(121-04-04) Exercises
Summary: A few faces, expected and otherwise, wind up at the Tourney Grounds.
Date: 04/04/14
Related: None

(I don't have the first part of the log)

Tourney Grounds

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.

Eonn comes riding out the tourney gates, alongside the Lady Hellan. He's on his big white mare, who's sore leg seems to have recovered, now.

Adjusting the loose-fitting black black cloth shirt and tugging at one of the sleeves, Riderch frowns, shifting his longsword from his shoulder to beneath his other arm. He continues to whistle as he pauses a bit, seeing arrows whistling by. "Well, that just bloody happened." He observes breathily, one of his shoulders shrugging higher than the other. "I believe your foe has seen better days, Your Grace." He notes to Daevon. Tellur gets a random glance too, but the look on his face doesn't betray any familiarity. Not surprising, really.

The call of a raven is heard as one flies towards Victor landing on his shoulder and fluffing up. Victor doesn't pay the bird or Daevon any mind he eyes the target from about two hundred paces and fires again hitting the ring second closest to the bullseye. Not a bad shot from such distance. Once the arrow finds its mark he puts the bow away back into its place and draws his swords. He looks to Daevon and raises a brow. "It seems my form is slipping. I need more practice. Will you spar with me then?" He grips both his blades and eyes the other knight his body tense.

Lady Hellan's dark-hued mare is smaller than Eonn's mount, but sturdy, strong, and proud; Northern too, perhaps, like its rider. They move at a slow gait, easy enough to talk throughout, but Hellan seems content with quiet spells. Despite the warmth, she wears her cloak, its wolfish fur-trimmed hood protecting her from potential weather. "Is that the Targaryen knight?" she asks, half rhetorical, barely seeming interested though her head does tip closer to the gathering. One by one, she picks out faces she recognizes, more silently.

"The Maiden's knight," says Eonn, "Yes. Do you want to stop to watch a while, My Lady?" He seems in no hurry. Perhaps his mare needs the slow pace, though she no longer limps at all.

Daevon's uncommonly angry, furious in fact. His amethyst eyes burn, especially at Victor's response. "You almost shot me. Do you know what the penalty for shooting a Targaryen is? And you do not even think to offer an apology? Nor do you pause to see where an arrow that has flown so wild has landed? If it caused harm or not? What are you thinking of? If you need more practice practice where you don't risk skewering people." He doesn't seem to have noticed any of the others gathered. "The archery targets are over there, well away from the other fighters for a reason. How did you even manage to shoot so badly?"

Tellur touches his forehead lightly at Riderch's glance, his lips quirked up in amusement, possibly, at the entire scene. His own raven has a good deal more mischief in it's pale eyes than he does in his - it struts around his shoulders and then declares "Funny!Funnyfunnyfunny!" The voice is barely discernable, and Tellur, well programmed, raises a hand to puts it over the raven's entire head, blocking it's view "Shhhhhh," he says, irritated. "Shhhhhh! Morgynshutup!" the raven reponds.

Hellan shifts slightly on her saddle; it's not an uncomforable move, per se, only a simple tension of her thighs; it answers in her silence until she nods her head, further confirming. "Might as…" An inkling of rising drama drifts their way and her dark brows rise an increment. "… well." She urges her mare closer a few clops. Her eyes narrow and skirt away from the Maiden's Knight, however, landing on the Tellur — or the raven — instead.

"Mmm. In his defense, Prince Daevon, that dummy is well-skewered." Riderch intones, bowing his head. He's not exactly mirthful, but with a quick glance between Victor and the Targaryen, he appears to be making the (possibly ill-advised) effort to defuse the situation with some manner of humor. "I would hope it was merely negligence."

Victor frowns heavily obviously upset about something as well. His eyes are cold as he looks Daevon over his swords still clenched in his hands. His voice while sincere has an edge to it and its almost eerie how calm he sounds like he is trying to control a violent temper. "Then you have my apologies now if you will accept them. I came here so that I may work out my own frustrations without causing harm to anyone. I did not look to see where the arrow landed and I will find another place to practice now so there are no more…accidents. I offer my appologies once again." He turns on his heel stalking off in the direction of the wilderness.

Eonn glances to Hellan. He rides up to the edge of the grounds and stops his horse there, to watch the scene.

Tellur glances up himself, and his expression clears in recognition as he spots Lady Hellan. Before he can say anything polite, however, his raven speaks for him, and declares "Funny Morgyn!" And then leans towards Hellan, beak gaping, and wings quivering like a begging nestling. It does not seem to care about the possible violence brewing not far off. Tellur, though, has already eyed the exits.

That joke deflates Daevon's anger and he does actually laugh at Riderch's statement. "Indeed. I would hope so too." He nods at what Victor says. "Learn from your mistakes." He suggests. "And thank you for the apology." He does nothing to stop the man from leaving though. The raven too has his lips curling up into a smile, and then he spots Eonn and Hellan and that smile brightens.

And at that, the black-clad Riverlander shoots the Targaryen as dignified a smile he can muster. "I suppose it could have indeed been worse. My uncle ended up taking a shot in the hindquarters once from one of my cousins. Fortunately the armor stopped the worst of it. He was better off than that poor fool there though." He again points at the practice dummy with a lazy swipe of his hand. Finally, Riderch glances about to study some of the spectators and arrivals. "Huh. Curious." He points at the Northerner with the chatty Raven.

Daevon can't help but laugh at Riderch's further comments. "Yes, it could have been worse." He agrees. "Still, a good archer doesn't just fire off arrows aimlessly and not even check where they land." He eyes the dummy and then the raven. "Indeed."

Victor offers a final nod to Daevon but doesn't stop as he walks off dissappearing into the distance.

Hellan's eyes narrow further until they blink shut hard as if to clear her sights, only to find they were already clear, her observation unhindered after all. "I recognize that one," she says quietly to Eonn as she follows, distantly bewildered, rising a hand from her saddlehorn to briefly wave in the direction of the men. "Not the Riverlander — yes, him, but— " her head shakes in subtle dismissal that points her gaze further off, "the boy with the long hair. From Winterfell."

The business with the raven, however, simply has her staring critically down from on high. As she and Eonn gain notice, the Stark lady gives a civil nod.

As vocal as the bird is, the noises have a certain…rote quality to them. And, thus noticed, Tellur approaches the others. Tellur says, gravely "Lady. And Lords." And his head is inclined to the others in that carefully polite way people have when someone outranks them…and they have no idea of their name. He certainly knows the woman though. His raven gives a querrelous noise, and then hops off his shoulder to begin hopping around on the ground, begging hopefully. As no food has yet appeared, mysteriously one wing flops out onto the dust and the bird tows it about, making piteous noises. "…stop that!" Tellur hisses, mortified.

"Who is he?" asks Eonn of Hellan, quietly.

It has happened again. Genevra has escaped the custody of those watching her and is currently running up from the blackcrown road with a grin on her face. The trouser wearing young she-wolf skips onto the training grounds heading for the melee training dummies. She draws the dagger from her belt and another from her boot and takes a deep breath before striking at the dummy. Her form isn't that good but she seems determined to practice circling and striking with quick motions. So intent on her practice she doesn't see her mother is present.

Mission accomplished, Lord Blackwood. Were Riderch to survive to cement his role as heir to the Lordship of Raventree Hall, he probably has a bright future as a lordly fool ahead of him. He simply dips his head with that lingering smile and then finally straightens his expression a bit. "Eh, true. I was never as practiced an archer as I would have liked." Hefting his longsword, he sets it down, propping the still-sheathed point in the soil, leaning on it ever-so-slightly or at least making a show of it. Moments later, Riderch points off in the distance towards the Northerner. "Oho! I think there's a bandit on the grounds. Careful!" Well, he's pointing more at the raven than the northerner himself.

Hellan drags her gaze from the dramatizing bird to Eonn, turning her head away from Tellur to talk about him. "Just a Snow in service to the house." Her head lifts high as she calls out to said Snow. "You are far from Winterfell, boy." If he thinks himself perhaps too old now to be called 'boy', that is of no consequence to Hellan. Her watch is sharp, cutting deep even from afar, above; moreso, indeed, for her height on the horse. There's an edge of suspicion within. "Do you come on an errand?" So intent on Tellur is she that Hellan doesn't notice her daughter's presence.

Eonn stays silent, looking to Tellur now.

Still no food! The South is a harsh, violent land, a vale of tears. Tellur's raven tries to pretend that only a tidbit will save it's life for a little longer, but Tellur himself just kneels down to scoop it up, and it waddles up his arm with heavy, disappointed noises. He responds with a certain gravity "Yes, milady. I did, it's true. I came at request to deliver a horse to Lord Carolis, and to assist him in his tasks in the S…here."

Eonn looks at Tellur from the back of his mare. He's such a tall man, and it's such a tall horse. He can definitely look down on people. He watches for a moment, then looks to Daevon, lifting a hand in greeting to the Targaryen.

Daevon goes over to his saddlebags and removes an apple from them. He slices off a piece and then looks to see where that bird's gotten to. He smiles, warmly at Eonn and walks over. "Apple?" He asks, both man and horse.

Tucking the sword under his arm again, Riderch follows suit as he saunters across the field. There are other training dummies here, ones that have not withstood errant arrows and Targaryen beatdowns. He finds one and decides it's time to go to town, as they say in some less savory neighborhoods of the Reach. The sword is drawn and he starts going through some basic stances.

Eonn smiles at Daevon. "Thank you," he says. His big white made turns her heavy head to sniff for apples.

Tellur glances at Daevon, and while he is already not precisely a slouch in height, he draws himself up a little stiffer. There is a lot of…nobility around here, more gracious and less informal than the North. He does not want to offend, and while he's not ill favoured, his main claim to attraction is: I bathed at least a few days ago. His eyes are wide. That alone says that he might well think he is a man, but probably is mostly still a boy.

"Lord Carolis is here as well," Lady Hellan digests this news with a near cold neutrality. "It's a long road." She'd know. Her horse huffs and grumbles in its uniquely equine manner while the rider is still-faced, her carved features ambiguous, giving little explanation for her study of Tellur. Her demeanour takes a faint, ever-so-slightly forced turn; the corners of her lips lift. "It seems our numbers are growing in the South." The North's numbers are growing right here in the tourney grounds, as it happens.

"Do ravens eat apples?" Daevon asks Tellur. "Or is it just all meat, grubs and things they've scavenged?" Half an apple to Eonn, a piece to Bottle, who he asks. "Are you feeling better? Not limping anymore?" Is he asking the horse or the man?

The horse bobs her head as he munches the apple. Eonn says, "We are both fine, I think."

"Yes, milady," says Tellur, politely. In exactly the same tones as one would announce 'My bed is full of wasps' "Lord Carolis is here. His horse needs conditioning before I -" But. No one wants to know these things. Faintly flustered, he opens his mouth, and then the raven spots the apple "…Shutup Morgyn!" it says in delight as the apple goes horsewards "Shutup, shut up?" Tellur stares at Daevon and his impressive armour and prettiness for a moment "…she does, milord. She's spoiled," he tells him helplessly "She'll eat anything, but she prefers stolen food."

Daevon smiles at Tellur. "She's lovely, clever too." He's still holding the single sliver of apple that he cut. Another smile to Eonn. "I am glad to hear it. I was worried for her. Poor Bottle."

"Thankyou, milord," Tellur says. It has to be noted - the raven is definitely prettier than his ugly as sin horse. She reaches out, if possible, to snick the apple out of the Knight's fingers "She knows a few words, but I haven't been able to teach her _when_ to use them for some reason." And then, possibly a bit overwhelmed by all of the nobility in one place, Tellur Snow hitches his cloak up and coughs some sort of polite apology, so he can get out of Lady Hellan - er, everyone's. View.

Eonn smiles at Daevon. "Poor Bottle. She is perhaps too old for all this shit."

"She deserves a nice field and lots of apples," Daevon says. "And little girls to braid her mane and tail and ride her. She does well though, she's a good horse."

Hellan lifts one vaguely contemplative brow at Tellur's reply before the raven does make her smile after all, although it seems to be more for his troubles with it than its tricks, or perhaps Tellur's troubles altogether, since it widens a touch wryly as the young man hauls off. She directs her horse a bit toward Bottle, "Ser Daevon," she greets, serious but pleasant — just as, "I am sure Eonn does a fine braid, I've seen the flowers in his beard."

Eonn laughs. "I can do a braid, yes," he says. "And she shall settle for me. I've not the money for another, and wouldn't part with her if I can help it."

Daevon opens his mouth to make an offer, yet the words don't come out. Instead he nods. "She's a fine horse." He smiles at Hellan's words. "Ah, yes, indeed."

Hellan clasps her saddlehorn perhaps a touch too tightly to be casual, but her stance remains natural — if hard-lined — enough. "Have you come for practice?" she queries the knight conversationally, glancing out over the grounds— and showing her heritage, "I never did like practicing on targets that don't squirm."

Eonn nods to Daevon. He looks down at the knight thoughtfully.

Daevon smiles at Hellan's words. "No. I had come to slaughter a poor target dummy. Better that than a person, I think. And what brings you here?"

Hellan smiles in a way that might just be knowing, looking more sincere for it. "My horse," she replies factually, and gives Daevon another, more minor, smile to ease away how contrite she sounded just then. "We were just taking a ride," she explains, nodding toward her riding partner, Eonn.

Eonn smiles with one side of his mouth.

"Ah," Daevon says. "Well please, don't let me keep you from your ride."

And not one to linger in niceties for longer than necessary, Hellan tips her chin to Eonn, a silent 'shall we?' that her horse mimics as she readies the reins. "Perhaps we shall stop by the water on the way back," she suggests; her natural tone of voice crafts it into more of a demand, but there's something subtler — questioning, or directing more gently — in her calm look to Eonn.

"As my lady pleases," replies Eonn. Then, quietly, "Perhaps our prince might ride along?"

Oh dear. Daevon didn't expect that invitation and he scrambles to find a polite excuse not to and then gives up. "Sunshine could do with the exercise." He admits. "Although she's not really one for quiet trots. She likes to race."

"Ser Daevon would be welcome," Hellan allows. Rather, she's not going to turn away a Targaryen. The woman's eyes gleam watchfully on Daevon. "Although," she pauses over the horse's name, "Sunshine might become terribly bored indeed, at our pace."

Eonn nods. "I had not thought," he says. "I would not wish to make her restless."

"I'd be delighted to join both of you," Daevon says. "And Sunshine can just behave herself." He goes to fetch his horse, who's tacked out more splendidly than Daevon's armour. She's such a delightfully pretty horse, clearly Dornish stalk, all pale and golden, with such unusual pale blue-violet eyes. He climbs into the saddle and the horse prances over to join them.

Hellan presses her lips together in the moments Daevon's back is turned. "I've never seen such a horse anywhere else," she remarks as he joins them; it seems a favourable remark on the animal's beauty, although it's a bit hard to tell. "Come to think, I would not mind a good race; the ride is smooth, at the right pace," she says as she urges her mount out toward Blackcrown Road, between the two mens', "One of these nights." Not this one.

Eonn guides his mare to ride alongside and a little behind Lady Hellan, the proper position for a guard.

Sunshine's walk is more of a prance and she basks in any attention offered to her. "The road's wonderful to race on. Safe as anywhere can be."

"It's been a long time." Hellan's response has a distant quality; the thought seems unfinished, but she provides no more, simply ambling on. The horse rides in stark contrast to the others: dark against Eonn's, tough and plodding versus Daevon's. Not picked to be a lady's horse, nor a runner. "One night."

"I shall spare poor Bottle the effort, and the defeat," says Eonn, amused.

"The poor old lady," Daevon says. "At least she knows how to behave."

"The old lady will cheer us on from the stands," Hellan decides. It seems that's all the jest this lady she has in her, falling naturally into silence and watching the sway of fireweed in the fields as the three horses amble on.

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