(122-02-21) The Dolphin Tournament

The parade arrives, passing out the gate with much fanfare and happy shouting. People run about helping lords and ladies dismount. Ormund declines the assistance and stays on his palfrey, though, watching as the folk assemble themselves on the stands and the competitors seek out the lists.

Malcolm is already here, dressed in jousting plate with his floofy piebald destrier, Motley. he is working the crowd, flirting with various grannies and winning a favour from the one who gives him the biggest smile.

Kai, too, waits silently as the parade approaches. He's clad in simple jousting plate, trading all the fanciness for effectiveness. He sits atop a dark black destrier, atop which he watches the crowds in silence, his frog-mouth helm worn atop his head.

Camillo is not fancy, noble, or a granny, but since the wedding went off smoothly, he more or less has the afternoon off. he's snagged a dolphin bread somewhere along the way, and takes it to the area where the commonest people stand crowded together to watch the tilting. His head is bent slightly as he sinks his teeth into the bread, but his gaze is angled up to watch the pre-game warm-ups.

Janei dismounts as they arrive and walks with her maid to the stands. They find seats with a good view, and settle in, chatting while waiting for the events to start.

Egil thinks that jousting is for losers, so he's forgone preparing himself for that. The cloaked Volmark bastard moves along with the parade, finding his spot in his own little corner of the tourney grounds where he approaches his rent-a-squire, pulling the hood of the cloak back and letting it fall to the dirt, the young squire quickly moving to retrieve it. The stories of the state of Egil's face were not exaggerated, it would seem.

Malcolm's own armour is plain and of a long out of date fashion suggesting it is second or third hand at best, but the armour is in good condition, well maintained with damage expertly handled. Motley is characteristically frisk in response to the crowd.

As man, woman and child trickle onto the grounds dozens at a time, so too come the competetors. Most of the knights and freeriders that will be attending have already arrived, dozens of horses of the generally large variety gathered about, whilst most of the competetors wait in large tents to be called for their respective turns. It is a rather decent turn-out, but many of the most popular knights and freeriders are seemingly not attending, which is either a good thing or a bad thing depending on ones perspective.

Once an appropriate number of spectators have gathered, and the nobles have all found their seats, a number of men step out onto the field with horns in hand, which they promptly blow, which quickly quiets the crowds down. A rather chubby man steps out onto the field, dark of hair and fat of face, but evidently loud of voice, as he promptly shows, "Welcome one and all to the Dolphin tournament!" He would shout, turning in a circle and raising his arms in a exagerrated manner, "Today we not only only celebrate the coming of dolphins, but also the joining of Lord Ormund Hightower and his bride, Lady Lynesse." He would continue, drawing a small round of applause from the smallfolk.

The chubby man would pause for a moment to wait for the applause to die down, before he would continue, "But without further adiue, let the jousts begin!" He would shout, before thrusting his hand rather suddenly out in the direction of Malcolm, "Malcolm Storm, of the Stormlands and House Kellington." He would first announce, before thrusting his other hand out towards the plainly-armored man with his frog-mouthed helmet, "And Kai, swornsword of Princess Visenya of House Targaryen, come forth!"

Ormund and Lynesse slip away on their pretty horses as the crowds cheer for the first set of tilters. They've their own tilting to do, it seems.

Malcolm rides into the lists on his ridiculously pretty beast and closes the visor of his helm. The last glimpse is of a deadly serious expression. he waits for his opponent.

Camillo watches as Malcolm and his impressive mount walk to their end of the arena, chewing continually on that dolphin loaf.

Kai would remain still for a moment as his name is called, and he'd look up at the sky briefly to release a lengthy sigh, before a young squire would run in his direction, carrying his plain black shield and lance. The man would take both in hand, offering a quick word of thanks to the squire, whom seems taken aback by actually being thanked at all, before he'd run off again as Kai rolls his shoulders a little, getting used to the heavy shield and lance, before he'd dig his knees into his mounts side, sending it forward, before he'd pull to a stop at the opposite end of the grounds from Malcolm.

A few moments pass in silence, before suddenly the chubby announcer would raise his hand, and then swipe it down, screaming out "Begin!"

Malcolm lifts his lance in a polite solute at the stranger and spurs his massive beast forwards, lance lowered to touch his opponent with the knob.

Kai hesitates for a moment as he is saluted, before he'd grunt and go to lift up his lance a bit to return the salute, before he'd lower his lance as well, preparing his shield. As Malcolm rides forth, Kai would dig his knees into his mounts side, which would quickly cause it to leap forth to meet Malcolm in the field. The swornswords horse is a good bit smaller than Malcolm's, and as they near, Kai'd go to lunge a bit with his lance, only to miss by a good foot or two as Malcolm's lance slams into his shield, before being deflected off the the side, splintering a bit in the process, a loud bang resounding throughout the area, which draws a combine gasp from the common crowd.

The two would ride past eachother before coming to their opposite ends of the field once more, and Kai'd turn his destrier around slowly, grunting through the effort.

Camillo watches with rapt attention. He seems more interested in this than the wedding. Though he doesn't give up on chewing on that bread. He doesn't do any gasping with the rest of the crowd, but he avoids blinking as much as possible so as not to miss anything.

The folk in the stands cheer. This match seems to have made them passionate. Though it's hard to say which rider has more supporters.

Motley is used to this routine by now and Ser Malcolm Storm turns him easily enough, to face the sworn sword, position characteristically precise. He pounds towards his opponent again, lance lowered to touch his opponent again. He rocks back at the blow the other man levels.

Kai turns his horse as Malcolm does, taking in a deep breath as, suddenly, his squire yells off from the side, "Remember, Kai! Castration!" This would draw a wince from the sworn sword, and he'd launch his horse forward with renewed vigor. He'd take in a breath before he meets Malcolm in the middle, before exhaling sharply and twisting into his blow, which slams into Malcolm's shoulder, splintering his lance a fair bit just as Malcolm's lance almost slams into his own shoulder, but once again slams into his shield due to a good times block, deflecting the blow but almost unhorsing Kai due to his already-twisted body. As they pass eachother, Kai'd manage to reposition himself on the horse, coming to the end of the field and turning around once more with a grunt.

Malcolm turns his horse, patting him, before refocusing the final pass. Down the list they thunder,the Stark's sworn Man's aim is true. The lance strikes hard as Ser Malcolm flies by.

Camillo must finally be getting enough to eat, since now he lifts his chin enough that he isn't just looking out from under his eyebrows. He takes a step forward and cranes his neck.

As Kai and Malcolm pass eachother by one last time, another pair of loud bangs are heard as the two clash. Kai's thrust is deflected off the corner of Malcolm's shield, whilst his opponents lance slams into his torso and splinters some more, making both their lances of a similar current condition. Kai would be rocked back from the blow, hissing through his teeth as he thinks he feels a rib break, before he'd rock back forth as they pass eachother by, coming to the end of their round.

The crowd is momentarily silent as each rider reaches the end of the field, and the annoncer steps forward, looking to each of the combatants before speaking up, "Each fighter fought well, and have tied in points-… However!" He would say, slowly looking off towards Malcolm, "One rider has distinguished himself as superior, and as such, Malcolm Storm is the winner!"

Kai would release a small grunt at this announcement, handing his lance and shield off to the approaching squire before he'd pat his crotch a little, muttering a little.

Cheers erupt and what not as Malcolm is announced the winner, excluding a few rough-looking characters who seem to be screaming their rage after losing bets. Either way, Kai calmly rides off to the side of the field and dismounts as the next riders are called up, and promptly proceed to joust it out. Things end badly for one, rinse and repeat. A time later, after all is said and done, Malcolm is announced the winner of the Tourney, before being taken off to recieve his reward whilst ol' Ormund jousts with his wife upstairs.

Thus, the people are directed over to the grounds for the melee.

Camillo hasn't made a bet, but he applauds when the winner of the match is announced, holding the remainder of his bread in his mouth. He seems less keenly interested in the following bout, but he sticks around to see the overall jousting winner announced as well.

Malcolm salutes the crowd and collects his purse, before riding to his tent to change into his melee armour from his jousting armour. Like the jousting armour, his melee armour is long out of fashion and plain, but very well maintained.

Hawke's been here for a bit, sauntering about, drinking, and half-heartedly watching the joust; the actual game holds very little interest for the pirate, but he snorts and shoves a handful of coins into a man's hand as the winner's announced. "Aye, fuck off," he says to the smug winner who no doubt asked for his bet on the melee, and he pushes off the rail to go wander closer to where the fight'll take place. Maybe someone will get stabbed!

Camillo trails along to the melee ground, but doesn't jockey for a prime spot. Maybe he likes jousting better, maybe he hates to assert himself, or maybe he doesn't want to get spattered with flying blood in the event someone does get sliced.

The plump man who is serving as the master of the cermonies in Ormund's marital absence congratulates, "Sir Malcolm Storm!" loudly. He produces a glittering necklace of silvery dolphins and pale blue gems, with a tiny orange-red firegem in its center, and comes down off the dias to present this to Malcolm. Clearly it's a lady's ornament, meant for whoever it is that gave her favour to the knight.

Malcolm is frankly startled by the ornament. He had been expecting a purse he could actually use, but you win some and you lose some. He bows as much as he feasibly can in armour before the rather plump granny and gallantly offers her the prize, as serious as if she were a Princess.

Now that the jousting has come to an end, Egil Pyke walks out of his tent, looking entirely underdressed for this whole thing. One might could theorize that he's probably avoiding wearing armor due to his recent injuries, but in fact, the man just doesn't like it. Dressed in a simple black, scarcely-plated, leather jerkin, the man pauses in front of his squire who straps his shield to his arm and moves off to fetch his axe.

Camillo watches this prize-giving ceremony with interest for some reason, looking at the face of the granny who's being given such a fine ornament.

The old woman gives a startled little squeal. Surely she expected the knight to keep the prize, if he won it, in spite of the shame of doing so, for clearly it's an item of value. Noble Ladies of wealthy families might have some nicer things, but this jewel is nothing anyone would be too proud to wear. She comes forward to let Malcolm clasp it around her neck, blushing.

Malcolm is very graceful about it, kissing her hand and complimenting her eyes before clasping it around her neck with gauntlet clumsy fingers.

The woman curtsies to Malcolm once the necklace is on, deeply despite of her old, slow-to-bend knees.

The plump organizer bellows, "Rally for the melee!"

Egil fiddles about with the straps of the buckler and takes the long handle of his axe in hand as it is offered to him. He's having trouble acclimating to this whole thing, it seems. His head turns an odd angle for a moment as he tries to take in everything in front of him, negating the effects of the plated neck of his clothing. He grumbles a bit and decides he'll just deal with the blind spot, moving to the starting point.

Hawke watches Malcolm give the woman the necklace with a somewhat bored expression, but the new arrival on the melee field pulls his attention - and makes his brows raise high as this look of bemused, quizzical fascination crosses his features. He grins, bright and like the world just became a little more entertaining just for him, and the Greyjoy hollers, "Give 'em hell, mate," and then mutters something or another under his breath 'round a swallow of whatever he's got in that flask of his that has the man next to him blinking at him with a disapproving scowl.

Malcolm bows, armour stiff, and clumps off to fight in the melee.

Egil's grip loosens and tightens repeatedly around the grip of his axe as he spies Malcolm. He offers a bow to the man before he takes a short breath, his shield rising in front of him.

Camillo keeps his eyes on the granny for a moment longer, then finally turns his attention to the grounds as the melee starts to get underway.

Malcolm bows to Egil, then swings for the Iron Man's head, leg buckling a bit under his opponent's blow. he has the same grim focus that characterized him in the joust. He reverses and strikes for Egil's arm, even as another blow smacks his own.

Egil has thus far managed to not get himself killed, going into a fight with only one good eye. The lashing of his axe has served well against the hefty swings of his opponents greatsword. After a few swings, Egil finds himself circling the man, the grip on his axe loosening as his arm pains him slightly.

Camillo follows the battle for the most part, not making any wagers. He does chew on the hunk of bread in his hand a bit absently. And on occasion he spares a glance for that granny.

Granny is cheering wildly, waving one hand in the air and clutching the necklace with the other.

A little melee is underway — or rather, a hand-to-hand combat. Of the greatsword to ax variety.

Norah is late, fashionably though, wearing a black gown with dark purple and little gold bits of embroidery, she is helped into the stands to settle and watch, hands in her lap.

For Janei, the jousting was exciting and romantic, especially the ending as Malcolm gives his prize to the older woman whose favour he was fighting for. A duel of the melee variety, though, isn't quite as exciting to her, but she cheers on and applauds the competitors in any case.

Wylliam likes nothing better then a tournament, mind you he prefers to take part in one rather then watching, but there is a certain charm to being able to watch other men fight. For one it allows him size them up, assess their fighting skills and compare them to his own. Which he would say were legendary. So in strolls the noble Stark, an apple in his hands as if he was taking a leisurely stroll around his noble home. Upon arriving at the stands he happens to sit down next to the newly arrived Norah. "My Lady." He says giving her a charming smile and a regal bow.

Malcolm is in plain, clearly second or third hand heavy armour that is well cared for and mended and swinging a greatsword about. He and the Broken Bastard are circling each other and trying very hard to hit each other with all their might.

Norah blinks a bit at Wylliam, her smile shows "Hello my lord." she offers. She smoothes her hands over her gown. "How does the day find you?" she asks, weight swaying a little as she gets comfortable, her smile is warm and calm.

Egil just manages to slip out of the way of the swinging greatsword, throwing a wild thrust of the tip of his axe towards his opponent. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to do much more than scuff that well-maintained armor of his.

Wylliam nearly jumps over the bench and sits himself down, apple at his lips as he takes another bite. "It finds me grand, fair lady." He tells her after his mouth is emptied. "How about you, enjoying the joust." Even if it is half over.

Malcolm finally gets a good blow in over the Broken Bastard's guard, but takes a blow to the chest so resounding he collapses, gasping for breathe. he lies stunned for several long moments, but somehow, pulls himself upright with the help of the sword and stands swaying, looking for the next fight.

Egil isn't quite so…lucky. The Broken Bastard finds himself, once again, broken. He falls back into the dirt, the plates of armor centered around the neck of his jerking preventing his head from coming clean off.

"That's what happens when you silly creatures fight to celebrate the Mother!" calls out some grouchy old man from the stands, during that moment when both combatants lie stunned. His children shush him. There's general laughter, though. Even from the plump master of ceremonies, who tries hard to control it.

Norah gets a little pink across her cheeks. "The day finds me interesting. I thought it would be good to get out, have you enjoyed the celebrations?" she asks, voice soft.

Camillo stands on his toes to see over the people in front of him when one combatant goes down, then the other. That doesn't happen too often. His eyes flick between the two. He doesn't laugh at the old man's quip. But he's just the type not to find jokes about the Seven funny.

Malcolm seeing the field emptied out, he offers Egil a gauntleted hand, "You fought well. May I help you to the healer's tent? I suspect we could both use a bit of bandaging."

The plump man bellows out again, "Ser Malcolm Storm!"

Hawke grimaces, but collects his coins from the grumbling guy next to him. Ahem. He rattles them, pockets them, and looks Considering.

Wylliam rolls his eyes at the two men on the tourney grounds. "Really, didn't someone explain to them there has to be one winner?" He jibs softly to his companion, his voice filled with suppressed laughter. "Malcolm, what shame you bring." He calls to his banner man. "Get up, you are embarrassing the Stark name." He calls again, on his feet hands cupped around his lips, the apple lays on his seat placed down before he stood.

Egil stands of his own power, steadying his footing as he does so. He looks the victor over and sniffs a bit in derision, turning towards the master of ceremonies, awaiting the announcement of the winner.

Norah eyes at Wylliam almost unapprovingly "Oh but Ser Malcolm is a gentle and kind good man." she offers, looking almost a little awkward at the insults being thrown at Malcolm. She gets very quiet, her hands rest in her lap as she looks down, her face turning the most delightful shade of scarlet.

"Ser Malcolm!" the announcer bellows again. "Present to Oldtown, and to the Mother, your Queen of Love and Beauty!"

Wylliam laughs softly down at the woman. "He's one of my cousin's men, don't worry not My Lady. Us men always tease each other, its how we show our affection in a manly way." He assures her.

Malcolm shrugs, not particularly put out by the other bastard's disdain. He does not turn in the direction of the insults either, but helmets are bad for peripheral vision. The announcement startles him and he takes off his helm, revealing the tricolored Braavosi style hair and the striped braided beard beneath. Presumably this gives him time to think, despite his bell being rung. his accent has a Stormcoast lilt to it, lower gentry at best, but he's been in Oldtown long enough to have smoothed it out enough to be easily understood. He speaks in a parade ground volume, intended to carry without straining, "While I am tempted to bestow the honor on the fair lady kind enough to bestow her favour upon me, I must choose instead, the acknowledged favorite of the people, gracious in her countenance and so giving during the Pestilence just past, Princess Visenya Targaryen, named for a conquering Queen and beautiful and dangerous as her dragons will one day be."

There's a startled moment, and then, a cheer. Even the old woman cheers. As hard as anyone of her age, in fact — the thought of going up to the dais to receive that particular accolade had paled her. And then there are cries of, "The Princess! The Princess!"

Camillo narrows his eyes thoughtfully at Malcolm's choice of Queen, chewing off another hunk of his dwindling piece of bread. He begins to work his way laterally through the crowd before things start breaking up.

The announcer looks around, and there's a fair bit of bustling about. Some of the miniature paper dolphin banners from the parade are thrown, and groups of poorer children, those who could never buy such a thing, rush to collect them.

Norah watches Wylliam for a moment. She gestures at her servant to take three baskets to hand out - little sweet rolls handed out to the children excited to get them. She smiles at Wylliam "I'm sorry, I'm still not used to teasing as of late." she offers. "I'm Norah, of house Plumm, it is wonderful to meet you." she offers a bit chipperly.

Somebody whispers, animatedly, to the announcer. Who replies, "Get her!" and gets another, adamant reply. The announcer shakes his head, and turns to bellow to Malcolm and the crowd, "The Princess Visenya will be crowned when she is! Present! Congratulations to Ser Malcolm STORM! And GLORY TO THE MOTHER!"

Camillo puts the last bit of his bread in his mouth so he can clap his hands, but he's already moving. Perhaps he's a beat-the-crowds sort of fellow.

Wylliam sits back down now, his eyes flickering from Malcolm. "No surprise there whom he choose. I would have done the same." He comments then gives the Lady a bow. "I am Wylliam Stark of the house Stark. It is an honor and pleasure to meet you." He tells her.

There is a purse, and one of the squires who helped oversee the event runs out to give that to Malcolm, though clearly there's something more — there's a chest that the other squires start to move away.

Malcolm looks a bit relieved to see the purse. He is swaying on his feet, th energy the heat of battle gave him ebbing and the wounds making themselves felt.

Norah smiles a bit, not commenting on the Queen, her arms shifting to rest infront of her, clapping politely. She pauses to give a sweet smile "Quite." she sways her weight slightly, adjusting her gown again, nervously.

The old granny and her family begin to shuffle out, chatting and laughing about their good fortune. Luckily, there are a few imposing men among their group who stick close by, deterring the likelihood of pickpockets making the sweet old lady a target. Camillo heads the same direction, as do many in the crowd as they disperse.

The kids give Egil a wide berth, and watch him as they run about. The order of the stands and the competitors is lost, and people break into their social groups to continue the festivities, most returning to Oldtown's streets for drinking and food and the street-performers and dancing that will make up much of the night.

Now that there's no more betting to be had and no more fighting, Hawke's interest has waned. He pushes his way through the crowd, winding his way out.

"Its a shame I didn't register myself for the tourney I would have showed Malcolm how to fight." Wylliam brags, softly for his Lady's ears only. "So Lady of the Plumm, tell me a little of yourself. I fear you are not known to me."

Norah smiles a bit. "I am afraid I'm not too interesting, but I'd love to talk to you. I've got two elder brothers, I'm quite talented at managing a kitchen, I enjoy a number of proper activities." she offers, smiling brightly.

Wylliam gives the girl a warm smile before his stands and bows. "Well, Lady it was lovely talking to you, but I best be off." He says, picking up his apple, he bites down on it and wonders off.

Malcolm is trying hard to hide how much he is struggling for breath with that big dent in his breast plate as limps towards the chest. Showmanship matters if a Storm wants to win a name for himself.

One of the squires carrying the chest says, "Ser Malcolm, could you maybe send word to the Hightower when the Princess is ready to be crowned? We'll bring this stuff back for that…"

Malcolm's eyes go wide, "You… want me to tell her myself? All right. I can do that." Huff, huff, huff, sway. Huff, huff, sway.

Norah is quiet, standing to start for the exit of the tourney grounds, joining her guard when she passes him, her calm demeanor showing.

The squires make off with the chest, putting it in a cart to return to the Hightower. They don't seem to notice Malcolm's distress. Maybe they figure the man's just been beat up and there' nothing more to it.

Malcolm heads to the healer's tent and then back to his own where Blanchet can look after him and get him home, his Squire having disappeared a month or so ago.

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