(121-02-24) Of Swords And A Hammer
Of Swords And A Hammer
Summary: There's a warhammer amongst all of those swording knights!
Date: (24/02/2014)
Related: Other tourney logs which Laurent will link (ha ha ha)
Players:
Laurent..Wyl..Keyte..Riderch..Brynden..Karys..Emilia..Daevon..Gwayne..Malvolio..Kevyn..Griffyth..Maera..Adrian..Viggo..Quill..Kelinyx..Elinor..

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.

Ser Laurent Tyrell is resplendent in his tournament plate, any dents or scuffs from the melee seen to by armorers and squires. His suit of dark plate is polished to a sheen, and worked through with a floral motif. The bulky armor is made to fit his already large (though not so large as Wyl) frame, making the man seem even larger. His green tabard bears the arms of House Tyrell, and is bordered in gold. His shield bears his personal arms — that same golden rose on a green field, but encircled by thorny vines. Hanging from his armor is his lady's favor, a finely wrought brass key, highly stylized. Its head is a rose in bloom, while the stem of the rose twines lovingly down the shaft to the tip, where its thorns make the key's teeth. A nervous young squire attends him, a rail-thin lad of around fifteen years.

Wyl is once again attired in a humble hauberk of ring maile with a nasaled halfhelm very high atop his head. A surcoat in Ball red and white garbs the lowborn knight, while his tall shield of oak and iron rests its point on the turf underfoot.

An early arriver, Keyte is in the upper stands today, nested on a cushion. Swathed in fine, thin green silk, and bedecked in golden chains, her hair is crowned with a circlet of delicate golden wire twisted and tormented into a series of roses. She's come prepared for once, a pennant ready to wave for the Tyrell knights participating today. GO TEAM.

One Riverland lord's armor probably isn't going to win points for being the most glamorous, but at the very least it is rust-free. The knight and heir of House Blackwood is on the tournament field today, his plated-mail armor is of a darker hue than most, and polished to a dull sheen which glints now and again in the light.

Riderch affixes a matching halfhelm to his head as well, his eyes peering from beneath its crown while outlined by whorls of pitch. The usual shaven-headed mountain of a squire attends him, with a patient look as he fumbles about for his weapon.

Arriving precisely when he means to is Lord Commander Gwayne, who on this occassion, has again decided against wearing any sort of shiny tournament armor and has instead gone with wearing his Watch armor. Though the traditional shield has been replaced with one emblazoned with the crest of his family.

Making his way inside the tourney grounds, Brynden looks around for a few moments now, looking between the others as he does. Glancing to the stands for a few moments, he shrugs as he doesn't seem to find who he was looking for now, and looks back to the others competing now.

Karys is within his usual, dented and scratched armor. His barrel helmet held by his left hand for the moment as his right hand holds a one handed warhammer. Anyone from the Crownlands would recognize it, considering its been passed down the Darke family for generations, and seen many battles. Karys sighs for a moment, looking around before sliding on his helmet. The only item he carries that is different is his shield, which bares the Darklyn crest upon it.

Finally, at least, the weather is actually nice for this sort of thing. The field isn't sodden. It's not pouring rain.

Laurent closes the visor of his armet helm, hoisting his shield. He says something that's lost to echo within his helmet, but the squire seems to understand him, and runs off to check the pairings. Laurent stretches as he waits, taking practice cuts with an empty hand as if it held his longsword.

Emilia is just making her way into the stands with another Lady and their guards, heads bent towards each others in whispers, Emilia wearing a wickedly slanted smile as she nods, arm slung through the other Ladies. She's dressed in her usual summer wear, deep champagne coloured sleeveless dress held up by the thinnest of straps, triangles of material tugged tight against breasts with a series of gold chains weaving across the front to keep her somewhat modest, though shoulders and collarbone are exposed against the wicked heat that has clung to the air as of late. Today, however, with the weather changed, she does wear a large scarf of woven linen across her shoulders, hair left down. She picks a seat right next to Keyte, smile wide as she greets her, "Lady Keyte." Smoothing the fabric of her dress as she settles down, her Lady friend joining them, guards moving to sit where they'd like to do their duties.

Daevon's shiny! Oh so very shiny in his gleaming, ornate armour that's clearly been cleaned since his disastrous fall in the mud during the jousting. There's not a dent nor a scratch upon it. His shield and his tabard are both purple, emblazoned with a silver-gold maiden holding out a dragon's egg. His helmet has a similarly coloured purple plume. He's busy waiting for the matches to be called out to see who he'll be competing against.

Banners wave. Dolphin cakes and bits of meat on sticks are eaten. One of the eager Hightower heralds runs out from the lists to shout, "Ser Gwayne Hightower and Ser Wyl Flowers, to meet at contest of arms!" He sounds awfully chipper about it.

Wyl takes a first lumbering step onto the field proper, as the herald summons him to arms. A hand in its maile mitten closes around the hilt of his light arming sword, the blade looking all the smaller in his grasp. A deep bow and salute are given to his highborn opponent.

"Lady Emilia!" A warm smile blooms across Keyte's features as she greets her cousin's wife in turn. "So lovely to see you, and your lady." She reaches out to offer an affectionate squeeze to Emilia's shoulder, before turning her attentions back to the field. "I'm so very excited for the sporting today, aren't you? Ooh, Hightower vee Flowers! My," the Tyrell girl blinks, affecting shock. "That man is ginormous!"

Gwayne nods at the announcement and moves to take his place across from Wyl. His grip tightens around his longsword and he looks across the field at the large man, offering him a salute and bow in return.

Brynden looks at the matchup out there now, offering a grin in Gwayne's direction. "Good luck, cousin," he calls to the man, before he moves for a good spot to watch from now.

Malvolio is sitting at the top bench on the stands nearest the nobles' platforms, where the view is best. He's barefoot, sitting sideways with his feet up on the bench next to him and his elbows on his knees, sticking out like some tropical bird amidst sparrows, with his bright Braavosi clothes.

Emilia's eyes take in Keyte's visage warmly, smile still curved along those thick lips of hers, hand reaching out to give the Ladys arm a gentle squeeze, "I have been antsy all day, waiting for it to begin if I'm hones—" Wow. Her dark brown gaze had moved to the field at Keyte's words, seeing that hulk, her mouth dropping open just a bit. Then a low throaty laugh, her hand lifting from Keyte's shoulder to grace fingertips over her lips to cover the maw, "Sweet toes of the Goddess, he is."

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Gwayne=Blades Vs Wyl=Blades
< Gwayne: Good Success Wyl: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Gwayne=Blades Vs Wyl=Blades
< Gwayne: Good Success Wyl: Success
< Net Result: Gwayne wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Gwayne=Blades Vs Wyl=Blades
< Gwayne: Good Success Wyl: Great Success
< Net Result: Wyl wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Gwayne=Blades Vs Wyl=Blades
< Gwayne: Good Success Wyl: Great Success
< Net Result: Wyl wins - Solid Victory

Laurent stands off to the side now, where the knights are meant to watch from. His squire is nearby, holding his shield now since the Thorn isn't in the first pairing. When the names are called, the tall Tyrell knight raises his hand in a wave to the hulking Ball bastard, perhaps wishing him good luck?

With a slight heft of his longsword, Riderch can be seen on the sidelines, testing its weight while squaring his arm from its shoulder. It's not exactly a fabled magical blade from the Age of Heroes. It is, however, well-made, castle-forged, and bears a simple black-painted crossguard. "Hmm. What do you think, Tel?" He idly chats up his big squire, pointing at the combatants.

Wyl is not a pretty swordsman. The massive warrior wields his large shield deftly, but his swings are heavy hacking chops against the more polished skill of Ser Gwayne. Many of the Ball bastard's cuts find nothing but air, yet by luck or art, a pair of his hacks crash through his opponent's guard, though Wyl takes a blow himself, and several more upon unpainted shield.

Kevyn has a bit of a breather from service to his Ser just now, so he's taking the opportunity to simply spectate the swordplay from the sidelines. He's chosen to gawk not far from Riderch, come to it, though he plays the Riverlander little mind while the main of his gawking is focused on Wyl an Gwayne.

In what is sure to be a first round upset, Gwayne finds himself in the dirt, floored by one of the bastard's weighty swings. The young Lord Commander managed to put up a good fight, but alas was no match for the pure strength of the man. Steadying himself with his sword, Gwayne returns to his feet, offering a yield to the man and finding his way to the sidelines, where he slips his helmet off and raises a hand to the crowd before offering a sweeping gesture towards Wyl with a grin on his face.

At the sound of Emilia's laughter, Keyte dissolves into a little giggle too. "I'm sure I've seen him before," she says amidst catching her composure, brow creasing as the two knights start to dance. "Though I can't for the life of me think where. Oh! Would you look, lady. Huzzah!" It's not immediately clear who she's cheering for.

Karys is, by now, upon the sidelines as well, his warhammer leaning back on his right pauldron as he draws his left arm back, grabbing hold of his shield and bringing it around to hold it as he watches the fight from behind his helmet silently.

From his high perch, Malvolio grins widely.

Daevon may have a match of his own to prepare for, but he's watching the fight with avid interest, studying each of the men. Today, in his gleaming armour, he's wearing a different favour, a lock of dark hair tied by a lace.

Wyl offers a second deep bow to his noble foe, holding it a moment to voice, "My lord Hightower," before backing up a step and turning to withdraw from the field. Only then does he belatedly dip his head to Laurent's earlier greeting.

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

Two of the heralds come running out, to help Gwayne up, and congratulate him. One hollers out, "The Match to Ser Wyl Flowers!" while the other attends to Gwayne. Then it's: "Ser Brynden Hightower! And Ser Riderch Blackwood! To meet in contest of Arms!"

Brynden watches the match, studying both of the fighters carefully now, before he offers a brief nod to Wyl as the man makes his way off the field. Then a look to Gwayne, studying him a bit thoughtfully for a few moments. "Well fought," he offers to the other Hightower, before he hears the call now, moving to take up his own place at the field, readying himself and raising his sword in a salute to Riderch now.

"Would you not remember a knight that /large/?" Emilia will ask with an amused smile, indeed keeping watch, her hands clapping together in delight as the swordplay begins, watching them duke it out and finally gasping out a laugh, "Is it any wonder he won?!"

Malvolio is sitting at the top bench on the stands nearest the nobles' platforms, where the view is best. He's barefoot, sitting sideways with his feet up on the bench next to him and his elbows on his knees, sticking out like some tropical bird amidst sparrows with his bright Braavosi clothes, and grinning down at the field.

As the next round of combatants are announced, Riderch's face suddenly bears a sloppy grin. The Grinning Knight's black-rimmed eyes crinkle a bit as he squints towards the field, shrugging and giving a positive nod at his squire. As he takes the field, he steals a glance at Wyl, the victor of the last bout and nods silently as if making note. But on to more pressing matters — Ser Brynden. "We meet again, ser!" His sword is raised in salute.

"Huzzah, Flowers!" Perhaps Keyte was cheering for the familiar-looking giant after all. She waves her Tyrell pennant enthusiastically, because it is the only pennant she has, and leans over to laugh with Emilia again. "Perhaps our dear Ser Thorn shall fare better against him than the Lord Hightower, if they should chance to sport. Oh! The Lord Blackwood! He's very agreeable. It is horrid of me to cheer against our bannermen?"

As the acting lord of the city, Gwayne is quickly removed of his armor and the young Hightower begins to make his way up the stands, albeit with a bit of a limp and a bruise one his cheek, towards the seat he'd had set out for himself. He sits down with a grunt and a cheeky grin to the rest of the nobles near him, "Didn't stand a chance, did I?"

Brynden grins, "Indeed, Ser, we meet again." Putting on his helmet now, and waiting for the signal to start. "May the best man win."

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

Maera arrives, accompanied by two men-at-arms wearing Mormont badges, and in a gown of green wool as opposed to the armor she usually wears to the tourney grounds. It seems the She-Bear will be observing instead of trying to compete. She sits down wordlessly at the stands where the lesser nobility usually sits.

"You do know him!" Emilia will state with a laugh, shaking her head, "No, of course not, in events such as these we can cheer for whomever we wish! That's part of the fun, watching delicious men batter each other senseless while cheering for those we favour most." Said to Keyte in a somewhat conspiratorial manner, amusement rife in her tone.

Kevyn cheers for the Ball bastard when he wins his bout against Gwayne, and then for the next competitors on the field. He cheers louder for the Hightower, of course, in a show of Reach partisanship. He squints at their swordwork, trying to follow the movements, though the finesse of much of it appears to elude him.

"At least on the field of honor if not the field of battle." Riderch muses, half to himself but the words are actually audible. And the two close in upon each other. If one were pressed to choose one or the other, it would be notable that Blackwood is probably a fighter that relies more on misdirection (but not outright /trickery/ because that would be dishonorable of course!) and finesse than brute force. The black-handled longsword is raised to guard against the Hightower knight's strike. He's probably thinking the Gods right now that he's a better swordsman than a horseman after the showing at the recent joust, all things considered.

He doesn't, in fact, strike /first./ After the blade is brought up in a few careful attempts at blocking it appears that he barely caught Brynden's blow in time, and wheels with a pair of broad steps to the left as his sword arcs through the air, his eyes wide. But the sword connects.

This is the point of tournaments for Daevon, the moment he waits for with anticipation. The chance to watch the knights and their swordplay. He watches with utter fascination, completely transfixed, his gaze never straying from the combatants.

Adrian sits down at Southwest Benches.

When Brynden swings in this little battle with Riderch, it can probably be easily seen that he hasn't been doing much swordplay for the last little while, after his unhorsing in the joust. His movements are a bit too slow, and so the Riverlander's blows hit quite well. After a little while, the Hightower cousin steps back, lifting his arm now. "I yield," he offers, loud enough to be heard.

Adrian makes his way into the area quietly. He moves to the far southwest benches as to not disturb any lods of ladies. He takes on the sight before him, leaning back to enjoy the fighting that's taken place. Something he always imagined as a small young boy but was never allowed to learn. This was something he enjoyed. Oh how he's place his bet on someone if such happened. He was a bit of a gambling man after all.

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

Keyte continues to titter, shoulder shaking with the mirth of her laughter. "Oh," she responds with a bit of a flush to Emilia's summation of the day's aim. "Well, then. Ser Riderch, huzzah!" She watches on as the next two sport together, blows exchnaged and dodged and… "Oh, is he yielding?" Keyte stops, glancing around the stands expectantly and asking no-one in particular, "Where is his wife?"

There's a cheer when one man yields. The Braavosi at the top of the stands laughs. The heralds run out again, skipping merrily. Nobody needs picking up, so the one just bellows out, "The match to Ser Riderch!" and the other follows it up, quickly, with, "Ser Daevon Targaryen, the Maiden's Knight, to take the field in contest of arms with Ser Karys Darke!"

Ser Laurent Tyrell stands off to one side in a set of polished full plate, ornately wrought with a theme of roses and vines. He wears a full armet helm, visor closed, though the Tyrell arms on his green tabard and his personal arms on a shield mark his identity nonetheless. He claps his hands together once when Brynden yields to the Riverlander.

Daevon collects his sword and shield and strides into the field. He offers a wave to his adoring masses of fans as flowers rain down upon him from all those admirers. He offers Karys a nod of greeting, and stands, ready.

At the very least, Brynden got Riderch to break a sweat. His chest rises and falls as he stops, his sword raised in the air and it is then swiftly brought down in a neutral position, grasping the hilt in a backhanded fashion behind him and raising his arm in a salute to his opponent. "You almost had me there." He says, suddenly grinning at the man. "Share a drink later?" With that, he quits the field after giving the man an additional glance, as if wondering if he's hiding any injury. There's definitely no malice here.

Catching a cheer from the crowd (hmm, is that Keyte?) the Riverlander Lord raises a hand in a hasty wave of greeting. He doffs his helmet for a moment, grin not fading.

Maera garners Griffyth's attention upon her arrival, and Wylde 'swaggers' over to join her entourage with a shit-eating grin. He appears to have been drinking, but the wine in his cup is heavily watered. All the better, as he appears at least partly armored for the bout. Much of his armor is layered and boiled leather sewn with steel scales, but his chest is protected by a solid, well-fitted breastplate; the only artistry in his armor is how well maintained it appears to be, and how well made. There's no lacquer, just the dull glint of well oiled steel. "Lady Mormont, it's rather pleasant of you to join us," Griffyth assures the noblewoman over the surges of the crowd, his pale blue eyes still fixated upon the field itself.

Karys lets out a grunt, bringing his warhammer from resting upon his right pauldron as he steps out to take the field, silent all the while. He readies his shield in his left hand, tightening his grip upon his bludgeon as he offers a bow of his head to Daevon, stepping forwards with his left foot as he slides his right foot back, staring at him with a slight smirk from behind his helmet.

"That went quick enough. Riverlander could dance." Words spoke by a knight close to Laurent. That particular knight in dark plate, with a quartered surcoate of green and Black. The three prominent oakleaves state mire than visited helm with crown if leaves does. Tis Ser Quillian Oakheart. The Blackrood.

"Ser Darke, that's a rather strange sword you have there," Daevon comments. "Would you like to get a blade, or shall we continue like this?"

Adrian was getting excited to watch the next fight. He sits away from the nobles all by himself in the commoner section. The man looks like a kid in a candy store. "Wooooo!" He says to yell out with his hands cupped to his mouth before he lowers them. Someones got to be woooing right? Adrian leans back and moves his arms to fold over his chest while sitting in the bleachers.

Standing tall to the side of the action, Ser Viggo Cockshaw applauds as the bout comes to an end with ring of gauntlets. His armor gleams with raised embossing and subtle gilt and feathers in its patterning, a blade slung easily at his hip. "Now Ser Oakheart, Riverlanders are often known for their dance," he quips to Ser Quillian standing near enough to be within earshot. "Very light on their feet amid the fields."

"I would like to fight with the weapon passed down by my father, unless you'd rather I use my blade." He says, his stature and stance not changing significantly as he speaks, falling into silence once more as he stares at the man, probably awaiting an answer.

"We fought together in the melee," Ser Laurent says, his voice muffled by his visored helm. "He's good." His helm nods heavily to both the Blackrood and Ser Viggo, but the eyes deep inside it remain on the two knights facing off. "Look there," he says with a wave toward Karys. "That's not a sword now, is it?" A harsh laugh echoes in the depths of his helm.

Kevyn wanders over to spectate near Ser Viggo, once the match between the Riverlander and the Hightower has drawn to an end. "Not as well as Reach men do, Ser," he objects to the conversation he's waking in on. Though he has to amend, "The Blackwood lord made a good showing, though."

While it may be a swordfighting tournament Daevon nods in response to Karys. "As you see fit then." He's not one to make waves about such things.

The Master-at-Arms watches this exchange, then shrugs. He casts a questioning look at Daevon.

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

Emilia raises an eyebrow, glancing to Keyte as the man yields, shaking her head as she watches the woman stand up, all frivolity gone. She'll lean watch them, looking around to see if any replies. Spotting her husband, her chest rising as she sucks in a breath, holding it a moment. But then she glances away, leaning into her lady friend she came with to murmur something before she lets out a cheer as the new folks square off.

From the top seat of the stands, Malvolio frowns.

"She ran onto the field when Ser Brynden were unhorsed in the joust," Keyte explains for Emilia's benefit, turning back to the action once it's clear there will be no pitch invaders today. "I think they're in love." Which might just be the grandest thing ever, given her beaming smile. "Ohhh, the Maiden's Knight! Huzzah, Ser Daevon! Ser Daevon!" More frantic pennant waving ensues.

Indeed, this Riverlander spent a lot of time hiding in the mud and beating on raiders and various disreputable sorts, but he cleans up decently well. Riderch closes in with his big squire and taps the man fondly on the shoulder, muttering something to him and pointing back at the field. Specifically the big warhammer. "All right. My first priority is to stay the /hells/ away from that."

Maera's head tilts upwards when Griffyth approaches, and passes her eyes over the Stormlander's armor with an appraising, critical look. "Ser Griffyth, where is your pageantry? Aren't you supposed to be bedecked and bejeweled with glittering plate and such? All…mmm, Knightly and such?" Her lips quirk upwards into a faint smile, "Likewise. Do you know who you will fight?"

Late for the swordfighting, but not too late obviously to miss all of it, is a noblewoman with sandy blonde hair in a modest but elegant dress of purple, her stride a little cautious perhaps despite walking with a retinue of two guards and a chaperone. Her face not really the one that would stick in people's minds as excessively comely, despite its youth. Lady Elinor Costayne will let her gaze wander as she ponders where to sit, a nervous smile playing about her lips. After a short moment of hesitation she will approach and settle herself in the vicinity of other noble ladies, most probably the Hightowers, after offering a curtsey, if they should notice her.

Quill grunts, before spitting. "It's a farce, if you ask me." Despite if the maiden knight agrees, the blackrood does not. "If you can't swing a blade, jerk yourself off another time." His opinion shared, with viggo and Laurent.

"You'd have to get through that defense quicker than through a lass's skirts," Viggo posits colourfully, setting his hand loosely atop his pommel. "Those can be the end of a good sword if they strike it."

Emilia oohs, sitting up at that, her head turning fully to eye Keyte, isn't that yummy, "Truly …my …" Oh, that is a delightful thing, Emi turning her head to look back to the field with obvious interest now, her smile mirroring Keytes before she's cheering as well! A wave of her scarf as she pulls it off her shoulders to do so.

"I will always prefer function over fashion. I'm sorry to disappoint, Lady Mormont. The only art I wish to display today is my skill as a swordsman, not my armorsmith. My full plate is more attractive, but I suspect will fall short when compared to the beauty of the Tyrells. I did bring a cloak in my House colors, if you're so concerned my appearance will not flatter me." Still grinning, Griffyth offers a stiff, but formal bow, calling for his squire. The young man, a boy of sixteen with black hair and vividly green eyes, is quick to respond. "My cloak, Fell. Thank you." Nodding, the youth dashes off to disappear through the throng. "This is quite good, don't you think? We haven't had a show like this in the Stormlands in some time."

Karys lowers his chin slightly as he kicks back dirt, twisting his wrist slightly as he advances forward, raising his shield. He grunts, as a swing of Daevons sword comes around, but is properly deflected away with his shield as he brings his hammer around, twisting his wrist again as he goes for a swing at Daevons side, squinting somewhat as the blow makes contact.

Daevon was expecting to come up against other swords, but he's a knight and he should be capable of fighting an opponent regardless of which weapon they wield. He's far less built than Karys is, their physical differences all the more obvious with them fighting as close as this. Light against dark, plate against chain, sword against warhammer. Daevon's in full plate, which means he can't quite make use of his speed as he might normally do in such a fight. Useful against blades, against the clanging might of the hammer it's less so. He's forced onto the defensive from the start, letting blow after blow rain down on his shield as he tries to make strikes of his own, but he just doesn't have the reach. And with that swing aimed at his side, he raised his sword to deflect the blow, hammer meets blade and the latter shatters in half. "I yield."

The crowd isn't pleased. They yell, "No hammer!" and boo about it, and cry out, "The Maiden's Knight!" as if Daevon had won anyway.

"Oh, the Warrior's swinging cod," Laurent complains, and not quietly. "That's a fucking hammer!" He sweeps a hand at Daevon, oddly, rather than Karys, and looks between his two armored comrades for support. He wasn't complaining at the start, but (and perhaps unfairly) seeing the Maiden's Knight undone by the hammer has him bristling.

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

Elinor's head will turn in Emilia's direction, her hazel brown eyes brushing the Dornishwoman briefly, if curiously, still lowering her gaze just in time before her stare could be viewed as obtrusive. Shifting a little in her seat, her gaze will move to the tourney field, flickering as if unsure where to direct it. She will flinch at the loud clang of steel connecting with steel, then applaud for the victor after checking with her surroundings, her lips curving into a cautious smile.

Adrian thoughts this was a sword tournament not a hammer one. He didn't look to happy about seeing a hammer like that, "No hammer!" He yells out and then shakes his head at that wondering if the officals plan to do about it. He looks over to the pretty noble lady's and wished he's have been born under a different light.

The Master-at-Arms scowls, too. And this time, the herald doesn't come running out. He stomps. It's not impressive, he's just a young man and unarmed. "The match to Ser Karys," he says, not very loudly. Then, shouting again, "Ser Laurent Tyrell and Ser Griffyth Wylde! To meet on the field in contest of arms!"

Keyte turns to Emilia at the same time, bobbing a nod before turning back to face the field. "Oh, I say." But the rest of the crowd seems to be speaking up for her, so she simply lowers her pennant to her lap.

Quill spits. "Crownlander ponce." The blackrood snarls, before he's snatching up hos sword and shield. "Poor form." And this comes from a man with his wife's fathers skull made into a cup. As Laurent is called Quill nods. "Slaughter him Coz."

Maera says nothing to Griffyth as he discusses his rather functional armor. Her eyes have flitted towards the center of the field where the fight is. When Daevon's sword is broke by Karys' hammer she winces visibly. The last bit of what Griffyth says catches her attention, and she nods. "Ah. Yes."

Malvolio sits up straighter and stares when Daevon's sword is broken, scowling. But when the Maiden's Knight leaves the field he grins at him, anyway.

"Strong arm, my Lord," Viggo bids with a smile, dipping his head respectfully to his banner house's lord. "Bloody ridiculous, a hammer." He agrees with Quill, although less snarly-ly. Its more of a mild irritiation.

Laurent turns to snatch his shield from his poor squire, who is jerked into stumbling by it, unprepared for his knight's sudden vitriol. "On my way," he grumbles to Quill and Viggo as he starts away. The Tyrell knight readies the shield as he stomps to the line, and his voice rings out from behind his visor, "Ser Griffyth." His longsword comes free of the scabbard, and he bangs it against his shield in rough salute before falling into a fighting stance.

Close your mouth, Riderch Blackwood. You'll catch flies. The Riverlander's jaw hangs agape as he watches the proceedings and winces a little, possibly in sympathy and possibly envisioning this sorry scenario befalling /him/ soon. "Well, if that's in my future I hope he tires himself the Hells out." He notes to his squire.

Wyl is among the few who remain wholly silent throughout the match of hammer and Dragon, the big knight's unpleasant face not improved by the studious frown which twists his lip downward. Nostrils flare with a short breath drawn in and let out as arms cross over his armored chest.

Turning Viggo pats his squire on the shoulder, just noticing him after the start of the fight and possibly under the influence. "Good lad. Not as well as the Reach."

Keli is wandering on her own, the excitement of the tournament more a backdrop for her own exploration of the scene. Now that she's not an urchin she actually is allowed into events, and perhaps that is a bit of why she has a content gait and pleased look on her face, nibbling at pastries but for now she stays to herself, wandering near enough the fracas to start seeing familiar faces. She has to scale up on an ignored cart to let the watching be her entertainment for now.

Taking the time, Quillian scans the crowd, with giving but a nod to nothing in particular. He's looking for something-or someone. Then he is turning his attention to the Fighters.

"Oh, oh! Lady, look!" As Laurent's name is called, Keyte is to her feet, waving her pennant madly. "Ser Thorn! Ser Thorn, huzzah! Tyrell!" She can't help but to jump, her silken skirts bouncing as she cheers on her cous. "Huzzah, Tyrell!"

"Eh?" Kevyn is half-startled when Viggo finally notices him, caught up in the match as he'd been just then. "Oh, uh, aye, Ser." He starts again when Daevon yields, too startled even to cheer. "I'd figured the Maiden's Knight would take it…"

Karys simply brings his hammer to rest on his right pauldron, ignoring what the complaints as he offers Daevon another nod before silently moving out to the sidelines, frowning somewhat behind his barrel helmet as he makes his way off the field. Once on the sidelines he brings his warhammer from his right shoulder, throwing it into the air somewhat as he catches it upside down, raising his right hand before stabbing it into the ground. He brings his hands to his helmets, sliding it off, shaking his head a bit to allow his hair to reform before looking over to the left. Coming towards him is a younger man, holding a longsword in a scabbard. Once the, appearingly squire, makes his way over to Karys, he is given a nod as he grabs hold of the handle of the sword, sliding it out from its scabbard before placing the tip to the ground. The squire grabs the handle of the warhammer, grunting and groaning as he attempts to pull it out from the ground, before finally giving up and deciding just to reside near it.

Emilia will catch the glance from Elinor, curving a warm smile for the shy lady before her attention is wrought back to the scene before her, rising up as well with Keyte as she cheers so loudly, Emilia laughing as her head cants back, quite enjoying this lively affair, hands clapping together as she calls out her own cheer now, "Ser Thorn!!!" Her hands will lift to cup about her mouth as she calls this out, hands dropping down to cross against her abdomen, nudging Keyte in a companionable manny with her hip, "Let us hope he shows well!"

Adrian was just a mre commoner but as big of a fan he was, he might as well be taken up the whole southwest side bleachers by himself! He was still quite excited about seeing such a fight and seeing how he felt alone even though there was more then just him here, he didn't care. He claps his hands to cheer on the fights more, "Fight! Fight!" Even though he was an adult, he cheered like a kid.

Daevon nods at Karys in return. He doesn't say anything, now would be a good time to get out of his armour though and so he goes off in search of one of his squires.

"Hm?" Griffyth is clearly drinking when his name is announced, emptying the wood-carved cup just as his squire finishes attaching the gold-and-viridian cloak to his shoulders with its maelstrom emblem. Realizing that he's to match with Laurent, Griffyth flashes Mormont a wolfish smile. "Wish me luck, my Lady. If I'm not too battered afterward, I'll have you next." With another stiff bow, stiff thanks to his breastplate, Griffyth snatches his scabbard up, belts it loosely across his hips, and strides out to meet the taller, more hulking Laurent with that same insolent grin. He holds no official title or moniker as a Knight, merely known in the area as 'that Stormlander bastard', generally speaking. He isn't *actually* a bastard. "It's been quite some time, Tyrell! I hope your cousin is faring well, as I call him friend still," Griffyth offers by way of greeting, unsheathing his newly minted blade with its replacement hilt.

Laurent's grunt more acknowledges the question than answers it, as he awaits the master-at-arms' signal. But when it is given, he's straightaway into the match. No probing, no prodding, no circling for the Tyrell knight.

"The Thorn Knight has talent, or so I've heard." Maera says to Griffyth, "But good luck all the same." The corner of her lips rises ever so slightly, "If he doesn't batter you then I shall." When he reaches the field she stands from her seat and claps rather briskly, "Wylde!"

Malvolio watches Daevon's departure, ignoring the new contest that's beginning.

Obviously encouraged by the warm smile of Emilia, the Costayne lady will shoot her another glance after a moment, her lips curving into a more grateful version as some warmth enters her mien as well. "Ser Thorn?", Elinor will echo, her brows raising a touch as her eyes return to the field momentarily. Then, when seeing the impressive Tyrell knight, the realization will dawn on her and she will join the cheer, albeit less loudly than those around her.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Griffyth=Blades Vs Laurent=Blades
< Griffyth: Good Success Laurent: Good Success
< Net Result: Griffyth wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Griffyth=Blades Vs Laurent=Blades
< Griffyth: Good Success Laurent: Failure
< Net Result: Griffyth wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Griffyth=Blades Vs Laurent=Blades
< Griffyth: Good Success Laurent: Great Success
< // Net Result: Laurent wins - Solid Victory//

Keyte jostles aside at the hip-bumping from Emilia, squeaking as she stumbles a little and starts to laugh again. "Ack! Yes, lady, ah-ha ha! Ser Thorrrrrn!!"

Daevon returns, more comfortably dressed. He scans the stands looking for someone, offering a nod to someone up there. It's Kelinyx that he approaches though.

For now, Riderch contents himself with inspecting the black banding on his longsword and eyeballing the tempering of the blade, ensuring that it remained straight. Seeing the absolute carnage that metal has already undergone on the tourney field thus far has made him likely wary. "A fox may steal your hens, sir." absently muses this line of a song aloud.

His big squire gives him a look like he's lost his mind. Apparently this is a commponplace thing. Looking back up as he eyes the contest between the Stormlander and Laurent, he shrugs somewhat, scratching at the stubble upon his chin. "Hrmph. Color me unsurprised."

Quill keeps focus on the two knights engaged. A grin hidden in beard and all. "Get em Tyrell!"

Kelinyx runs her fingers through her dark locks while finishing off her treat, and perched on a bag of potatoes in the ignored cart. Daevon's return catches her attention and watches his approach silently, though a friendly expression remains on her features.

Malvolio smiles down at Daevon, then turns his attention to the next fight. At some point he got a paper cone of the fried whitebait that often go with the Dolphin Festival, and he starts munching them.

"Lesson one," Daevon smiles at Kelinyx. "When someone's using a warhammer run the other way. Fast." The smile's playful. "You got a good view there?"

"You'd have thought, lad," Viggo agrees. He cants his head with a broad grin, nodding towards Laurent. "This should be well worth watching. Tyrell!"

In Laurent Tyrell, Griffyth is well-matched. His style is not dissimilar from the Thorn's, and there's no quivering about it. As soon as Laurent starts forward, Griffyth is there to meet him with enthusiasm. The smile is more terse now, less insolent, and there's a definite gritting of Griffyth's teeth behind that smile, a tense jaw. There's little artistry in the way either man fights; Laurent more akin to a a bear with raw force and size to Griffyth's over-eager wild cat, pouncing upon weaknesses left in the brute of a man's defenses. Steel sings, grating on armor, on met blades. Griffyth's own armor earns more than several scuffs and dings from the sheer savagery of Laurent's swings, but the Stormlander is damnably quick, sinking in several blows after snaking through the man's defense. It earns him more than a few bruises for his zeal, and by the time that Laurent is left momentarily senseless, Griffyth is left breathing hard.

Adrian seems to glance around a moment as his eyes drift fromt he nobles to the fighters then the man approaching the girl sitting on a cart. He makes note that she looks to be about the same age as his own daughter. He ponders introducing his daughter to her if they ever run into each other. They might become good friends. Maybe. He shifts his gaze back from them and returns towards the fighting, "Woooo! Get'em!"

"It is alright," she says to him with a nod and a private smile, her dark locks framing her pale face. "There are good rolls a few stalls down. May I get you some, m'Lord?" the slender child asks in a familiar and easygoing way, not a forced one.

Laurent uses every weapon at his disposal — blade, shield, even a kick at his opponent. And though he's a savage fighter, in the end a blow from the Stormlander drives the Thorn to one knee. His attempt to rise only sees him lurch forward to fall into the mud instead, and though he doesn't call out, it's clear that the match is over. No matter how stubborn, the Tyrell knight is unable to continue.

"Ser Thorn! Ser Thorn!" Kevyn takes up the cheering for Ser Laurent. He even indulges in some pumping of fists in the air. "Ser…" He sort of trails off when Laurent goes down, wincing.

Daevon shakes his head at Keli. "Stay and watch the fighting. It's one of the best ways to learn. I couldn't stomach anything just now anyway, but thanks for asking. I was thinking maybe there's a better view up there." He nods in the direction where Malvolio is.

"Yes!" Emilia will call out, bouncing up onto her heels, a fist raised up into the air, her head turning to take in both Elinor and Keyte, "Oh I hope he -" But then there's a din over the crowd and some shouts for Ser Laurent to get up, and this captures Emilia's attention, woman gazing back with dark eyes and wincing, "Oh." She spoke too soon.

"Oh, alright," Kelinyx softly replies to Daevon, looking up the way her points and placing a hand over her brow to get a better view of the figure. "Yeah looks like a better view." Her eyes return to Daevon and she inquires, "You are not hurt, yes?" in a hopeful tone. "And did you at least knick the other guy?"

"Wylde!" Maera cries out again, the volume of her voice increasing to be heard over the many voices calling out for the Tyrell Knight. When Laurent goes to his knees a rare full smile blossoms across her face, and she claps rather energetically.

Quill frowns beneath his upwards visor. A shake of his head before he's glancing to Viggo. "Quite bloody." Well hard fought, but damned result

"The match to Ser Griffyth!" bellows the herald, running out and turning a cartwheel. It's that guy again. When he bounces back upright he shouts out, "Ser Quillian Oakheart and Ser Viggo Cockshaw to take the field at contest of arms!!"

"Ser Thorn! Ser Thorn!" Keyte's still waving her little flag, until… well. Everyone's trailing off about her, and she lets her arms drop limply to her sides as the Tyrell knight is forced to his knee. "Oh. Sad. I bet poor Willem gets a cuffing tonight," she sighs, handing her pennant aside to Emilia. "Will you wave it for me? I'll be back shortly, I promise."

A drunk patron in the stands is apparently having the time of his life. The man is wearing a gaudy mix of orange and bright green velvet, his flagon overfull. He clambers to his feet to cheer — and wobbles a little. "SER THORRRN!" He bellows, slurring a little.

Adrian remains in his southernish beanches, cheering like a mad man at the fights. Next time he's going to have to makes some bets. He stands up cheering a moment and then sits back down where he is. He looks to the sky and ponders calling it an early day since he still needs to see about getting a shop.

"Bruised all over," Daevon says. "But nothing broken, save for my pride. It's been a while since I've been thrashed that soundly. I'm going to have to find him and learn how to defend against that." He waits until the match between Griffyth and Laurent is finished before moving to the spot he pointed out, joining Malvolio at his perch high up on the stands.

Thetes a glance and grin to Ser Viggo. "Luck, Ser." Sword drawn and saluted. Shield foregone, The blackrood heads out to the grounds. Visor is pulled down and he shifts fluidly into his stance. On the ready.

"Indeed," Viggo drawls lowly as the Tyrell falls. The shouting of his name and his companions causes the dark haired Cockshaw to laugh in a brilliant trill. "Well then, Ser Oakheart. You seem a fine fellow, I hate to bloody you." He slaps the other man on the shoulder, striding out onto the field with long legged ease. His sword is drawn into his right hand and loosely swapped to the left as he nears the center of the grounds. A flash of a smile curling his moustache before he draws his visor into place. As you wish.

Malvolio sits at the top tier of the stand, eating tiny, whole, batter-fried fish out of a cone of the cheapest paper. He offers the open end to Kelinyx and Daevon when they join him.

GUYS. GUYS. IT'S THE BLACKROOD, GUYS.

"You're a beast, Ser Thorn," Griffyth remarks to the man with no small admiration, grinning despite the perspiration dampening his brow, and the grit upon his palms. Bowing low before Laurent, Griffyth clears from the field to allow the next combatants. Returning to the She-Bear's ensemblage, Griffyth makes a vague gesture at his squire—who is damned quick to fetch water. "I'm going to be black and blue tomorrow. All the better an excuse to visit the baths." Seizing the offered cup from the Fell squire, Griffyth lifts the cup in toast to Maera before rather piggishly draining it in desperation. Once he's caught his breath, he's content to cheer very, very loudly for his fellows. Oakheart, first and foremost.

Laurent pushes himself to his knees, then stands with a groan. "Well fought," he growls in agreement, tearing the visor of his helm open. Sweat mixes with blood to stream down his face, but he's more concerned with the loss for the moment than any wounds suffered at Griffyth's hands. He is unsteady at first, but by the time he reaches the edge of the field his steps are more even. He raises a hand as he passes Viggo and Quill, muttering something that might be encouragement or a foul, foul curse as he passes them, then passes his longsword to Willem when he reaches the edge of the cordoned off area.

That's a whole lot of Tyrell. Riderch continues fumbling with his weapons as he spectates, retrieving a lighteight shield from his squire — it bears the familiar personal symbol he's been displaying throughout the tourney so far, a black raven arching its back defiantly on a crimson field. He inspects it idly, but it's clear his attention is on the Blackrood and Ser Viggo.

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

Kelinyx sits after Daevon, on the same side as Malvolio (once food is offered), though she leans over and gives the man a curious review from top to bottom and back down again. Taking the food she says a quiet thank you with a shy smile to the dark-haired man. Keli says to Daevon, "I am glad you are mostly whole, then. I will listen to what you have learned."

Emilia takes the pennant, lofting it up with a twirl, nodding her head, "Of course, Keyte." Though she looks tense now as her husband is called out, her lips pursing as she sucks in a deep breath, fidgeting with the pennant though she will move closer to Elinor now. Hands will raise up, pennant raising above her head to fetter about as her hands are clasped to her mouth, not cheering. No, she's tense, and will watch the fight with a tense look upon her features.

One hand is raised to cover her mouth, when Elinor sees the Tyrell go down, a relieved sigh leaving her lips once he gets up again. "So… violent," she mutters, her gaze drifting to Emilia with a shy smile, her hazel brown eyes following momentarily Keyte as she departs.

"Incredibly so." Emilia will murmur back to Elinor, wincing a bit, "My husband, Ser Oakheart there-" Gesturing to Elinor, "Will be most wroth if he loses this today …" Said as the men ready to hit the field, fingertips curled in against her lips as she bites down on a thumb tip.

The fight between Cockshae and Oakheart is like a dance. With Quillian he moves quickly giving ground and trading steel with Viggo. The two knights close in skill and in their moves. Both men lock before spilling out, Quill goes high, and leaves himsrllf open for the yielding thrust. Which, when it's made he stops and bows his head. Courtly drspie his black legend.

Maera sits down once Griffyth returns to near where she sits, and rather unceremoniously gulps down water. She claps as well, but it soon becomes apparent that she is clapping for the Riverlander, and not the Stormlander. "Ser Viggo! Cockshaw!" Perhaps the She-Bear has a thing for unpopular Knights. As she claps she says aside to Griffyth, "They will allow the Hammer-wielder to go forward?"

Kevyn calls out a quick, "Warrior favor, Ser!" to Viggo as his knight takes the field. He's been a fairly enthusiastic watcher of all this, but he hypes up his cheering for the elder Cockshaw.

"BLACKROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!" The drunk smallfolk in the gaudy clothes is clearly an Oakheart fan. He spills his flagon on himself and falls from his seat. Ouch. It's not his day.

Adrian descides to call it a day! He had work to do if he was to find the right spot for his shop and hopefully for the right price! He makes his way from the stands and starts down the bleachers till he hits ground. The Master Sculptor begins making his way from the tournament stands towards the city. But he longed to stay.

The men seem narrowly matched. Against the rawer power of previous combatants, Viggo is fluid and seemingly delicate as his blade cuts through the air. The ring of it as it hits metal leaving no doubt of the power behind those thrusts and parries. He slips and bends as Quill aims high, cutting through the Blackrood's defenses and scoring a forceful blow to his side.

Wyl lets out his breath in a low rumble at the results of the prior match. As Ser Laurent clears the field, and the next combatants trade their blows, the first coherent words the lowborn knight offers aloud since his own bout are, "Well fought, Cockshaw."

A soft round of curses, Emilia biting the inside of her cheek hard as her husband fails to win, "Shitshitshit." A clutching of her nails into her palms and she will exhale out, debate clear on her face whether or not she should descend from the stands to go and tend to her husband. A glance to Elinor perhaps begs the question is she is all right with such.

Elinor lowers her gaze at Emilia's remark. "Oh…" Suddenly at a loss about what to say, as any remark regarding husbands might be odd coming from her. Shifting a little closer towards the Dornishwoman, her hand will reach instinctively for hers, as she sees her distress. A nod is offered to the silent plea. Of course. Emilia may go.

Off to the side, Laurent has removed his helm and laid aside his shield, and holds a strip of cloth to the wound in his scalp as he watches Ser Quillian and Ser Viggo cross blades. He's caught up in the excitement, on edge, and shakes his fist as the final blow is struck. It's unclear whether he's celebrating the outcome, or lamenting it, but he is obviously excited by it either way.

There's some cheering, and some shouting about the Blackrood, when the herald runs out to bellow, "The match to Ser Viggo!" in his slightly too-cheery fashion. Then he's yelling out, "Ser Riderch Blackwood and Ser Wyl Flowers to take the field! Second round!" He cartwheels back towards the Master-at-Arms, who rolls his eyes.

Adrian enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

The Blackrood bows, and offers hos hand. There is no tantrum, but a grin and grip. "Well fought Ser Cockshaw. For my part, thank you for the fight." A bow and salute to the crowd and Quillian stalks to his squire. It seems Viggo has won a friend. "Morris, see that wine is sent to his squire for Ser Viggo." Called to his own squire.

The Blackrood's bow and hand are mirrored, the Cockshaw delighted by the ceremony in which he also acknowledges the crowd. "Well met, Ser Oakheart. It was a pleasure and an honor," Viggo says sincerely, all smiles as he pulls off his helmet. He strides easily back to side of the tourney field, sheathing his blade and nodding at Kevyn. "We'll have to see some fine ale makes its way to the Blackrood, Kevyn."

"Well, /that/ went quick." Riderch notes dryly, as he hefts his raven-painted shield and readies that same longsword. Yep, it's held together so far. Grinning a bit at his squire again, he has his halfhelm affixed by the big man who claps him on the shoulder. It looks like these two have a well-practiced rapport at this point. "A fox will steal your chickens…" He sings briefly, under his breath tunefully before stopping and striding to the cordoned-off section of the field once more. He gets a good look at Ser Wyl Flowers and raises his shield in salute.

Wyl palms the steels halfhelm he had drawn off between rounds and replaces it atop his maile hooded head. His left hand takes up the tall oak and iron shield once again and his right draws the light arming swordfrom its scabbard. Again his long, slow strides bear the big knight onto the field, bending deeply at the waist in a bow to, "Lord Blackwood." The bastard knight suffers a mild impediment in pronouncing the noble name of his opponent, twisting the name nearer to 'Drackrood'.

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

Emilia will wait, that look of permission from Elinor one taken gratefully, she'd hate to be rude and leave the woman despite no formal arrangements for the two to either. But with a glance down at the field and seeing her husbands demeanour, as must as she can, she exhales out softly. The call out further cements her ease and she will shake her head, "He will be fine." She finds her hand squeezing Elinors gratefully, a moment of surprise at it having been offered, but it appreciated none the less, "I'm afraid I've been quite rude. Lady Emilia Oakheart."

Given that Griffyth appears to prefer a two-handed stance, he's handing his longsword off to his squire so that the young man can see to it. While he observes the bouts, Griffyth mops at the back of his neck and brow with a cool, wet rag, wiping away dust and sweat. "Thank you for the support, Lady Mormont. Clear it's your well-wishing that won me the day," he remarks distractedly, dumping himself onto a bench rather than a chair, all the better to sprawl his weight while he sweats, drinks, and makes notes of various strengths and weaknesses of the assorted knights.

Kevyn grins broad at Viggo. "That was well-struck, Ser! Well-struck. Was like the pair of you were dancing. Except with blades." As for the ale, he nods. "Aye, I'll buy one from the keeper at the Quill, once we're back for the day." He adds, all of confidence. "Once you win."

Right now, one would imagine Riderch is thanking the Gods (whichever ones are anyone's guess) that a) he has a had a bit of a rest, and b) he's not staring at a giant hammer here. He of course saw Wyl fight previously, but his black-rimmed eyes widen a bit as Flowers rushes into the duel, he's a bit taken aback at first and adopts a defensive stance. Keeping the shield square, the black raven rises to catch Wyl's swings. One, two, three, he rocks back on one foot

And it was a feint, Blackwood is clearly looking for an opening here as he finally takes a swing at Wyl, and another. The strikes are conservative but controlled.

Elinor exhales as well, when she notices Emilia's relief. The squeeze of her hand is returned, lightly. "That is a good thing," she will smile at the Dornish woman, perhaps grateful herself that her gesture has been accepted. "Oh no, Lady Emilia. I did not think you rude,… just distracted," Elinor replies. "I did not introduce myself as well. I'm Lady Elinor. Of House Costayne." Unmarried. Of course. She lowers her gaze, and removes her hand after another gentle squeeze. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance," she will add with a shy smile.

"I said." Maera says to Griffyth with a slight roll of her eyes. Her voice is raised and slightly annoyed. "Do you think they will have the Hammer wielder out again?" She looks at the back of Griffyth's head for a moment before nodding to her man-at-arms, who steps forward with a wrapped sword. "I may be inclined to let you borrow something of mine. We'll say it is, ah…a favor from me."

Quill pulls his helm off, as he turns to watch the contest. sweat on his brow, but a grin on his face. "I tell you Moris, it'll be between Cockshaw and the Riverlander. Pity, I wanted to face the Raven."

Wyl presses his opponent from the outset, trusting to shield and mettle to his defense. His own right arm lashes out in heavy, hacking swings that bite deeply into the foreign knight's shield, cutting away splinters when they connect, but just as often cutting naught but air. Riderch's counter-attacks are well timed, as he continues to parry or evade each of Wyl's crashing swings, and landing stout blows on the bigger knight's relatively lighly armored body. One to the knee, another to the ribs, a third to the leg again. With each blow, the bastard born warrior is less and less able to quickly close the distance. Mailed shoulders heaving, teeth bared in heaving breaths, the Flowers. "I. Cannot match you. With the blade, Ser." Resting the point of his shield in the earth, he bows, leaning on the shield. "Lord Blackwood-" the same impediment marrs pronunciation, "I yield."

There is hearty cheering. The smallfolk often buy into the common idea of bastards not being the best of men, and usually they are more pleased to see one defeated than they are other men.

"Excellent," Viggo approves of Kevyn's promise with a broard grin, leaning back to watch the brought with vidid interest. It could be him coming to face one of them after all. He applauds loudly at the finale of the fight.

"Your sword?" The Wylde knight looks almost startled by Maera's near offering, and his brow furrows. "I don't know if they will or they won't, Lady Mormont. Are you concerned? I'm not overly concerned, and I would prefer that should I win, I do so with my own sword. It's nothing against you, I know you to be a skilled swordsman—woman? But the blade is yours to bear, not mine." There's a moment of hesitation as if Griffyth intends to lay a hand upon Maera's arm, but he doesn't, withdrawing that hand before it ever makes contact with the woman. Settling more heavily against the bench, Griffyth lets himself relax while his squire, Balin Fell, goes over his blade with a smooth, oiled rag, wiping it clean.

The herald who comes out this time is not cartwheel-boy, but the other, more serious one. He yells, "The match to Ser Riderch Blackwood! And now, Ser Viggo Cockshaw and Ser Fortinbras Blanetree to take the field!"

Well, that's the end of /that/ shield. Riderch again brings his swordarm down and takes a few heaving, heavy breaths as he looks down at the splintered and chipped raven and eyes his opponent. "You almost had the best of me there." Blackwood observes. He seems taken aback by the bastard knight's err, savage style. "Those were battlefield strikes." His grin returns, bemused. "I look forward to facing you again. Ser." And with that, he quits the field after one final glance at Flowers. And a nod.

Emilia's fingers will dance away after that last squeeze, settling back down with an exhale out, finding herself distracted from the remaining swordplay. So Elinor will get her attention, her hands returning to her lap, pennant set down upon her knees, "Thank you, Lady Elinor. But please, Emilia is fine enough. No need to twist a tongue around unneeded titling." Said reassuringly, "I've very pleased to meet you as well, is none from your house here with you?" Emilia will ask, leaning forwards and twisting in her seat to look around to spot any.

Karys is still on the sidelines, glancing about before looking to his squire, who is still trying to manage to pull the warhammer out from being stabbed into the ground. He sighs, snapping his fingers which draws his squires attention before tossing him the sword. The squire lets go of the hammer, and barely manages to catch the sword without injuring himself, but then Karys walks over and grabs hold of his warhammer with both hims, grunting as he tears it out from the ground before offering it to the squire, who nods and takes it as he hands back Karys his sword.

"The Ser is gracious to say it. Well fought," Wyl voices, slowly regaining his wind. Rising from his bow, the hulking knight favors his left leg in walking from the field, maile proving an incomplete protection against Riderch's broadsword and skill. Setting aside his shield and returning the arming sword to its sheath, the lowborn knight doffs his halfhelm and raises a hand to brush back the coif of maile, letting the air hit his sweaty scalp.

Viggo's dark brows rise, not only at his naming for the next fight, but for the distant gossip from the Northeast benches. Turning the dark knight lifts a hand in a brief wave to the crowd before taking to the field once again. His helm is settled back into place and his sword drawn, hands placed differently this time as he adjusts his swing. The fight is brief, dancing steps from the Cockshaw knight taking a vicious edge when Fortinbras catches the edge of his helm, blade nipping at his cheek. Drawing blood, but not a yield. The Cockshaw lands a findal blow that bows the other man. Still smiling, of bloodied, he leaves the field to make way for the next combatants.

"It was meant for more than winning just the tourney, Wylde. But, suit yourself." In contrast with her words, Maera favors Griffyth with an almost pleased look. She stands up from her seat on the lower rung on the dais, gathers up her skirts, and takes a step down to sit next to the sprawled Griffyth.

The herald seems a little surprised at the speed of the round. Perhaps he thought big Fort Blanetree would last longer. He shouts out, "The match to Ser Viggo! Ser Griffyth Wyld and Ser Karys Darke to take the field!"

Elinor will cast a glance about the place, then shake her head. "I haven't spotted any of them,… Emilia." She smiles warmly at the Dornish woman. "My sister Isabella is not present, as far as I can see." A pause, as her gaze is lowered. "Are you acquainted with her? But I am not alone. My Septa Justaine is right here." Her gaze flits to the middle aged woman in the characteristic white robe, who stands close by.

The crowd begins to cheer. "Wylde! Wylde!" There's something savage about it. It seems that they would really like to see the man to defeated the Maiden's Knight (and with a hammer, no less, what could be more wrong?!) go down.

"Mmm. Whatever they say, we're made for war." Riderch's indirect observation is tossed out as a response in a pensive tone as he heads off to go treat with his squire. Probably time to get a new shield.

"Oh?" In that single word is curiosity, but there's little time when Karys Darke is called to the field—as well as the Stormlander himself. Balin scrambles to his feet, offers forth the oiled and freshly sharpened sword while Griffyth leans over, hunts down his helm, and draws it on. "With your favor and my honor, Lady Mormont," Griffyth tells the woman, his voice muffled partially by the metal between his mouth and her ears. The man is a little sore, but he hasn't yet stiffened up from the torrent of Laurent's blows; that'll come tomorrow. Loosing his belt and simply walking back afield with his longsword naked, Griffyth pauses to meet Karys with a deep incline of his covered head.

Karys grunts, his squire setting down the warhammer and grabbing his helmet, placing upon Karys head before he sets out to the field, he twists his wrist back and forth a bit, seemingly getting used to the weight of the weapon. He's silent still, tightening his grip on his shield, as he does the same for his sword, offering Griffyth a bow of his head before sliding his right foot back as he raises his shield, bringing the tip of his sword to tap the side of his shield lightly, a taunt perhaps?

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Karys=Blades Vs Griffyth=Blades
< Karys: Success Griffyth: Good Success
< Net Result: Griffyth wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Karys=Blades Vs Griffyth=Blades
< Karys: Success Griffyth: Good Success
< Net Result: Griffyth wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Karys=Blades Vs Griffyth=Blades
< Karys: Good Success Griffyth: Good Success
< Net Result: Griffyth wins - Marginal Victory

Maera stands again when Griffyth goes to the field, and adds her own voice into the cheers for Wylde. "Finesse, Wylde!" She cries out, "Tire him out!" This is followed by another cheer of, "Wylde!"

Emilia's gaze flickers to the Septa, eyebrows raising as she laughs gently, "Well, she's not conversing with you, which can make these things incredibly dull." As for the sister Emilia will shake her head, dark hair rocking against shoulders as she reaches for her scarf from the chair, pennant replacing it before fabric is raised and slide around shoulders, "I'm afraid I'm not, at least not closely."

Karys is spared the insolent grin beneath Griffyth's helmet as the Stormlander lunges forward. Finesse is not at all Griffyth's style, but there's… some when compared to brutes like Laurent. He strikes a balance between agility and raw strength. When Karys lashes out with a blade, Griffyth is rarely there but for the edge that bites at a few steel scales. The shield poses something of a problem, a technique that Griffyth himself does not appear to care for; he wields his sword with both hands, opting for offense and defense in one. There are no dramatic sparks, but their blades meet with clangor. Batting Karys's shield aside to leave the man more vulnerable, Griffyth takes every advantage given and more, driving Karys back. Back. Back. He's neat with a sword, but perhaps too aggressive.

"The math to Ser Griffyth Wylde!" declares the herald, drowned out by the cheering. Nobody likes Karys Darke, it seems. Except, perhaps, the odd Targaryen or other Crownlander. "Ser Riderch Blackwood and Ser Jaym Dunn! To take the field in Contest of ARMS!!" Seems the herald's feeling energized by the most recent round, too.

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

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

Malvolio looks at Daevon with a wise sort of smile, mischievious and sly.

Elinor smiles and nods to Emilia's reply. "Dull, aye. It can be at times…" A glance shot innocently towards the Septa who has not overheard her, obviously. Just at this moment a servant arrives, offering a few whispered words to the Costayne lady. Elinor will rise with an apologetic smile. "I am sorry, Emilia. I cannot linger,… But I am glad I made your acquaintance! May the Seven guard your ways." A swift curtsey is offered, before the sandy-blonde noblewoman hurries off, her Septa, guards and the servant in tow. Elinor will cast a last glance over her shoulder as she waves her hand to the Dornish woman, before she disappears.

Emilia will raise her hand up to the departing Elinor, smile wide, "Until we meet again, which I hope is soon!" She'll call after the woman, gathering up her things to move and rejoin the lady she came here with who's watching the swordplay, enthralled.

New shield in hand, it is Reunion Day at the tourney field. First it was Ser Brynden who plagued him in the joust, and now it is Ser Jaym, who he spent quite a bit of time dancing with during the melee. Now the dance is only knight-on-knight and man-on-man. However, Ser Jaym is a different kettle of fish than those he's faced so far today and is a cautious, defensive fighter who likes to dig in and shrug off blows with his big shield, not unlike a turtle hiding in its shell.

The two men have taken the field now, and cautiously salute each other. Riderch proceeds to leave himself open a bit more in this fight, circling and wheeling about. Ser Jaym's shield almost bashes Riderch in the face as they exchange blows that don't really amount to much and finally, Riderch finds an opening. It's a sloppy, lucky strike, but it's a strike. Ser Jaym goes down into the dirt and looks a bit winded. He raises his hand in yield as Blackwood cautiously awaits, stowing his longsword and probably thanking the Gods yet again.

There's a happy roar from the crowd. it's always nice when somebody hits the dirt. "Match to Ser Riderch!" bellows the herald. "Ser Viggo Cockshaw and Ser Griffyth Wylde to take the field!"

The matches go quickly now. Still bleeding lightly from the wound on his jaw, Viggo adjusts his helm and takes again to the field once the previous combatants have left it. "Ser," he calls in greeting to Griffyth, executing a graceful bow. Drawing his blade he waits, the long sword held in his hands.

"Ser Cockshaw," Griffyth replies in kind, having remained near the field in wait after the bout with Karys. Most of his pains and aches aren't visible, and he moves easily enough to suggest he's quite comfortable. His bow is somewhat less graceful for the stiffness of his breastplate, but is well practiced nevertheless. Straightening, Griffyth plants his feet apart, and loosens his grip upon his hilt if only to better adjust his hold should the need arise; his blade provides a shield as much as a sword.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Griffyth=Blades Vs Viggo=Blades
< Griffyth: Failure Viggo: Great Success
< Net Result: Viggo wins - Crushing Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Griffyth=Blades Vs Viggo=Blades
< Griffyth: Good Success Viggo: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Griffyth=Blades Vs Viggo=Blades
< Griffyth: Success Viggo: Great Success
< Net Result: Viggo wins - Solid Victory

Holding no shield either, they left to meet as men with steel to steel in the dirt of the combat field. Viggo spares his opponent little time, his dancing movements taking a subtle edge, moving swiftly to attempt an upwardly slash blow across his front. The flare of metal leaving gleaming arcs in the bright air. On the second swing, the men cross steel with hiss of metal and he smiles. Damn moustache. Moving to counter his opponent, the Cockshaw knight ducks and feints in an attempt to catch him once more. His strikes remaining clean and precise under the ache of muscles and the drip of sweat.

Kevyn is doing less cheering now, and more watching, as Viggo takes the field again. He even makes some attempt to mimic the knight's arm motions. It does not look nearly so good, though. As Griffyth goes down he starts shouting again, and gives a hearty clap.

No doubt Viggo makes it appear easier than it is; the man's skill with a sword is unquestionable. The dance isn't over quickly, but it's certainly decisive. Even when Griffyth appears to make headway, Viggo meets him with vigor. The jabs and feints leave Griffyth somewhat disoriented and sorer still than he was before, panting softly in ragged breaths until he finally yields to the man with a somewhat tired and fumbling gesture. "Fine swordplay, Ser," Griffyth manages before shuffling off the field with a note-worthy limp in search of wine.

Karys stands on the sidelines after his defeat, his squire taking off his helmet and taking his sword, before Karys takes back his warhammer, looking it over before slinging it over his back and handing his squire his shield. He reach in, under his armor, taking out a golden dragon which he hands to his squire, muttering to him before turning on his heels and setting off, out of the tourney grounds with a content grin upon his face, the squire, however, strays behind as he comes up to Griffyth and offers him the coin, "Ser Darke said he enjoyed his fight with you, and offers you this coin as a thanks for a good fight." Says the young man, somewhat timidly, lowering his gaze to the ground out of respect.

And now there's more cheering. The Master-at-Arms steps out to confirm it, "Our champion!" He bellows, moving to encourage Viggo to hold his sword aloft.

Daevon cheers for the champion.

A Hightower. A Bastard. A Jaym (who's a bastard of a different sort), and Riderch has seen his share of close calls and nerve-wracking fights today. Another time and place and he'd be drinking, but there's time enough for that later on. Having obtained a replacement shield and checking on his weapon with his squire, the dark-armored Blackwood sits on the sidelines having a short breather. He observes the fight between the Cockshaw knight and Griffyth, ardently.

Kelinyx peeks up from her quiet talking with the men and gives another review of the action below while the crowd roars once more. The fight is enough to hold her attention for now, but when a lull comes, she says something quietly to Deavon with a cupped hand.

"Well fought, Ser Wylde," Viggo offers with a grin, panting breathlessly as the man yields. He tips head back adjusting his helm as he makes to exit the grounds again to allow the next fighters to take the field. His armor bears more dents than before and a long cut marks his cheek, blood having dripped down his neck and onto his armor. Pulling his helm free with a curl of his moustached smile, he follows the Master-At-Arm's direction with cheerfy aplomb. His sword is raised. Huzzah! The crowd at large is offered a courtesy bow, specifically directed at the clutch of ladies in the stands. Helmet tucked beneath his arm, he walks again to the side lines.

Maera claps politely for the competitors, but he enthusiasm seems to have died down some at Griffyth's loss.

Griffyth is no sore loser, though he's grinning somewhat crookedly from exhaustion by this point. "Cheers, Ser Cockshaw!" Griffyth cries a little hoarsely, winding down when Darke's squire approaches him. "Ser Darke is a fine knight," Griffyth tells the youth while he drains an excessive amount of water from a skin. "But I don't need the coin, boy." There's a glance of blue eyes of the squire's shoulder. "Keep the coin for heeding your knight well, and spend it as you will. I'll not tell anyone, and you can assure him the money is well spent, as I've seen it done so myself." Once he feels more hydrated, Griffyth returns to the bench by Maera. "Close, my Lady. Perhaps next time, but it was a worthy victor that I lost to. I think I'm going to soak myself in wine now."

The squire looks up, blinking before giving a nod to Griffyth, clasping his hand around the coin as he sets off, hauling the rest of Karys belongings along as he makes his way after the man, a content grin upon his face as he does so.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Malvolio=Derangement Vs Viggo=Badassery
< Malvolio: Failure Viggo: Success
< Net Result: Viggo wins - Marginal Victory

Maera watches the squire approach with a raise of her brow. When the boy is out of earshot she'll shake her head and say in a low tone, "You'd think he thought you were a common sellsword." Still, she offers Griffyth a brief smile, "You did well. You will be…ah, third?"

And now there's more cheering. The Master-at-Arms steps out to confirm it, "Match to Ser Viggo Cockshaw!" He bellows, moving to encourage Viggo to hold his sword aloft. "Let the man rest, and meet Ser Riderch Blackwood on the field when his wind has returned to him!"

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

One could get the sense that Riderch is the type that would be sprawled out on a bench in the sun, enjoying a bottle of wine judging by his temporarily relaxed and placid demeanor. That time is about to end though, at least for the time being. He gathers his gear and replaces his helmet. "Will it hold?" Eyeing his sword he quips to his squire. "It will hold."

His dark-hued maile glints in the light as he meaders on to the tourney field now, one final time. The black paint beneath his eyes has run a bit with sweat, giving him a slightly more wild look than normal.

The Raven Knight's small shield is hefted as he moves into position, cheering in Viggo's direction. He slaps the black-wrapped hilt of the longsword against theh raven's head in a percussive clatter. "Hail, Ser Viggo!" He shouts, his chin held high with that careless, feral smile on his face.

Kelinyx shifts about slightly on the bench, snagging a few more battered fish as she begins examining Daevon a bit more curiously, as if looking for any developing bruises.

Lifting a hand at the Master-at-Arms, Viggo Cockshaw takes that offer of rest if only briefly. He allows his dutiful squire to tend to him and his bruises, checking over his gear. After a sip of wine, he and his blade retake the field. His helm in place and shadowing his features. "Hail! Ser Riderch!" He bids, sweeping like a large bird with a winsome grin.

Malvolio turns his attention away from the field and grins at Daevon. "So, how long is it taking a man to prepare for another bout?"

"Depends," Daevon replies. "Perhaps he's answering a call of nature and do you know how difficult that is in plate mail during a tournament? He may also be getting any wounds seen to."

Laughing at Daevon's words, Keli kicks her little feet in amusement. Yes, victors and all that. "Do we drink to celebrate soon?" the imp teasingly begs.

At least Riderch /appears/ patient. He hasn't been hitting the wine so far and for the most part, he's sore but hasn't been beaten up too badly. His favorite shield did get torn up by Wyl though. Damn shame, that.

His sword is raised and ready though. "Well. And it all comes down to this." He mutters. Waiting. Ready, as he eyes Viggo warily.

Malvolio laughs at that. "Ahh, well, we shall see. But not zhe call of nature, I hope." He pokes at Keli with the bit of paper left over from his whitebait.

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

"Yes, I'd rather not see any calls of nature," Daevon chuckles. He quietens as the fighting begins.

Kelinyx swats at the prodding paper and squirms back away from it, a bit. "Nobody got hurt too badly, right?" she asks as though this is more a quest for gory tales than a show of concern.

Malvolio folds up the greasy paper absently, in the manner of a man who considers it to be too valuable to simply toss away. He watches the field with keen interest now.

Methodically pacing forth, Riderch raises his shield and swings his blade aloft, his swordarm square behind him coiled and ready to strike. As he briskly closes in, he squints towards the other man, black marks framing blue eyes that are intent upon his opponent. And from there, he lunges in and thrusts with his shield, trying to force Viggo off-balance. It's a quick strike, as is the swing of his swordarm as he follows. It's a quick, upward arc. And another swing, he then jumps back and sidesteps quickly, circling about and hoping madly to lure the Cockshaw knight into leaving an opening.

Not everyone looks so good in makeup. Viggo's dark eyes meet Riderch's blue without any framing other than his bush brows, a rakish smile on his lips. The first lunge and thrust is parried solidly with a light blow to Riderch's person. The counter strike he does less well against, causing the Cockshaw to stumble backward as it catches his shoulder. Careful now, more cautious than before, his feet kick up dirt as Riderch circles him. He tracks the other man, waiting for his madcap gestures to offer him and opening instead — and striking fiercely when he sees it. Breath clenched between his teeth, putting all his effort into the blow and waiting to see if it takes.

Malvolio says quietly, "Is exciting, really."

Kelinyx peers over the madness. "I learned more when it was Valnod and Lord Targaryen but I can see some tricks, still," she says for both men to hear.

Daevon watches. "This is how I learned. I'd watch every tournament I could. I'd participate in everything I could. I'd beg them to fight me and teach me and mostly I'd watch."

"I no like to fight," says Malvolio, tucking the folded bit of paper into the waist of his trousers.

And — it takes. Riderch's numerous juggling of gods probably just ran out here, and his own strike lips past Viggo's defenses, and in another time and another situation it might have done some serious damage. Instead? It bounces off Viggo's armor and his sword rings with a horrible hum and CLANG!

And oh yes, Viggo's blow hits. Hard. The Cockshaw night's sword slips past the Blackwood's shield and knocks into Riderch's maile. The Riverlander goes /down/ into the dirt, with a glorious /thud/. That sound as an armored knight falls on his ass? Priceless. "Oooof! F——" This sentence is not finished. If given the opportunity, Riderch utters two simple words. "I — yield."

Kelinyx lifts a brow at the paper tucking but says nothing, just turning back to Daevon. "Well I will be practicing what they do. Oh, if I put some straw in a burlap sack, could I hang that from a tree and use it for practice?"

Daevon nods his response to Kelinyx. He cheers was Riderch yields.

While Griffyth recovers, and wets his 'wounds' with wine, he smiles musingly at Maera. The alcohol liberates his tongue some, and he gives a half-cocked shrug. "Something to that affect, She-Bear. No doubt I've come so far thanks to your favor. I would hope that once my bruises are healed, you'll meet me on the tourney grounds?" Griffyth casts a glance towards the field, noting the… strangeness of the goings-on, but amused over them. "No doubt I could go still, I've suffered far worse and continued, but I'm not a strong enough man to refuse a good soak and massage. I hope you'll overlook my glaring weakness, Lady Mormont."

There's waves of cheering. The Master at Arms strides out, declaring, "Ser Viggo Cockshaw, our champion!" in his thunderous voice.

Breathing heavily, Viggo stares down at the Blackwood knight as he falls to the earth with a sonorous thud. A little disbelieving. Then he grins, "I accept. Well fought, good Ser." After sheathing his blade, he offers the Blackwood knight a hand to rise. His other is fist-pumped forcibly into the air with a grin.

"You are wanting, perhaps, to go to the baths?" Malvolio asks of Daevon.

This is one day where the Raven did not fly hard and fast enough. Instead, he lies upon the ground a moment, his sword discarded, and strangely, his face contorts into a huge grin as he busts out with a large peal of laughter. Riderch graciously accepts Viggo's help as he sorely ambles to his feet, wincing a bit. These bruises aren't going to go away anytime soon, that's for damn sure. After he makes it to his feet he stiffly bends to retrieve his blade. "The fool am I for thinking you weren't that fast." He finally offers, breathless. Chagrined. "Hail, Ser Viggo Cockshaw." He repeats his salute from earlier.

Daevon shakes his head. "I was thinking of going home, having a few drinks there, if you want to come. Dragons don't bathe in public baths, they're not hot enough." He jokes. "Anything pleasant for us is going to cook everyone else."

Malvolio laughs. "And you want to cook me, eh?" he says.

Maera claps briskly for the champion before she turns her head to give Griffyth an askance look, "Undoubtably you could. However, it matters little. I've no armor, and no desire to let you cut me to ribbons without it. When you are healed we shall, although I suspect your desire to do so is rooted in a hope that you'll be able to bruise up my hips again." She gives him a wry look before standing up from the stand, "I think if luck had been in your favor you may have made it further. You are good."

Kevyn enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

Daevon chuckles and shakes his head, but he doesn't find an answer. He does stand up though and begins to head home.

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