall posts for canopies to be hung to keep the sun off. Not far stands the great board where the lists are kept. On the far side of the grounds rough tiered benches are available for the smallfolk, and past them there's a flat field for the knights to erect their pavilions in the grass.

The long log rail for the jousts stands right before the Lords' and Ladies' platform, with the space for the melee just beyond it. The archery butts are mounded at the Southwest edge of the grounds, where a great meadow of purple-red fireweed spreads off into the distance. The rough little narrow road to Blackcrown cuts through it.

The jousting. It's the main event of any tournament, the one saved, the one met with the most pomp and ceremony. There are new banners up around the field, and more of them, and it seems like half the town is out here. If they're not, they're just inside the tourney gates, trying to sell favours and dolphin-shaped cakes, and flowers, and wooden toy swords for the children.

Cockshaw's three feathers fly high and proud in deep sable with three crossed feathers of fess gules, argent and or. Its knight stands near his destier with a flower braided into his short beard, having purchased it off a sweet child selling such things. Tall and dark with his armor engraved with affluent patterning, twisting vines and flowers and feathers, Viggo wears his armor comfortably. "Good day for a tournament," he comments to his squire.

Rory leaves Oldtown proper through the Tourney Gate in the city walls.

Daevon's dressed up once more in his gleaming silver-gold armour, holding his purple shield with a maiden in silver and gold, offering a red-gold dragons egg upon it. That same design is matched on the purple caparisons his destrier is dressed in. He waits for the event to start and for everyone's opponents to be called, eyeing up the competition.

Having already suited up in his armor, Brynden escorts Nika over to the field, offering her a smile. "A lovely day for an event like this," he says, before he adds, "May I beg you for a favor? It seems to me that if I should wear one, it should be yours." Looking around for a few moments to see what other people that are participating, then back to his wife.

The air smells of horses and excitement, and cakes. Nobody's settled down. The lists have been drawn up earlier, and most of the knights have sent their squires to check — some like to rest rather that watch, probably to avoid the psychological impact of watching comrades get unhorsed. Now one of the heralds runs over to jump up onto the heavy log rail that makes up the tilt. He turns a cartwheel on it. An aspiring acrobat, evidently. Then he shouts out, "Oldtowns own! Beloved! Ser Brynden Hightower!"

The guy tries another cartwheel. Not as good. But he doesn't fall off the tilt, at least, "And Ser Riderch Blackwood! To Ride!"

Nika had been married so very little time to this stranger before her and at the request, she looks surprised as she wonders what to give! A favor! She had never been asked before. Tucking her lower lip between her teeth, she reaches for her braid, hastily unwounding the long wavy tresses and the ribbon she had wove throughout. Retrieving the bit of ribbon in the colors of her new house, she demurely ducks her head as she offers it to her new husband. "I.. am honored you would wear it, would even ask." Tipping her head up again, she offers a smile filled with delight. "I do so hope you win."

As a sworn banner to House Hightower, it is little surprise that one of those banners fluttering on the field is that of House Bulwer. The bone bull on a field of blood has ever been present at every single Dolphin Festival tournament for as long as anyone can remember, and likely longer still. The most prominent of those representing Blackcrown today is the Lord Mark Bulwer himself, less impressive in height then the rest of his kin, but not so in bearing, and there is little doubt as to who is in charge among the number bearing the bull shield today. Peering out from under his silver-horned bull's helm, the Lord of Blackcrown waits patiently for the event to begin, not bothering to converse with those around him, but his attention is nonetheless on the activity at hand, especially when the first call goes out. On his arm a favor flutters like a miniature banner, the colors of House Redwyne mixed with Bulwer on the strip of cloth.

Ladies don't sport polished plate to gleam in the sun like the knights do, but Keyte improvises to add some sparkle to her ensemble; the loose bodice of her sandy-coloured gown is bedecked by hundreds of tiny glass beads, belted high on the waist with a strand of golden chain. One of the more avid supporters amongst the nobility, she's chosen a seat on the lower dais today — closer to the action, if sacrificing a more sweeping view of the field. Her hair is secured with a beaded band tied at the nape, but that doesn't stop her from tugging girlishly at a lengthy curl. The first challengers announced prompt but a polite golfclap from the lady. Maybe she hasn't had enough wine yet today.

Sitting on one of the benches to one side of the field…is Rory. Sweet, wonderful Rory. "Oh, yeah; I coulda been ridin' in today's tournament, meself, I could. The planners wanted to keep it fair, though, so I've resigned meself to just watchin' this one." At this statement, one of the men sitting near to him rolls his eyes.

"Oh, shut it, Rory! We've heard it a thousand times." He takes on a mocking tone towards the ginger-haired Rory, "Coulda been a knight, I could. Wavin' me lance all about like a hero from a storybook."

To this Rory simply states, "Your mother sure liked my lance-wavin'." This, of course, results in a bit of a slap fight between the two men before they turn to applaud another contestant.

Never let it be said there isn't a weird sort of vanity to the Riverlands lord. Riderch has been quiet, so far, as he turns to his large, shaven-headed squire finishes helping him up on to a warhorse as dark as as the raven upon his shield. His dark, burnished armor gives off an occasional dull sheen in the summer sunlight. Grinning, he leans down towards the man and readies his lance as he spurs his horse along gently. "That's a girl." He notes, riding at an easy, languid pace.

Brynden smiles as he hears that, taking the offered ribbon. "Thank you. I will do my best." Taking a few moments to tie the ribbon against his right upper arm, he looks to the herald at the announcement. "Beloved? That's a new one," he remarks, before he smiles, "Time to start, I suppose." Another smile is given to Nika, before he heads over to where his horse is waiting, mouting and taking his helmet from his squire, before riding over to where he's supposed to be now.

There no fun in a thing that doesn't make a man a little mad: wine, women, and bloodsport all live up to this promise. Dark brows lifting in amusement, Viggo applauds the first named riders with jaunty pleasure. A little more passionate than a golf-clap but also less coordinated. "By the light of the seven, hopefully this'll be a fine ride."

The herald turns another cartwheel on the tilt, this one quite a good one, and one that takes him off the end of the beam. He even sticks his landing. And then runs, because he doesn't want to be near any excited destriers.

Kevyn is at Viggo's elbow, attending the Cockshaw knight. Or, at least, not getting in his way. He claps for the Riverlander as well, though it seems to take him a half-second to remember to do it. "Do they joust much, the River lords?" he asks his knight.

"I am surprised you would want to sit so close to an event that involves horses," Kesha asides to her sister, teasing just a little. Sitting next to Keyte in the stands where the nobility are and smoothing her skirts as she adjusts her seat, her gown a thing of green, embroidered and beaded to give the impression of a very lush garden, leave patterning everywhere except where birds and flowers break it. As some of the riders are called she too claps politely.

"Much as anyone else," Viggo answers Kevyn, watching the herald amscray with the forthrightness of a feral cat. "There are a number of houses that boast fine knights there, although some sticks in the muds. Some literally. There's a keep built on a mire, lad." He shakes his head in bafflement.

There's a salute on Riderch's part before he fully readies his red-and-black painted lance, directed towards Brynden in the distance. "RIDE WELL, SER!" He bellows, from within his helmet. He looks down at his horse once before staring straightaway. He's not a bad horseman to be sure, but there are better. Still, he doesn't want for courage.

The herald, nervously, clambers up onto the stand by the lists with a red banner. He waves it over his head in three great figures of eight, before dropping it sharply to indicate that the tilt has begun. The very movement is met with a cheer.

"Just call me unpredictable," Keyte quips back, distracted by something down at the lists. She spends a moment or two craning her neck to see, before sighing and turning her attentions back toward the field. "Ah, Ser Riderch is riding. The Blackwoods look to the Old Gods, you know, and yet he's a knight anointed in the sept of the Seven. Odd, isn't it?"

With one final big smack to the back of his friend's head, Rory seems content to cross his arms and watch the goings on. For now, at least.

"AND YOU, SER!" Brynden calls in return, nodding a little as he leads his own horse forward as well now. There's a brief smile hidden by his visor, as he nods a bit now.

Were he able to hear Keyte Riderch would doubtless be dancing around some sort of complicated or awkward explanation for this — maybe he's just shopping around for gods at this point, figuring the favor of a few extra wouldn't hurt to keep him from being knocked on his arse, but for now, he holds his focus on the lists, and his opponent, waiting for the signal. The black horse gives a bored sort of snort.

"Like a swamp?" Kevyn makes a slight face at Viggo. "I'll stick to the Reach, if it's all the same. I'd wager this goes to the Hightower Ser." He adds, sheepishly, "If I had anything to wager."

"Be careful, Brynden.." Anika offers before she turns to take her place in the stands among the others, ready to watch. Once settled, her handmaid settles in beside her, absent is the Septa now that Nika had wed. She watches the others a moment, gathering, awaiting the announcements of their names to be called, though her attention is on the tilt, breathless.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Riderch=riding Vs Brynden=riding
< Riderch: Success Brynden: Failure
< Net Result: Riderch wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Riderch=blades Vs Brynden=riding
< Riderch: Success Brynden: Good Success
< Net Result: Brynden wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Brynden=Blades Vs Riderch=Riding
< Brynden: Success Riderch: Success
< Net Result: DRAW

"Henceforth, I shall refer to you as Lady Unpredictable," Kesha promises Keyte with a solemn face that is broken an instant later with a smile. It is followed by a lift of brow for her sister's craning and sighing. "…is he, now? My, that must be complicated. Perhaps he's had a falling out with some family. Or is hedging his bets, as they say. Or just likes the idea of being called Ser, I suppose." Because why not gossip about people. That's part of the spectacle, right? No?

Aaaand they're off. Riderch's black horse tears down the tilt, as he shifts the lance upward slightly as he closes in on the Reach knight. There's a sharp 'thwack' as his lance impacts with Brynden's shield, but it's clearly a glancing blow. The lance is a little nicked but holding for now.

Bringing his horse forward, Brynden's focus is on his opponent and the lances now. His own lance coming in against the Blackwood, but not quite succeeding in making a solid contact. Something is said a bit heatedly under his helmet as he moves to get into place for turning his horse around.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Riderch=riding Vs Brynden=riding
< Riderch: Success Brynden: Good Success
< Net Result: Brynden wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Brynden=Blades Vs Riderch=Riding
< Brynden: Good Success Riderch: Success
< Net Result: Brynden wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Riderch=riding Vs Brynden=blades
< Riderch: Success Brynden: Good Success
< Net Result: Brynden wins - Solid Victory

There's a quick burst of laughter at her new nickname, a glance sideways to share that smile with her twin. It's best that Riderch can't hear whilst Keyte is being so obliviously rude about his beliefs — "I wonder. I've never seen him visiting the Sept. Oh! Hum. That wasn't a very decisive round, was it?"

"Just so, a fine large one but in fact a swamp," Viggo agrees wryly, dark eyes stuck on the action. "I wouldn't be so quick to say."

The crowds cheer as the riders deliver blows that are solid hits, rocking one another in their heavy war-saddles.

Nodding a bit as he sees they are ready to move forward again, Brynden's focus is once more on the lances, or mostly his lance targetting the other knight. Which he manages to do this time, getting a better impact than before now.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Riderch=blades Vs Brynden=riding
< Riderch: Success Brynden: Success
< Net Result: DRAW

THWACK! The lances connect again, sort of. Well, Riderch's connects with the Hightower shield, and now there very much is a muffled curse from within his helmet. Having had a hit scored on him, he wheels back into position. Nothing's going to change the regional perceptions of jousters so far.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Riderch=riding Vs Brynden=riding
< Riderch: Success Brynden: Good Success
< Net Result: Brynden wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Brynden=Blades Vs Riderch=Riding
< Brynden: Good Success Riderch: Success
< Net Result: Brynden wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Riderch=blades Vs Brynden=riding
< Riderch: Success Brynden: Success
< Net Result: DRAW

It's generally better to not hear people talking about you. "His loyalties may still lay with his Old Gods, however he has managed to get himself anointed as a knight." Kesha raises her brows, as if to suggest some sort of deeper mystery there to Keyte. Oooooo. "I am sure someone will be unhorsed in time. It is admirable to hold on with such force striking you. If not as much of a show as a swift unhorsing."

The herald yells out, "Ser Brynden!" The crowd has a yell. It's not the first joust of the day, and it's not been a terribly exciting one, so they don't make too grand an uproar. They were more eager for the start of this round than its finish.

As the scion of House Hightower is proclaimed the victor, the horned knights of Blackcrown that are present, led by Lord Mark Bulwer, bang gauntlet against steel to show their approval of the victory, regardless of the crowd's enthusiasm.

Kevyn cheers for Ser Brynden, excitement of the match or no. "Just as I said," he says to Viggo, albeit mostly jokingly. It's not as if he didn't have his doubts during the contest itself.

Moving forward again for the last pass, Brynden manages to get a hit in, although it's no better than the last one. As he hears the herald announcing his name, one fist moves up into the air, before he rides over towards Riderch. "Well done, Ser," he greets the man, after having removed the helmet now.

Oooooo indeed! Delighted at the prospect of scandal, Keyte claps along with more gusto, in contrast to the crowd's slackening cheer. "Very admirable, yes. A victory for the lord Ser Hightower!" She leans aside to murmur for her twin's ears only, "Our sweet cous will be so disappointed."

Looking at his battered, damaged lance through his helmet, the Riverlander Lord has brought his horse to a full stop. Ser Riderch Blackwood probably should have added the Red God and maybe a few others if he was shopping around for divine help. He discards the lance and /visibly/ shrugs, turning back to his large, lumpy squire in the distance before raising his helmet to reveal a goofy sort of grin. The grinning Knight then turns back towards Brynden. "Indeed. /Well done./" He salutes the Hightower knight. "Watch, next time I'll get you, Ser!" He says in a boast he manages to make sounding ridiculous and in fact a little self-deprecating. He was indeed not the best jouster here, but points for trying?

"Well, I ought fit you with some coin," Viggo offers with a grin, slapping his squire hard on the back with affection. He applauds the victory. "Well run!"

The herald waits until the knights and their great horses have cleared off the field, eyeing the tilt and listening to the Master-at-Arms at the same time. Once they're off, he runs up to jump onto the tilt again. This time he goes right over it and lands on his face in the grass. The crowd laughs.

"I will be loking forward to it, Ser," Brynden replies to the Riverlander, offering the man a grin in return, before he brings his horse off the field. Looking to the stands, for where Nika is, before placing one hand to the ribbon she gave him, with a smile and a nod.

"Ah, there we are!" Kesha observes, lifting her hands to clap at the Hightower victory. "Well ridden!" Pursing her lips slightly, she leans in towards Keyte with a nod. "It does seem to be a constant. Disappointment, that is, one way or another.," She whispers in return.

When her husband is declared the winner, Nika applauds with gloved hands and a vibrant smile, blonde hair -that is now free from the confines of the braid- is left in a tumble of waves almost to her waist. Catching the look, the motion and the smile, she returns it, gladly. "Well done," she murmurs mostly to herself, though he could read her lips as well, if he wished.

The herald rights himself, and waves his red banner about as if nothing happened. Well, except for the high colour of his cheeks, as if nothing happened. He bellows, "Ser Mark Bulwer! And Ser Daevon Targaryen, the MAIDEN'S KNIGHT!" This seems to be what at least half the women in the crowd have been waiting for, and they start throwing flowers out onto the field. For a moment, the herald looks startled, and lifts a hand to brush them from his brown hair. Then he bows, arms spread, pretending the accolades are for him.

Kevyn rocks some when Viggo claps his shoulder, chuckling. Not that he exactly rejects the idea of coin. "Do you know when you're up? In the lists? Should I check your saddle again?" For the fourth time today. Though he looks slightly less interested in doing that when the next contest is called. "The Maiden's Knight!" he repeats the herald excitedly. "Have you ever ridden against a Targaryen? In the other tourneys, that is."

Daevon's destrier is not at all amused by the throwing of flowers. He tosses his head trying to bite these strange missiles, and Daevon mutters something meant only for horses ears. The horse stomps on a few that have landed on the ground, just for good measure as Daevon guides the beast into place. He raises his lance, offering a wave to the audience, and a nod to his opponent.

Keyte bobs her head, affecting a slight shrug to agree with her twin amongst their whisperings. As the Maiden's KNight is announced, she commences her clapping again, though not half as enthusiastically as some of the crowd. "Ah, but Ser Daevon ought to ride well. Does he wear a favor today, I wonder?"

There are cheers for the Bulwer lord as well - after all, plenty remember the generous distrabution of coin and sweets that were Mark's largess in the parade - but not nearly as many for his opponent. The only sound that is soley for him is the sound of metal on metal as the other Blackcrown knights bang their support on their shields; once, twice, thrice. None of this seems to hold Mark's attention, however. His movements deliberate, he lowers the bull's-face visor of his help, accepts his lance, and rides up to the lists to take his position. He first faces the Grand Dais, saluting it with his lance, before facing his opponent and offering a similiar gesture. And then, he waits, he and his steed, who seems nearly as patient as his master.

Daevon's wearing the same favour he was yesterday, beautifully made black weaving embroidered with intricate red designs. Rumour would have it that it's not a lovers token, but instead he's wearing it for his cousin. There's other whispers of several girls who have been miraculously cured of all illness after he won while wearing her favours.

Hidding the edge of a smile at the rocking of his squire, Viggo gives Kevyn's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Soon enough, I think. Get me my shield, the saddle is fine for now. You've checked it enough times, now," he bids lightly. He gives his cousin a nudge, bumping him into action. "Not yet. Today might be the day." Tracing the arc of flowers that soar towards the maiden's knight, he nods at the man's wave to the audience.

The herald runs back to his little wooden tower and climbs up, waving the banner while he watches the two knights maneuever their mounts into position. The crowd's roar falls to a hush, and when he's sure he's got their attention, the herald brings the banner down, crisply. He's grinning, excited.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=Riding Vs Mark=Riding
< Daevon: Good Success Mark: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=Riding Vs Mark=Riding
< Daevon: Good Success Mark: Great Success
< Net Result: Mark wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Mark=Blades Vs Daevon=Blades
< Mark: Good Success Daevon: Great Success
< Net Result: Daevon wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Mark=Blades Vs Daevon=Riding
< Mark: Great Success Daevon: Good Success
< Net Result: Mark wins - Marginal Victory

Brynden smiles as he managed to read Nika's lips as she spoke, before he turns back to watch the current tilt, studying the participants carefully for the moment.

Kesha nods again, then sits up straight and looks around as the next riders are called. "Oh, yes, surely Ser Daevon will do his family proud for more than wearing particularly armor," she tells Keyte, sounding unconcerned. "I imagine this will be over swiftly. Hmmhmm, with a name of The Maiden's Knight, I do not doubt it." The last is added a little quieter, coupled with a pointing gesture.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=Blades Vs Mark=Riding
< Daevon: Good Success Mark: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

Following her sister's pointing, Keyte spies Daevon's favor and makes a soft sound. "Ah. Perhaps the rumors are true, then?" She sounds distracted again, eyes wandering from the sport back down to the lists. At least she's a little more subtle this time, trying not to turn her head.

It's the horses fault. Of course it's the horses fault, not that Daevon would ever actually blame the beast. Daevon's destrier charges forward, angrily. Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! Hooves thundering on the ground, they clash together. Daevon's lance misses completely, while Mark's glances his shield. The destrier keeps running, charging angrily for the crowd. "Hey!" The Maiden's knight chides. "That way." He has a little trouble getting his horse to wheel around, the destrier more concerned with snorting at the flying flowers. But eventually they're in place and he raises his lance to signal he's reading.

The Lord of Blackcrown does not waste time, for as soon as the signal is given, his horse seems to take flight. Daevon may well be more skills, and have the love of the people, but Mark Bulwer is a twenty year veteran of the lists, and in shows in the way he rides. Win or lose, he is certainly here to make a good showing for his house, and none can deny that he does so as his lance glances off the Maiden Knight's shield. Wasting no more time now then before, he guides his horse with his knees at the end of the lists, wheeling it about and getting ready for the second pass.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=riding Vs Mark=riding
< Daevon: Great Success Mark: Success
< Net Result: Daevon wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=blades Vs Mark=riding
< Daevon: Good Success Mark: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Mark=blades Vs Daevon=riding
< Mark: Failure Daevon: Success
< Net Result: Daevon wins - Marginal Victory

Kevyn nods to Viggo. He'll rush to fetch that shield…in just a minute or so. After he's done watching the current tilt.

This time, it appears both men have the other's measure, as both lances are deflected. And while the crowd may not appreciate such a showing, the horned-helm of Lord Mark tilts in a gesture of acknowledgement towards Ser Daevon before he wheels about his horse for the final pass.

Daevon and horse move as one this time. Having more of an idea of how Mark jousts, this time his shield's in place to deflect the blow, perfectly, even as his own lance fails to score a direct hit. He too wheels about his horse for the last pass.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=riding Vs Mark=riding
< Daevon: Great Success Mark: Good Success
< Net Result: Daevon wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=blades Vs Mark=riding
< Daevon: Great Success Mark: Good Success
< Net Result: Daevon wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Mark=blades Vs Daevon=riding
< Mark: Success Daevon: Good Success
< Net Result: Daevon wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Mark=Blades Vs Daevon=Riding
< Mark: Good Success Daevon: Failure
< Net Result: Mark wins - Solid Victory

Daevon has Mark's measure now, as if the first two runs were a trial, this third time his lance hits Mark's shield smack in the centre. It cracks, but does not shatter. And in turn, he's easily able to avoid the other lance.

There's cheering, and the hurling of more flowers, before the herald can announce Daevon's victory. His voice is swallowed up. Surely the crowd was hoping for broken lances and unhorsed knights, but they love the Targaryen.

Mark manages to keep his seat, but the force of the blow causes his lance to miss. Even before the crowd begins to cheer, before the herald can even attempt to announce, Mark is casting his lance aside for his squire to pick up. He offers a salute to Ser Daevon, gauntlet against breastplate, and then cedes the field to the victorious Targaryen, riding back towards the tents.

"If you hear a rumor enough times…" Then it's probably true? That does seem to be what Kesha is suggesting to Keyte with a nod of her head and wave of her hand. She watches the latest tilts with interest, clapping lightly at the hard blows to shields with loud clangs among the thunder of hoofbeats. "Are you bored, sister?" She wonders as her twin looks off towards the lists. "There we are!" She claps louder as the tilt ends.

Daevon returns that same salute to Mark. He moves off to take a break, and try and settle his destrier as the next match is run.

"Shield, Kevyn," Viggo reminds a little more firmly of his squire now that the tilt is done. He cuffs the boy's head in reminder. Not hard. Just pointed. Get.

Kevyn is busy applauding for Daevon, though that's interrupted when Viggo cuffs him. "Oh! Uh. Aye!" And with that, he hustles off to retrieve that shield.

The herald runs out among the falling flowers, now too excited to heed the danger presented by Daevon's mount. The Master-At-Arms yells at him, "Fool boy! They're not cheering YOU!" and it's almost audible. It doesn't slow the herald down. He jumps back up onto the tilt and performs his cartwheels again.

Brynden nods as he watches the outcome of this tilt, smiling a bit to himself. Glancing up to the stands every noe and then, then back to the field now.

Daevon's horse tries to take a bite out of the herald. In fact it tries to go charging right after the boy and it takes Daevon tugging on the reins, and yelling. "Careful!"

The herald, startled mid-cartwheel by the charge of Daevon's destrier, falls off the tilt again. This time he ends up in a tangle of limbs. He is at least on the far side of the rail from the angry equine, though. There are more cheers and laughter and thrown flowers. Evidently the virtuous Maiden's Knight is forgiven for having an evil horse.

Daevon manages to get his evil horse under control, without anyone being maimed. The horse is not at all impressed by anything.

The herald gets up again, backing away from Ser Daevon even as the knight guides his destrier off the field. Once the beast seems clear, the herald runs a hand through his brown tangles and shouts, "Ser Viggo Cockshaw! Ser Arros Sand!" And again, he runs off, now shy of horse encounters, and much less cheerful about being pelted with flowers.

Shaking his head at his squire, Viggo lifts a hand to stroke his own destier's neck. There, there. His horse snorts, staping a foot errantly and flicking its tail back and forth. "Aye," he calls brightly, swinging up and onto the horse's back once he's got his helm in place. "Kevyn! Shield!" Really, lad. "And lance!" The Cockshaw knight lifts a hand to wave at the crowd, nodding towards where the knot of Tyrell sisters sit.

Kevyn scrambles back as the herald is calling Viggo's name, with that shield and lance. "Warrior favor you, Ser," he says, panting some. He looks in the direction Viggo is waving, grinning and doing some waving of his own at the cluster of Tyrell girls. A rather silly grin on his face.

Arros mounts his white destier, and puts down his visor. He wears the same shined up full plate he wore the other day for the melee. He rides over to the lists where his squire is ready to hand up his shield and lance. His destier snorts and paws at the ground eagerly as he gets into position.

From the stands, Nika continues to watch the matches, though she cheers none other on. Between them, her eyes seek and find her husband almost unerringly. When the next match is called, she looks back towards the tilt, wishing none get hurt.

Eyes dark and the curve of his moustached smile visible beneath the fall of his visor, Viggo rides into his place at the lists. Hips roll with the horse, seat steady atop it as his feet rarely seem on the ground. He salutes his opponent with a fluid, florid, florish of his lance and then again to the crowd. "Ride well!" He calls cheerfully.

The herald swings the banner 'round, his face serious now, scowling even. He brings it down with the same force as before, though, once he's sure both riders are steady and prepared.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arros=riding Vs Viggo=riding
< Arros: Great Success Viggo: Good Success
< Net Result: Arros wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arros=blades Vs Viggo=riding
< Arros: Great Success Viggo: Good Success
< Net Result: Arros wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Viggo=blades Vs Arros=riding
< Viggo: Great Success Arros: Good Success
< Net Result: Viggo wins - Solid Victory

"Oh, this ought to be…interesting." Kesha sounds a touch disparaging, though she doesn't indicate who that might be aimed at. One? Both? As Ser Viggo nods in their direction, she comments, "I think he means that for you." The 'you' being Katya who is totally somewhere nearby, semi-chaperoning. "That is a bit impertinent considering the rumors of murder." That is for the benefit of anyone sitting within earshot of the Tyrell sisters. She pinches Keyte as Kevyn grins in their direction. Don't encourage him.

Arros salutes his opponent with the lance, and puts his heels to his horses' flanks to ride down the list. His own lance strikes but there is no crack of wood or other dramatic sign that his hit was particularly hard. Viggo's lance will crack slightly on his breastplate, and he'll let out a faint grunt at impact.

Arros's lance falls solidly against Viggo's shield with a shuddering of the Cockshaw's knight's defending arm. He manages to keep his own steady, scoring solidly against the other man's plate. No dinner party for this plate, strong and solid in its protection. Grinning, he wheels to the end of lists and trades his broken lance for another. "Good Ser, your arm is solid!"

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arros=riding Vs Viggo=riding
< Arros: Good Success Viggo: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arros=riding Vs Viggo=riding
< Arros: Good Success Viggo: Great Success
< Net Result: Viggo wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Viggo=blades Vs Arros=riding
< Viggo: Good Success Arros: Great Success
< Net Result: Arros wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arros=blades Vs Viggo=riding
< Arros: Success Viggo: Good Success
< Net Result: Viggo wins - Marginal Victory

Arros collects his next lance from his squire, salutes Viggo again, and rides down the list to meet his opponent again. He usually chatty Dornishman is rather quiet, and at Viggo's praise he lets out a simple, polite, "My thanks, ser. Yours as well." That said, he rides back to take position again.

This turn is simpler. Viggo's lance lands solidly against Arros's shield as their horses kick up clouds of dust with ther hammer of their hooves against the track. He grins brightly, wheeling around to face his opponent again. This time he gallantly salutes the crowd befor settling into place. In position. Again they ride.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arros=riding Vs Viggo=riding
< Arros: Great Success Viggo: Good Success
< Net Result: Arros wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arros=blades Vs Viggo=riding
< Arros: Amazing Success Viggo: Good Success
< Net Result: Arros wins - Crushing Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Viggo=blades Vs Arros=riding
< Viggo: Good Success Arros: Great Success
< Net Result: Arros wins - Solid Victory

Arros picks up his third and final lance. He will lift his visor to gaze down the list for a heartbeat before he drops it, salutes Viggo one last time, and slams his spurs into the flanks of his destier. The big destier lets out a snort, and bolts forward. Arros will urge his mount on with a loud "Ha Ha!" As he reaches Viggo he will lean forward in the saddle, and the tip of his lance will explode against the Cockshaw Knight, sending wood debris flying.

The crowd roars, a frenzy of excitement, possibly exacerbated with rage. Dorne and The Reach have their differences.

Brynden leans forward in his seat with a bit of a whistle as he sees this outcome, watching carefully now.

That salute is returned. The rattle of hooves on the dirt and the dig of spurs against a darker destier mirrors the knight of Sand, but Viggo does not shout. His body locks, shoulder lowered and shield in place, as he rides to meet his opponent. The point of his lance slipping too low. Missing at a critical moment as Arros slips through his guard, with his lance exploding against Viggo's chest. Even through plate that hurts more than a whipping. Unseated and on his back in the dirt, it takes the Cockshaw more than a moment to drag himself painstakingly to his feet. Then another to salute his opponent and crowd with a smiling wince. "Your victor!" He calls, ahead of the herald, before limping from the field. "I'll drink to that."

Arros rides off of the lists, and pulls his helm off to rub his fingers through his damp hair. He seems somewhat dazed. Astounded at his own luck. His squire will come forth to take his shield, and give him a waterskin of lemon water to drink.

The shouts linger in the air as another pair of knights are called to the tilt.

Bored? No. Keyte has been ignoring her sisters, though. The way she pops back to life as Kevyn waves to them might be some clue. "What? Oh!" It is totally the mention of murder that has her blushing. Totally. "Oh!" She looks rather dismayed at the results of the latest tilt. "Should we clap?" Yes, we should. She's clapping.

Kevyn leans forward as the turn gets going, muttering, "Go, go, go…" under his breath. He's got his mouth open to raise up a boisterous cheer for Viggo…until Viggo is unhorsed. Then it turns to a sucked in breath, and a wince. That had to smart. It takes him a moment to get over his surprise at the outcome, but he eventually does scurry forward to assist his limping knight.

"Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrp." The first knight to emerge with a loss has shed his armor now, emerging from a tent with a flagon as he overlooks the day's contests. Riderch lets out a huge belch, cradling the flagon in his hand and edges his way towards the sidelines. Staying classy as he does it.

Kesha rolls her eyes at her twin and 'accidentally' elbows Keyte while shifting in her seat. "Well," is all she says at the (it must be admitted) rather spectacular unhorsing, eyes gone wide. Whew. "I suppose that depends on how one feels about Dorne?" She does not clap. That ought to even things out, right?

Viggo is too proud to lean on his squire, but he does hand Kevyn his shield. "Fetch my horse," he requests with a wheeze. True to his nature, he fishes a hand into his plate and pulls forth a small flask. He takes a slug from it as he exits the field.

Brynden looks to the stands to see how Nika reacted to the unhorsing, then turns back to watch possible opponents.

Keyte exaggerates a jostled movement from the elbowing of her twin. Oof. "I'm clapping for Ser Viggo," she hisses defensively, leaning forward in her seat to direct her claps better toward the unhorsed knight. "Unlucky," she mourns the Cockshaw's tilt.

There's a look of pure sympathetic agony towards the battered form of Ser Viggo from the sidelines on Riderch's part as he grits his teeth, wincing and swigging on his flagon.

"Oh, uh, aye," Kevyn mutters to Viggo, letting him limp off under his own power. He takes the shield, shouldering it before walking off to get a handle on the Cockshaw knight's steed. He does much less chipper waving in the direction of the Tyrells this time.

"I'm sure you are," Kesha responds with a touch of dryness to her tone. She considers Viggo for a moment and then voices to Keyte, "I have to wonder…if it was a lack of luck, or a surplus of drink that led to such a fall." She sighs quietly. "Still, a shame to have to ransom one's horse and kit back, though there is probably not a better time to have to do so."

Keyte stops clapping at the hint of arid from her sister. She rolls her eyes, and abruptly shifts from annoyance to sympathy as she catches sight of Kevyn waving again: her head lolls to one side, and she lays a hand atop her chest to convey her condolences across the crowd. "No need for wondering," she replies to Kesha softly. "But of course, better at the Mother's tourney than another. I should hope the Dornishman would be kind, but…" She seems doubtful.

When the field is cleared yet again, there's a break while knights congratulate each other, or comfort those who did not make the next round, and the lists are posted again. Some people get out the wine, taking Riderch's lead. A new herald is sent out, this one sandy-haired. He doesn't try any cartwheels, just spins his banner and yells, "Ser Brynden Hightower! Ser Daevon Targaryen!"

Daevon's horse is slightly better behaved this time around. Daevon's clearly given it a stern talking to. Not that it's at all meek. He rides out, taking his place, and the horse snorts, ignoring the flowers and any delicious heralds as long as they don't get too close.

Brynden smiles as he hears his name announced again. Putting on his helmet, he uses his left fist to punch at his right shoulder, then the right fist to punch at the left shoulder, before he lightly slaps his helmet with both fists, and then gets the lance and rides out to his starting point. With a raised lance in salute to the Targaryen knight.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=riding Vs Brynden=riding
< Daevon: Success Brynden: Good Success
< Net Result: Brynden wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=blades Vs Brynden=riding
< Daevon: Amazing Success Brynden: Success
< Net Result: Daevon wins - Crushing Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Brynden=blades Vs Daevon=riding
< Brynden: Good Success Daevon: Great Success
< Net Result: Daevon wins - Solid Victory

"It would be unwise to be unkind at the Mother's tourney when you are Dornish and in the Reach surrounded by those that would take great offense to such a thing," Kesha whispers to Keyte with a touch a drama, but it is none-the-less true. People have died for less. "We shall hear about it, should anything happen, I suppose." She turns her attentions to the next tilt.

Kevyn collects Viggo's horse and situates himself off to the sidelines, to watch the clash between Targaryen and Hightower. The Reach lord gets his cheers, though they're more understated now that his own knight it out of things. His main attention is in making his way over toward Arros. "Pardon me, Ser?" he says to the Dornish knight, clearing his throat.

And this is what people came for. Daevon and mount charge, and while he's not as quick he does have momentum behind him. He hits the shield at an angle, throwing his and his horses weight behind the strike. There's a twist, his lance shatters and the force manages to pop the other man out of his saddle.

The crowd is delighted to see the Maiden's Knight take the field again. And even more so to see him unhorse his opponent at the first pass. A group of women start singing. It's a hymn to the Maiden, but they're so excited they're singing it at double-time.

Trying his best to stay in his saddle, the force of the strike sends him flying backwards out of it, hitting the ground forcefully. Staying down for a while now, there's no sound from him yet.

Edging a bit closer to the action, Riderch simply watches the two knights. If there is any malice in his person over getting beaten by Brynden, he's not heavily displaying it. Of course, this is made moot by the fact that what any decent fellow would display towards this point is a box of bandages. "Oh, H—" He mouths, not finishing his statement immediately. He got off easy.

As the tournament went on, Nika had watched, flinching when one of the participants had been unhorsed. Her maid had begun a conversation with her and they had been lost in speaking about different things when she hears her husbands name announced. With a motion of her hand, she cuts off the handmaid mid-sentence and devotes her attention to the tilt. Holding her breath at the first run, she notices as her husband falls and she is up on her feet and running to his side before her maid is even aware of what she was doing.

Daevon wheels his horse back and around. He calls out, concerned. "Is he all right?" He'd go over himself but his horse will bite.

Out of armor, although redonned wit his feathered hat, Viggo leans against a bit of fencing near where Riderch stands. He swings from a wine skin, wincing with an audible hiss as Brynden is unhorsed. "Would't recommend it," he offers Riderch's cut-off statement.

It takes a few moments longer before Brynden stirs now, letting out a few words he probably wouldn't have used if he saw Nika running over. Sitting up, and removing his helmet, he blinks a few times, as if to clear his head, and then blinks again as he sees his wife there. "Oh, hello…" he says, letting out a bit of a breath, as he starts to get to his feet, a bit shakily.

"Tell your Knight I only require a good, stiff drink before I face the Maiden's Knight for his ransom." Arros says down to Kevyn as the squire comes over.

"Are the Dornish renowned for their wiseness?" Keyte lacks the finesse of her twin, even when exchanging whispered barbs. "Oh, I say. Another unhorsed, and by the Maiden's Knight! Good show! — Does that lady think to invade the field?" Her eyes have gone wide with incredulity, she nudges Kesha and points. How embarrassing.

A couple of the heralds run out to help Brynden's squire collect the man's horse, and his person, and escort both of the field before the next riders are called out. Hedge-knights, both, though clearly better than many, since they made it this far.

Daevon breathes a sigh of relief as Brynden gets up. He too moves aside to prepare himself for his next match.

Unaware of the biting horse, as Nika assists Brynden in standing as well as she can, she offers a scowl towards Daevon, the man who had unhorsed her husband then failed to see to his welfare. The scowl is all she gives though before she is gently crooning to her husband despite the foul words he had just muttered. "You will need a warm bath to relax your muscles now."

Kevyn blinks at Arros. That wasn't what he was expecting. He stands there a moment as if asking silently, 'Are you sure?' But then, seeming to regain some sense, he nods. "Oh, aye, Ser! I shall tell him prompt." He leaves the horse and shield with the Dornishman, and dashes back to find Viggo.

"Not to my knowledge. I believe they are known for their passions rather overtaking any wisdom they may have been granted," Kesha whispers to her twin with a raise of her brows, happily slandering people under her breath. "Oh! There!" She says much louder as Daevon unhorses his joust opponent. "That is the tilt I expected. That poor Hightower, though…" She trails off, looking at the field with Keyte. "My, speaking of passions…it seems that she does."

"A hot bath. That sounds quite wonderful," Brynden replies a bit quietly as he starts working his way off the field. Looking over towards Daevon, he offers the man a nod, as he raises his voice, "Well done, Ser."

Squinting in confusion, Viggo watches the brief interchange between his squire and Ser Arros. He plainly stares at the sight of his squire dashing back towards him. "Aye, now. Where is the fire?" He drawls, taking another draught of his wine.

"The Dornishman told me his ransom terms," a panting Kevyn tells Viggo. He seems wary to relay them, though. Perhaps afraid this is a joke he'll end up the butt of. "He says…a drink before he faces the Maiden Knight, is what you owe him."

Daevon's left his horse with one of his squires as he stretches his own legs. He nods to Brynden. "Thank you." And there's the subject of ransom, of course, which he always finds rather awkward. So he just lets things hang there.

"The poor lord, indeed," murmurs Keyte, watching wide-eyed as the Hightower is led off the field by… heralds? His wife? "Perhaps she'd too much wine, and forgot herself. Imagine if the horses had bitten her!" She twists her face into a grimace that's very grave.

This has elicited a bit of response from Riderch who gives a wide but wary salute towards Daevon — not unlike a mortal man encountering a friendly Dragon. Well, 'friendly dragon' is probably an apt, offhand description for the Maiden's Knight. After dallying a bit, he accquires another flagon — local mead, and proceeds to close in on the very uncomfortable form of Ser Brynden. "Ho, friend!" Riderch yells, sauntering over towards the Hightower Knight, raising the spare flagon in offering as he comes closer. "Something to dull the ache?"

"Oh? So soon as this and he's already selected a ranson," Viggo observes with some amusement, swinging his flask about with a flourish. "Spit it out, then." The actual voicing of the terms causes his brows to rise in confusion, the flower braided into his beard immenently more worse for wear after his fall. "A drink he shall have, then." Not just from any flask then, not for such a request as that. A proper flagon is hailed to be brought to the Dornishman, and swiftly, of the best local brew.

"Perhaps the wine…liberated her, as such. She does seem very concerned, though I cannot blame her for that, after such a fall." Kesha shakes her head, then looks at Keyte for a moment, a smile repressed. "If she had been bitten, perhaps she would merely go around telling people the story of how her lucky horse bite had came to be , to anyone who would listen." That smile blooms, sugary sweet for her twin.

Brynden pauses for a few moments as he sees Riderch and the offered flagon. "That sounds quite excellent now, thank you," he replies, taking the flagon, and taking a long sip from it. Muttering something to his squire, who heads off to do a few errands now. Another sip is taken, before he smiles at Nika again. "Want a sip?" he asks her, a bit quietly.

"I suppose not," Keyte allows, accounting for the concerned lady field-invader grudgingly. Feeling eyes upon her, she turns her head to meet her twin's gaze, her own lashes falling to a narrow split. She does not smile. "Everybody knows horse-bites aren't lucky, Kesha," deadpans Keyte. She is still not smiling.

Riderch cheerily flashes Brynden one of his strange, not-quite-all-there grins but it's of an entirely friendly sort after handing the cup over. "Nice place here, the Reach. If you want to spar again sometime — maybe a friendly wager, Ser. It'd be an honor."

When the Knight approaches for his ransom, Nika tucks her lower lip between her teeth, not wishing to say anything rude. Her attention is gratefully caught by Riderch whom she offers a tentative smile. "Thank you." She answers to him, for assisting her husband, though to Brynden, she gently shakes her head. "No, but thank you." She clears her throat and indicates Daevon. "Your.. ransom, Brynden," quietly reminding him.

Kesha keeps smiling. If anything, she smiles more when Keyte does not. "Do they? Well, I am sure that I would not know, seeing as no horse has ever bit me." Unlike you, her silence and smile say, batting her lashes prettily at her twin.

"Ah yes," Brynden replies, to the part about the ransom, turning to offer another nod and a smile to Daevon. "Well done, Ser Daevon. It would seem we have some business to attend to. Do you want it done now, or should we let you prepare for the remaining tilts and meet in the morning?" A brief pause, as he takes another sip, before he smiles at Riederch again now. "That sounds like an excellent idea, Ser."

Daevon considers what Brynden says. "I had thought that since it is the Mother's Festival, a gift for the mothers would be an adequate ransom. I will trust in you to work out the specifics yourself of what you feel would be an appropriate offering."

The flutter of lashes mirrored at Kesha is not the airy, innocent kind. Coupled with an unimpressed smile, Keyte is still unable to keep all warmth from her expression; it leaks into her tone. "They don't bite people who smell like they do," she announces, no doubt proud of herself for the retort. So there.

Daevon's horse is non-discriminatory. He will bite you all regardless of how you smell. Fortunately one of Daevon's squires is busy with the beast just now.

"That didn't cost so much, Ser," Kevyn observes to Viggo, with no small amount of surprise. "I'm…uh…I'm sure you've coin left for more wine of your own, later."

"Nay, it did not. It was too mean a measure," Viggo agrees, taking a long swig from his flask. "Find out where he stays, Kevyn. We'll send a proper ransom of wine to his lodgings, lest I stay in his debt. A fine summer." He decides with a nod.

Riderch's grin remains infectious as he wheels about on his foot, down to one flagon and decides to go harass someone else while the joust continues. He goes to check on his horse. His horse raises her nostrils in a flare of disdain. Clearly something here needs to change.

That was a good retort. Good job, Keyte. Kesha almost seems impressed for a moment, hand fluttering and mouth making an 'o' of surprise. "Better than smelling like you are their food, as you do, rolling around in the grass," she shoots back with a blooming smile again. "Or perhaps they are just attracted to you because your laugh sounds like a whinny!" Girls, girls.

Brynden nods, "That sounds quite sensible," he offers to Daevon, bowing his head a little. "I will make the offering early tomorrow." Looking to Nika again, he offers her a quiet smile. "Shall we head back home, then? That hot bath you suggested is sounding like an excellent idea now."

Keyte puffs up with pride, only to be cut down like the grass she's so fond of rolling in by her twin's scathing wit. Her mouth drops agape, and she gasps. "Kesha Tyrell, you take that back!" At least she has the sense to hiss under the ambient noise of other conversations.

"Oh, fine," Kesha says with the release of a breathy sigh as Keyte hisses at her. She makes a dismissive waving motion at her sibling. "I take it back. You do not smell and laugh like a horse. There." Never say she never did anything for you.

Announcement: Gashlycrumb shouts, "It was already drizzling. It starts to rain."

Announcement: Gashlycrumb shouts, "There's a sharp crack of thunder, rare here in Oldtown."

And Riderch gets with his massive, bald squire in a horse retrieval effort. The horse still doesn't care about him. Well, she cares about the thunder.

The rain just makes Daevon's horse even more bad-tempered. The horse's hooves churn up mud. As it comes on heavier still Daevon sighs. Looks like he's not going to get that match after all. The moment the thunder cracks his destrier spooks, trying to charge away, dragging a squire along with it. Daevon rushes after it (or at least as best as he can in full plate).

"Yes, please," Nika tells Brynden with a concerned smile. Leaving an arm with him for support. A brief nod is offered to the others before Nika, her maid and Brynden all leave for their home.

Brynden smiles, nodding to the others, before he leaves with Nika and her maid. Letting his squire deal with the rest of the stuff now.

Brynden enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

Nika enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

The field is getting soggy in the drizzle while the knights have had their rest, but in time the Master-at-Arms sends the heralds running to gather the people for the championship bout. It's a little early, but wait any longer and the tilt will be in mud. "Ser Daevon Targaryen!" the heralds yell, "Ser Arros Sand!"

Just because they're friends doesn't mean that this is any less serious a joust. If anything, it means Daevon has even more to prove. He moves his horse into place and waits for the signal to go.

Her wounded pride almost satisfied by takesies-backsies, Keyte lifts her chin and humphs. Humph. "Only your skirts smell like a horse, and only after you've been riding," she compromises. As thunder cracks, she flinches, arguments forgotten. "Foreboding, hmm? A sign of disapproval from on high?"

Arros sucks in a deep breath, and fits his helm on. He rides over to the mark, and lets his squire hand his shield and lance up to him. "Be gentle, Ser Daevon." He calls out as he lifts his lance in salute to his friend.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=riding Vs Arros=riding
< Daevon: Good Success Arros: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=blades Vs Arros=riding
< Daevon: Great Success Arros: Great Success
< Net Result: Arros wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arros=blades Vs Daevon=riding
< Arros: Good Success Daevon: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

The herald's banner is soggy with the rain, but he whips it about almost prettily anyway, and drops it to give the signal that the joust has begun.

Daevon and Arros would seem evently matched. Daevon flips down his visor, his only response to Arros' comment a laugh. On the signal his destrier surges forth. His lance is deflected and in turn he manages to deflect Arros'.

Arros rides down the list hard, and in vain. Their lances do not find purchase. The Dornish Knight throws down the unsplit lance, and takes another up in a pointless motion.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=riding Vs Arros=riding
< Daevon: Good Success Arros: Good Success
< Net Result: Arros wins - Marginal Victory


<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arros=blades Vs Daevon=riding
< Arros: Good Success Daevon: Good Success
< Net Result: Daevon wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Daevon=blades Vs Arros=riding
< Daevon: Good Success Arros: Success
< Net Result: Daevon wins - Solid Victory

Kesha lets her twin humph to her hearts content, not piling on any more injurious words now that she's taken them back. "Well." It's a good enough compromise. "Grass is not so bad, anyway." She hmms and looks towards the sky with a frown. Then the tilt begins. "Not an easy one, this." Nor should it be, as lances glance off shields.

Daevon wheels his horse around and is set to go again. His destrier charges down, tearing up the ground, mud splattering over its finery. This time Daevon's lance cracks on Arros' shield, but doesn't shatter. He manages to deflect the other weapon.

The sodden crowd still cheers. They hung about in the rain for this, they're eager, and thrilled to see the two riders meet.

Arros spends 1 luck points on For knocking Daevon's ass in the icky mud..

Arros lets out a grunt as Daevon's lance strikes his chest, but does not break. He will ride back to the starting point, and hurl his unused lance down to the ground. "I can't see!" He growls out to his squire as the boy reaches up to give him his last lance. The Sand Knight will push it away. With another frustrated sigh he unbuckles his helm, and hurls it down to the ground. The drizzle runs down his face, and dampens his sable curls almost instantly. "Mother." He says as he looks upwards to the sky, "If it be your will to see me unharmed, then you shall protect me." That said, he takes the new lance from his squire…

Helmless, Arros raises his lance to Daevon in salute, and spurs his destier. The white steed rears up, and bolts down the list.

The crowds fall silent, holding their collective breaths as the horses' hooves kick up muddy divots.

"Wow. Now there's something you don't see every bloody day. Well maybe you do." Riderch's eyebrows waggle as he makes his way into the spectator area lazily. "If you live in a place like this."

An amicable compromise, then, between the two identical sisters. As Arros doffs his helm, Keyte's brows shoot up — right along with basically everyone else in the crowd. "Gracious, what a foolish thing," she breathes, shaking her head as she waits and watches.

That's Daevon's friend out there, and his friend without a helm. "Are you mad?" he calls out. Daevon hesitates before spurring his horse onwards too. He levels his lance, dipping it down a bit lower than usual. His own helm obscuring his face, the rain slick on his armour.

Amicable and quickly forgotten. "If he loses his head he will have no one to blame but himself," is Kesha's rather unsympathetic assessment of Arros removing his helm. Hands folded over her lap, she leans forward a little more as horses charge again.

"I may be! Don't you dare go easy on me, Targaryen!" Arros calls out as the Knights ride forward to meet each other with lances. With his handsome face and blazing indigo eyes it is the bastard Dornishman who looks like some Knight out of legend. His polished steel armor shines bright in the gloomy light, and for an instant he seems larger than life. He leans forward, truly putting his life in the Mother's hands, to throw force behind his lance strike. There is a BOOM as his lance crashes into Daevon's chest, and the wood explodes like confetti. Splinters of wood land in his curls without marring his face.

"Well I'll be." As he makes his way up into the festival seating, Riderch spies your usual array of nobles and smallfolk alike. Catching the Twins Tyrell, he flashes a cheesy grin, pausing a moment as he waves to both Keyte and Kesha, lingering a little bit on the one he probably thinks is Keyte.

Riderch of course then immediately returns his gaze to the mess on the tilt. Wow. What a mess.

Daevon's lance goes wide, he doesn't even hit Arros, and the force of that impact sends him soaring. It's been a long time since the Maiden's Knight flew like that, but he's flung into the air and lands hard, on the ground. All that finery he's dressed in gets splashed with mud. And the destrier, finally free of any annoying rider just keeps on charging.

There are screams from the crowd, as well as cheers.

Arros throws down his broken lance, and dismounts without bringing his destier to a complete stop. His plate jingles as he hits the ground, and jingles more as he runs over to where Daevon lies. "Shit! Are you alright?" He asks with a worried look as he kneels down to help the other Knight.

The waving is a thing that catches Keyte's attention — though was she the one Riderch was focussed on? It's 50/50. (Thankyou, Captain Obvious.) There's a brief respite in her worry as she waves back, her smile warming, only to disappear as the follows the Riverlander's gaze back out to the field. She is one of the maidens who squeals as impact is made.

But does Riderch's grin actually linger on Keyte? That's the question. Kesha waves back with a Keyte-like cheery enthusiasm, probably just to mess with the knight's head. It's short lives. She gasps along with much of the rest of the crowd as Daevon goes down amid a shower of splinters and his horse…just keeps going. "…that was…unexpected." To say the least.

Daevon groans a bit disorientated. "Idiot. Mad man. Ouch that hurt." He lies there a moment, trying to catch his breath and get everything to stop hurting.

The Maiden's Knight may be down, but the horse is not. Finally free, it turns, it spins, it spies the other horse, and Arros too, and starts charging, heavy hooves churning up the ground. Aand if Daevon's lying there, about to be trampled, so much the better. Some horses have no loyalty.

<FS3> Arros rolls Animal Handling: Good Success.

To Riderch's credit, he's probably the least bloodthirsty guy here. And he's a /knight./ Rather, it's just sport, and so far every single one he's encountered has been gracious — so, he continues looking at the tilt with a wince. "Bloody Hells and a fucking half. They don't deserve this."

<FS3> Arros rolls Riding: Great Success.

Keyte bounces in her spot, gasping and pointing like oh, I don't know, several hundred other young women present do. "The horse! The horse will surely trample him, oh no!"

A wise man might get out of the way. His previous actions have proven that Arros is not a wise man. Instead of fleeing, Arros charges Daevon's ill-humored destier with a fierce war cry. He is fast despite his plate, and reaches the the Grump's neck to deftly swing himself onto the back of the horse. He pulls on the reins HARD, and the Grump rears up to unseat him with a scream. However, Arros is not so easily unseated. He remains mounted as the destier bucks and attempts to kick him off.

Daevon hears rather than sees what's going on. He moves, rolling over, getting even more muddy as he does so. He pushes himself up to his feet, grabbing onto the barrier to steady himself and he turns to see what's going on, trying to gauge if Arros needs assistance or not but the whole world is covered in mud.

"Well…that certainly only proves an earlier point," Kesha asides to Keyte, though he eyes are still wide, watching the commotion on the field.

Keyte mhms to her sister, sketching just the barest of nods as she continues to watch the spectacle unfold. "Oh," she sighs, as Daevon moves. "Is he out of the way? Mother bless, keep him safe!"

There's a collective gasp when Daevon rises and gets at least somewhat out of danger of being trampled by his own ill-tempered horse.

Arros manages to get control of the Grouch after the destier tries to buck him off several times. "Fergus!" He yells out, and his squire runs over before he gingerly takes the reins of the Grouch. Arros will come forward to lead the ill-tempered horse over to a post to tie him up, and let out a long exhale.

And now there is a cheer. The people were not fond of the Dornish knight. Until now. Now he's a hero. And the flowers that the women had saved, to cheer Daevon's inevitable victory, they now fling onto the field around and over Arros.

Daevon's now more mud than knight now, and by the time he gets his helm clear enough that he can actually see what's going on it's all over. "You're crazy!" he calls out again to Arros. "Thank you. That was…" he just laughs. "Thank you. Go bask in the glory of your victory. I'm going to go home and have a bath and a drink I think."

"I had to appeal to the Mother to beat you, Maiden's Knight!" Arros calls back with a laugh. That said, he turns back to stare up at the stands, his eyes widening at the cheers and the flower throwing.

The blossoms are heavy with rain, and they stick in the mud when they hit the ground, and stick in Arros' hair when they hit his head. "Sand! Sand!" shout the crowd. "Champion Sand!" Mixed in are cries of, "The Maiden's Knight!" but they don't seem to be conflicting.

Daevon laughs. "Well she clearly favours you." He's smiling as he watches Arros, and the adulation that he's being showered with. "Enjoy your victory, next time I'm going to unhorse you." It's teasing though. He's a little awkward as he turns and goes to get out of his armour and then head home.

Arros catches a flower in his hand, and then another. That done he heads for the dais where Keyte and Kesha are. He climbs the barrier with ease, his muscles made strong from the excitement and adrenaline he has coursing through his veins. He climbs the stands towards the two sisters.

Trying to wind down a touch from all the excitement, Keyte has a hand upon her heart. That is, until she notices the Dornishman heading over toward her perch in the stands. The older of the twins elbows her sibling in much the same fashion as she was elbowed herself earlier, her eyes already wide enough. What in Westeros…

There's more cheering at this. "Beauty!" they cry. The crowd was starting to thin because of the Maiden's Knight's departure, but those who'd turned to seek shelter from the rain stop now, to see how this will play out. The last of the flowers are thrown, in fragrant, though thoroughly wet, profusion.

The benches on the stands groan under the weight of the fully armored Knight. There are speckles of mud on his swarthy skin from the wet earth being kicked up by the horses' hooves, but his eyes are just as piercing and indigo as ever, and his teeth are white and straight when he smiles. He bows to both Tyrell twins, "My ladies." Then he holds out a flower for each of them.

The cries from the crowd only serve to make the moment feel all the more surreal, and Keyte shares her wide-eyed look with her sister, heads turning in unison. Oddly, it is she who speaks as they accept Arros's flowers, laughter bubbling and causing a shake in her shoulders. "The Ser is too kind," she says, "Thank you, of course. T'was a pleasure to watch you sport!" And they weren't gossiping at all. Truly.

The crowd can't really hear what is said. It would take a mummer's training to let one's voice carry over the field, even if people were not shouting, and the rain were not starting to hammer down. But they think they know what was said, and cheer all the louder for it.

"I hope to see more of you and your sister, my Lady." Arros says in his Dornish drawl. He bows again, and if they allow it he will kiss both of their hands chastely on the knuckles before turning to walk off the stands.

The Dornishman's charm prompts another fit of giggles from Keyte, who gives her hand gracefully for a kiss, as he pleases. With eyes upon them, she's blushing deeply, and all she has in reply is a nod — no doubt Kesha has some remark or other to be heard. As the Sand knight turns to walk away, Keyte makes a show of clapping for him, as is proper. "Well, I never," she murmurs brightly, as the rain starts to thicken. Must be hometime!

It's still dry under the canopies that cover the diases for the nobles, but the cloth is soaked, and it's starting to drip in the center, where it sags.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License