(122-07-19) Dhraegon's Nameday Games
Dhraegon's Nameday Games
Summary: Jurian, Sun, Dhraegon, and Marsei compete in Melee and flower weaving.
Date: Date of play (19/07/122)
Related: http://gobmush.wikidot.com/log:122-07-15-of-kites-and-feet

Dhraegon's games are a strange mix of things, much like the man himself. Equipment is prepared not just for the standard contests, but a handful of peculiar ones as well. The Prince himself is resplendent in white, as he was for Xavia's party. As he has been all weekend, he is even sober. While he did not bring the controversial Princess Doll that caused so much trouble on a previous occasion he has brought a cat headed rag doll, dressed up exactly like himself for some reason. The infamous grumpy Tyrell elder is here as a judge, as is the accommodating Helpful Judge. The Prince is casting longing looks at the Tyrell judge's flask, but managing to forebear.

Trumpets blast. A herald steps forth to announce, "Now is the official opening of Prince Dhraegon Targaryen's Nameday Games! Would those planning to enter the melee please line up!"

Jurian has come dressed in his house armor: black leather with red fabric and metal where it counts. He is very well-groomed and his armor appropriately polished and shined. He steps forward for the melee to join the line, his limp clear to the crowd.

Lady Marsei is close at hand to Prince Dhraegon, bedecked in the colour of sunshine in honour of Dhraegon's tourney, looking cheerful and festive. Although she has been a bit quiet of late, she's in fine spirits, the heat of the day and her soft laughter bringing out the rosiness in her cheeks. She has not constantly been at his side, however — she has been attempting, with questionable success, to convince some of her cheer onto the elder Tyrell. As the trumpet blasts, she goes to Dhraegon's side. "Do you know who shall participate?"

The figure that steps in line along with the competing Targaryen prince bears no house colours; a woman, for a start, and an uncommon thing, not a familiar face to tourneys and tilts in the Reach, nor of the Reach — or Westeros itself — with her tan skin and its hint of old Ghiscari amber. Not a familiar face at all, either, and only half of one, at that: one side is obscured entirely by a dark veil, held in place by a bone comb, in hair that has been twined into long braids that look as sharp as whips. Over a long tunic and brigandine, her armour is bits and pieces, placed for ease of movement over defense, with strange lengths of fabric tied about her joints. Where Jurian is polished, she is dusty. Her one eye looks straight ahead, unforgiving.

The Grumpy Tyrell is quickly and unexpectedly softened by the gentle Hightower lady, though he does cast perplexed glances between the lady and her peculiar husband to be. Prince Dhraegon takes her hand, clearly grateful for the company. "We are like the Sun and Moon!" He shakes his head, "It is an all comers tourney, so the women do not have to hide who they are to compete. It is fairer, I think, but you get odd participants." If he is surprised to see Jurian rather than Ser Daevon or Ser Rhaegor representing his House, he gives no sign. Eyeing sun, he says, "I've never seen her before!"

Marsei smiles in gentle amusement over the sun and moon comparison, thinking of the party in which she and Visenya made a very different pair under the same theme. She looks warily at the line-up; melees are not her favorite, with their risk toward brutality.

Jurian casts just one sidelong glance at the woman fighter beside him, but mostly he looks at the crowd.

Dhraegon clings to Marsei's hand as they watch. He holds the cat doll up on his shoulder during the combat so she can get a good view.

Time to begin. Faced with Jurian, Sun meets him head to head. Her movements are quick, precise, and trained — she's keen to his movements; singular dark eye marking the prince, there's a high swing of her sword toward his head. Her longsword is not of this continent, forged much farther away; it's particularly slender, its hilt is engraved, every end depicting some manner of frightful, screaming, open-mouthed monster. Swords swing and swipes of armour mirror each other. One second she stands tall like a soldier; the next her stance lowers, light and ready to move.

Jurian squares his shoulders. He obviously has certain physical disadvantages, most notably the turned-in right foot that makes it a little harder for him to minimize his target areas or move as quickly as an unencumbered warrior would. He seems serious about the bout nevertheless. He ducks under the strange sword, then returns a cut toward Sun's neck.

Around them other pairs and clumps of fighters battle on, with many dragged from the field.

After the closer call of Jurian's blade to the studded red-brown brigadine where it meets her neck, Sun deftly rolls right onto the ground as he attacks her next. A burst of dust rising and dark braids lashing, horse-like, around her as she leaps back to her feet — sword-first, toward Jurian's chest. She focuses her energy into an angry, wordless shout as her leather-clad feet propel her.

Jurian is already preparing for his next blow, but Sun's warrior fury catches him off-balance. He manages to defend his head, slashing for her arm once, but when the sellsword presses her attack still more, he stumbles and her blade pierces his armor. He looks surprised, unable to conceal the fact that it hurts. He falls back and lies still. Doesn't look like he has much more fight left in him.

As Jurian's blade finds its way to her arm in his last defense, the woman doesn't flinch. It is not the stoic determination of a warrior to remain strong at every turn; rather, it's as if she did not even notice. It is only the need to continue the tournament that pulls her away from standing over Jurian to assure his defeat.

Dhraegon winces as the Sellsword puts a serious dent in his Kinsman's armour and he goes down, but gives no other sign. Eventually the tough Sellsword works her way through all the men still standing. A page is sent to inquire her name.

Although she is later discovered to be only known as Sun, there is nothing about the now bloodied warrior of Mereen that summons thoughts of summer or warmth.

Killian is standing ready with the healers. The Ironborn captain is recently returned from a naval engagement off the North east coast back in June, heavily tanned and well recovered from his wounds. he waits a little apart from the Maesters with his bandages, poultices, and other healer equipment. The Maesters eye him with deep suspicious, which the oddly dressed Captain ignores. There is an otherworldly air about him, not only because his clothes are centuries out of date, but because of something unfocused and ethereal in his expression, for all the solidity of his build.

Jurian is most assuredly defeated. In fact, he seems unconscious immediately after the last blow. Not terribly impressive, but so it is.

The page runs back to the Elder Tyrell, who announces with obvious distaste, "I declare Mistress Sun winner of the melee!" A handsome squire comes forth with a good sized purse. Another brings forth a golden cloak pin with a dragon twined with Lilies and Irises to form the circular devise. These are presented to Sun. The Elder Tyrell sits, grumbling, "First that horrible Mormont Lass and that Targaryen Lady Guard. Then that so called Princess! Now some thrice damned foreign woman! What is Westeros coming to! That I should live to see the day!

Captain Killian is bold and has long legs and a distrust of the Maester's arts, and so it is that the most peculiar Red Headed Far Islander trying to pry off Prince Jurian's dented chest piece, and leaning over him, long bright curls tickling his face as he checks to see if he's still breathing, glaring daggers and touching his axe hilt to warn away any Maesters trying to edge in.

For all her brutality in the melee, Sun boasts little victory. She scowls to be called Mistress Sun before her face returns to its flat plane, takes the purse and pin, and is in rather a hurry to stalk straight away without so much a word to its generous host, no doubt only giving the elder Tyrell fuel for his fire. She bleeds through a few of the bandage-like ties around her joints, and a few Maesters warily consider tending to the strange Sellsword. She does not want treatment. As she makes her way through the grounds again, she roughly bumps her shoulder into the shoulder of a Maester angling in on Jurian and Killian in passing, though he'd already been well warned away by the sailor.

Jurian still lives, clearly, but his relatively light armor did not fend off enough of the sellsword's blow for him to be altogether healthy. His eyes to open, but he doesn't turn his head or look away from the dust in front of his eyes. "What was her name?" he murmurs, very quiet.

Killian's accent is an odd mix of the Islands and the North, with archaic vowels and word choices. His tone is healer peremptory, rather tan properly respectful. "Sun, they said. Don't move. Let me have a proper look. Can you lift your leg slightly so I can see if it's just the wound? How is your breathing?"

"Andyrs?" Jurian is perhaps disoriented after receiving that blow, and probably losing some blood already. And after all, he hasn't turned his head to look at Killian directly yet. He lifts his leg a little, but it does make him wince, since even that motion pulls on the muscles of the abdomen and the skin of the chest a little. "I think I lost again."

Dhraegon turns to Marsei, "Ought we check on him, or do you think we will just be in the way?"

Killian's tone is gentler now, "Thou mayst lower the leg." He gently turns the Prince's head and opens a flask, "I need thee to drink as the next bit is apt to be unpleasant for thee." He presses the flask to the Prince's lips, and dribbles it in carefully. It likely burns on the way down, being a mix of some potent northern liquor laced with poppy. "I'm not thy Andrys. I height Captain Killian Farwynd."

Marsei is somewhat unsettled by the aftermath of the tourney, helped none by the grumbles of the Tyrell; this is nothing new, however. She's rather eager to see the events move on. "Prince Jurian will be all right," she says with quiet optimism. "He is being tended." Although not by a Maester; she squints, trying to figure out who the healer at Jurian's side is. She smiles up at Dhraegon … and the cat doll, for a moment seeming to consider whether or not she ought to be addressing the toy, too.

Jurian turns his head then and squints violet eyes at Killian. But he takes the flask and leans his head forward so he can drink from it without choking. He does cough at the taste, but drains it nevertheless. "Get word to him, then, once you've made sure…the insides will stay in." It's not /quite/ so dire as a disembowelment, though his injuries are not light.

Dhraegon makes his cat doll give a speculative Meow. Dhraegon says, "I haven't named her yet. what do you think we should call her? Shall we do the flower crown contest next, my Sunflower?"

Marsei smiles bright, glad for the distraction; odd though it is, she does not judge. "I struggle so at naming things!" she admits in good humor. "Be it a cat or flower, even my sweet dove, I think: what would they name themselves if they could? What if I get it wrong?" She nods her red head, buoyantly affirmative. "Crowns of flowers shall be a good change of pace."

Killian nods, "I will do that. Just rest now." He pours something from another flask onto the wound, which burns even through the drugged haze and starts stitching, which in not particularly pleasant either. The Maesters are having other downed men taken from the field on stretchers. The peculiar Iron man doesn't bother with it. "The less thou dost move before you are stitched, the better for thee. Thou art in danger of bursting something best left whole at the moment, but thou wilt soon be more sound…. What is thy name?"

Jurian hisses a breath through his teeth, expression very unpleasant, but he keeps mostly still. He's been very good at being still. "Jurian," he says, not bothering with the family name, since his appearance and armor make that quite obvious. "Drag me off when you can. It's dull to watch an injured man wallow. They'll want to move to the next."
Sun has disconnected.

Killian's fingers are deft enough with the needle. The paste he applies next smells… unique. Horrible really, rather like concentrated urine and medicinal herbs. Then comes a bandage soaked in something with a different heral smell, then more clean bandages. Two sailers dressed as oddly as their captain deftly transfer the wounded Prince to a stretcher and they are off to the pavilion tents to strip the rest of his armour off somewhere more private before sending him home. "Don't let a Maester near that. They'll wash it off and thou wilt fester. I'll be by each day to tend thee. how much scar dost thou want? There will be some, but there are ways to make it less noticeable if thou dost want the skin of a Maid and not a Man."

Dhraegon nods, "That is the best way to go about it. She is a Princess, of course." he gives the order and tables and tubs and camp chairs are carried out. The elder Tyrell looks utterly outraged, "What is this nonsense! It is worse than that silly horse archery nonsense!" The Helpful Judge looks rather embarrassed, but he agrees to judge the thing as someone must.

"Imagine! After this, I can say I participated in a tournament," Marsei says with a delighted little laugh. Of course, she'd be laughed off, in most circles. She has no grand plans of upholding the event to the high standards of anybody but Dhraegon; she's fully committed to participating, eagerly taking Dhraegon's hand in readiness to take their places.

Jurian wrinkles his nose. "If you are pissing on me, I will kill you," he promises while the paste is being applied. Likely the poppy tincture is starting to soak in. He frowns a little when Killian insists he be the only one to tend him. "Don't insult me, I'm too…" His eyelids droop a bit. "What?"

Dhraegon leaves the cat in his spot on the judges stand, and giggles delightedly, "So can I, My Daffodil! I shall be rooting for you to win, of course!" And so he leads her to the tables and begins to eagerly select his own flowers from the tubs, humming softly in his deep voice. It is a popular tune about Maying, though his humming is wordless.

"It would be in your honour," Marsei tells Dhraegon, all cheer. The flowers she chooses are all the palest colours: soft blues and pinks, light yellows and white flowers with frosty green leaves.

Killian snorts, "Of course not. It is boiled horse urine, with a wholesome tincture of yarrow and some other things to keep the wound sweet and to make it heal cleaner. I'm not insulting thee, but thy Sothron ways are strange and men do not wear the warrior marks." He, pulls at the tunic lacings to show tattooed red dots over stylized waves tattooed like a necklet on his upper chest. "Dost thou want the scars to show bright or pale? I can add dyes to make them darker or use oils to make them heal pale."

"Why on earth should I want them dark?" Jurian snaps, "I'm not a—" Even addled as he is, it does occur to him, however belatedly, that he may not want to directly insult the man currently responsible for his healing.

Dhraegon beams at her, "And if I win, it will be in your honor!" He chooses a mix of yellow and orange blooms to match her petals, with a smattering of white.

Killian grins at him suddenly all dangerous half wild Far Islander, "A warrior might want them dark to proclaim his strength! But Sothrons like their skin pale and smooth as a maid's! I will do my best for thee. Though it take a while to fade from brown to white, I will mix up a fine salve to make thy skin soft and smother, shall I?"

Seated neatly, Marsei works away at crafting a crown of flowers, her small fingers weaving bits and pieces of stems and vines together to hold it together. She does so slowly, every so often remembering that there are others around her who may be watching, but there are always others watching when she and Dhraegon make public appearances, and the suspense of the audience for flower-weaving is rather less than for things like jousts and melees.

Dhraegon's sausage fingers are not nearly as clumsy as one might expect ass he lays out his design. He has that open mouthed, no one is home look he gets as he starts weaving the flowers, seemingly oblivious to staring eyes.

"Yes, yes," Jurian mutters. "If I'm going to get defeated by women in three blows, I should prepare for such—wait, what did I say? Three blows." Jurian squints at Killian.

Killian and his men set to peeling off the rest of the Prince's armour, very careful how they move them, one always supporting him while the others work to strip him to his small clothes and get him into a front lacing linen shift. Amused, Killian leers at him, "Fear not, none of us will be giving you any blows today."

Marsei's woven crown is coming along nicely, a sweetly arranged mix of those pastel petals — until attempting to wind and tie one flower into another causes a tremor of a chain reaction, causing a few of the delicate blossoms to come undone. She frowns, but it's a gentle thing, proceeded by a quiet laugh. "I suppose I ought to have practiced," she says, trying again.

Dhraegon is going along nicely too, for all his confusion about the human form, his aesthetic sense is excellent when it comes to flower arranging. Alas, he snaps a yellow daisy's head off with those massive fingers and his own falls to shreds. He gives a little gasp of alarm.

Meanwhile, the elder Tyrell is seeing how quickly he can empty his flask before hiding his head in his hands.

"Do you s…strip me in front of everyone?" Jurian asks muzzily. "Do you m— Do you mock me?" Indeed, the medicine is taking effect on mind and body.

"Oh," Marsei exclaims softly as a few petals fall from her crown. She adds a few tinier blossoms, filling in the gaps left behind. The mistake turns out to be lovely, after all. She fills in more of the circle. It is beautiful, although perhaps a bit small, and thin in the back; a tiara of flowers. She looks up to see how Dhraegon fares and her smile lights up. "How vivid yours is, my prince."

When Jurian's leg is revealed Killian gets a grim look and tsks, "They shouldn't have let Maester's near thee. No child deserves that…." He notices the potion working and gentles his tone, his strange lilt making his words almost music, "We are under canvass, Jurian. Look up. See the Black and Red stripes? It is thine own house pavilion. Thou art safe and private, and we are tending thee before thou goest into the cart. Did you want all that heavy armour holding thee while thou are trying to rest?" He selects a different salve pot and begins to massage it into the leg that causes the limp. "Dost thou need anything? Ought to drink? The chamber pot?"

Dhraegon ends up filling the gap with two tiger lilies, bold and bright. The result is fine enough, the design rather light laurels only of flame coloured blooms to complement his future bride. He smiles shyly and blushes as he offers her the results.

Jurian squints at the fabric above his head. "The c…cart?" he repeats, blinking slowly. "Yes. Rather, n…o. Nothing. But my bed. Only I don't w…want to bleed in it. Did anyone see? Are they coming?" He's starting to lapse significantly. "I w-want them at my bed to s…say… I want them to… I deserve something," he insists the way only an injured man with strong medicine in him can.

Marsei extends her hands to Dhraegon's crown of flowers in order to cradle it gently and admire it. "I may be not be an official judge," she says, glancing at the helpful if reluctant judge who is one before carefully setting the work of art testingly upon her head, "but I know which crown I would choose."

Killian brushes hair from the wounded Prince's numbed forehead, and says, "They are bringing a covered cart now from thy Manse. Thou are well bandaged. All will be well if thou lies stil and lets us handle things for thee. Thou wilt be in thine own bed soon." The last bit seems to genuinely perplex the Far Islander, "Who dost thou want at thy bedside doing what? I fear I do not follow thee."

Dhraegon turns pleading eyes on the helpful judge as well, "Nor am I a judge of my own contest, but I know who I would chose." He looks meaningfully at the fair Marsei.

The helpful judge begins to sweat and look alarmed, glancing worriedly between the two of them. Who to defy? Dhraegon is a Prince, but a lesser one and Marsei's Sister is Queen, her Father the Hand, and her Brother holds the Hightower….

"No one's going to come," Jurian says to Killian with rounded eyes, seeming fully delirious by now. Then he says something unintelligible. At least he doesn't seem too concerned with the pain.

"Decide fair and true, good judge," Marsei tells the poor fellow judging, realizing his dilemma and smiling gently, the epitome of benevolence. "All wins are in the spirit of the day!" She adjusts the crown over the elegant waves and braids of her hair.

Killian says gently, "I am sure they will come for thee. Worry not." The sailors lift the curtain and load the patient directly into the cart, covering him. It is done in such a way that none might see the fallen Prince. At the manse, they put him on a stretcher and cover him up for decency. Killian does ask after the one Jurian was calling for there.

The helpful judge looks between them and then in desperation names, Marsei third place, Dhraegon second, and a young flower girl from the undercity in first, with the air of a man expecting imminent execution. The girl is quite pleased with his purse, though looks a bit worried about getting it home. Dhraegon laughs in pure delight.

Marsei echoes the delight of her betrothed, clapping her hands together once. She immediately goes to the flower girl, sitting beside her to shower compliments upon her crown.

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