Tales of Trevast: Harvest Tournament

Fyremage

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-@Bishy vs @Tristar (Joust)
-@Pureblood-Sin vs @Fyreleader (Joust)
-@Elijah Brockway vs @Tristar (Duel)
@Pureblood-Sin vs @Bishy (Duel)

Additions Welcome.
Flags and streamers bedecked the city streets and pathways, with festive crowds milling about the market square and the shops within. Day Two of the Harvest Festival had begun, and along with it the beginning of the Harvest Tournament. It was arguably the biggest event all year of the Kingdoms of Trevast, as it provided the prime opportunity for all Houses to come together and showcase their finest champions. It was the stuff of legend, really, as many fabled knights had participated in the time-honored sports of the Tournament.

Ser Petyr Bannor, also known as 'The Lion of Summerfield' was among the more fabled champions of House Bayne, with his well known Rival Hermann Aulêa of The Darkmoon Covenant equally as well known in his home territory, namely in service to House Eule. Although there were other prestigious champions of their time, which was roughly a century and a half ago, each tournament they participated in almost certainly would result in the two knights facing off against each other late in the Joust Lists. Each man could claim several Harvest Championships to his name, which further deepened the rivalry between the two great houses when it came to the sport. Many recall, at least from the history texts that detail it, the Harvest Tourney of 156 A.I (After Invasion), wherein Ser Petyr and Hermann simultaneously unhorsed each other, which resulted in the two impassioned knights drawing their swords and proceeding to duel each other in the middle of the jousting lists. (which has subsequently been attributed to the tradition of an unhorsed knight attempting to win a joust match by converting it to a duel, which is often seen as a last resort measure. Although this instance is fondly remembered, the act of doing so is commonly - though not always - looked upon in the light of unsportsmanlike conduct, even though the rules do not expressly forbid it.)

Both knights fought vigorously, with hardly a man gaining the edge of the other for what seemed the better part of the afternoon, as some historians tell it. Whether it was by sheer stamina, or some measure of skill, Petyr eventually disarmed Ser Aulêa, who then conceded to the victor. This was merely one of many confrontations between the two knights, wherein patrons of the Eule Champion were quick to retell when Hermann gained the mastery of Ser Petyr, which then followers of Petyr would then counter with further memories of the two rivals where Petry was the victor, and so on, and so forth.

At any rate, many attribute the accomplishments of these two champions to the shaping of what the tournament is today, not to eclipse the many northern champions, and the rivalry that developed between Houses Vaiken and Barran, which occasionally blossomed into more of a camaraderie in a sort of manner. Only in an event of this sort could one see such antics and tales, and only time would tell if this year would bear similar exploits.

Trumpets sounded in the air as the King, accompanied with his queen and two younger children, entered the central box overlooking the jousting lists. While the Joust was not the only event of the Tournament, due to its prominence and popularity, the field within which it would take place often served as the point in which it started, wherein the King would address the champions of the many houses. As Edric awaited the champions to ride in before him, he turned to his wife and inquired: "Where is Desirak?"

His wife, adorned in a similar fashion as her husband with her crown perched atop her head, but diverting with her beautiful though understated red-and-gold dress, replied with her slightly accented tone: "Where do you think, my love? Probably in the stables fraternizing with the champions before they ride out to meet us. He so desperately wanted to compete.."


"He knows the rules. He's too young, and my heir besides. When he is of the proper age as allowable by the Tournament, I will allow it."


_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Desirak, true to his mother's intuition, stood at Ser Gregor's side as he checked his armor, with a squire fastening the last few straps. The armor was a bright, polished steel with the Lion of House Bayne embossed on the chestpiece. And even though Gregor had gained the sponsorship of the King to represent House Bayne, Desirak couldn't help but feel jealous of the honor. Granted, he was the crown prince, and typically the crown prince didn't participate in such events, especially when of a young age, but that didn't sate his thirst for competing.

Gregor caught site of his charge as he stared at him, with a pair of Bayne guardsmen at the Prince's side with Gregor temporary absence.

"Don't look so dour, my Prince." Gregor began, a smirk on his lips: "I'll smack down one of your cousins for you."


Although Gregor was by no means the Prince's equal, he had protected the young man since he was but a boy, and the two had developed a rapport that allowed the Knight to be a bit more familiar with the Prince when they were alone, or at least not in the presence of other nobles. The Prince smiled halfheartedly, but didn't say anything in response as he continued his vigil of his protector, who was about to embark his horse.

The knight settled in his saddle, with his squire handing him his helm. Gregor set it firmly on his head, and trotted his horse to the Prince's side, extended a mailed hand to Desirak. Without pause, he grasped the knight's arm and they shook each other's hand firmly, after which Gregor urged his horse onward to mingle with the other Champions that would ride out with him: similarly adorned in embossed steel armor as per a gift the King made to all the great Houses of Trevast.
@Tristar @Pureblood-Sin @The Star of Chaos @Elijah Brockway @Cainhurst Crow @+SpaceJesus+
 
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Pureblood-Sin

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When it came to all matters, be they domestic or martial, all Westerlanders are expected to be able to handle their own matters themselves, even if such endeavours weren't particularly successful. A tournament was no different, Athelrasi would have no champion but himself; be it the lists or the melee, he would participate himself. For this particular occasion, instead of his usual armaments, the Prince chose for himself the heavy armour of the Zhogori who had been chosen from the ranks of the Westerlands' Cataphracts. As is expected of their elite ranks, the armour was layered with chainmail and interlocking scales that was divided between the chest and a lengthy skirt, designed withstand the shock of an impact whilst making for less of a target at the same time. Ornate, the steel was beautifully gilded, with the pauldrons adorned with the image of cavorting lovers. The gauntlets were inlaid with gemstones and the helmet was wrought in the image of the Ohminjokuul raptor, with a plume of bright red, dyed horsehair. Naturally, his own ebony hair was woven into a topknot held fast with small, silver pins; whilst his standard cloak billowed from behind. With helm in hand, Athelrasi's sworn swords readied the lances that he would be using for the match; whilst they took the appearance of traditional Cataphract lances, but were crafted to fit tournament laws. The Ohminjokuul patriarch kept to himself, letting his opponents go down the road of internal misinformation. If they deigned to approach him, then he would correct them on the matter. Mounting his horse, with the saddle used by Cataphracts and Raiders alike, Athelrasi then made his way to where the other riders would assemble...when the sun caught his armour, it would be dazzling but not enough to blind. The Prince played dirty, but such an unsubtle trick was beneath his own cunning.
 

Bishy

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Constantine stood in the sidelines as he awaited his turn, his armour was on, a pale grey suit of steel, simple and light but hardy enough to take a solid lance hit. Though he'd likely not get up for a fair few minutes if it hit him, hence why he'd brought a kiteshield, wooden on the inside but the front had a solid plate of steel riveted on, with his house sigil painted on impeccably. Watching the prince he rose a brow at the bright light coming his way from the sun. Clever, but useless if the sun went in. Shame it was a clear sky today. Besides the armour, a red cloak wrapped around his shoulders and down his back, thick for the cold mountains of the grey keep, but he unfastened it now he stood in the heat. He turned his head to his loyal wife who stood besides him, their son holding her hand as he watched the battle with wide eyes. "Arthur, see that man there? Thats Athelrasi of house Ohminjokuul." The eight year old beamed, and nodded, replying with his own trivia. "Yes, Nan said he comes from the west!" Constantine chuckled, nodding as he watched the man. How he moved. It was always a give away if the man was going to pull away at last minute, or if he was going to go try and immediately dismount Constantine. He began to walk towards his own horse, a white stallion and a grey saddle with chainmail covering the animal, the sigil of his house once again along the side. He climbed atop the beast, and looked off to his wife who handed him the grey lance to match his armour, he smiled and nodded to her. "Back in five minutes Mira. Ready Arthur?" The boy grinned, and nodded with enthusiasm as the two returned to the stands.

He sat atop the horse, and looked to the other riders, still a wide grin upon his face. Now he just awaited the order to charge.
 

Tristar

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The Eules always had a knack for dramatics- when they arrived on the field, they never arrived late but always on time at precisely when they were needed. Gwyn Feled held his reigns with an easy grace, his lance propped against his shoulder. The rattle of his order's wings attracted much attention, looking every bit as imposing as the stories harked them to be: Gargoyles, and don't you ever forget their reputation. He leaned forward and patted his steed with affection- Caria had been his from his knighting and from the Battle of Epiphany Fields to now she remained a horse no man wouldn't sell their soul for. She was as much a veteran as he was, if without as many scars.

He looked to his side whilst his squire handed him his kite shield and ensured every strap was taut, every armor burnished to burning perfection and his horse without flaw: Sir Gregor of House Bayne looking as gargantuan as ever, the Westerland prince with no less ornaments than him and the Lord Constantine of House Mercer in plain but undoubtedly effective armor. Amongst the men of the Trevestian nobility he alone was perhaps the least interesting of all: a mere sergeant of the 34th 'Jil e mar Vihnkersov' Cohort (Vihnkersov's Will), he was old enough to remember the last Trevast-Boteri war as a child no older than Lord Egon was at the time. Though slightly younger he was expecting retirement in the next year- this was to be his last moment of glory before he settled down and let the new blood try and wrest it from him.

Yanking down his face guard, he turned his head to take in the nobility, nodding in respect of their house rather than martial ability; that remained to be tested. War, as the members of House Eule would say, was the best and most unforgiving teacher. Straddling his lance with a reserved stature he prepared himself to ride out into the burning sun and into the welcoming cheers of the people, the lords and ladies and to the king himself. There was centuries of victories behind his order's history and though they never had a taste for 'games' that these knights played he figured what better way to end his career than to knock off some upstart men of higher class and maybe slay himself a giant?
 

Fyremage

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As near dozens of knights took their positions in front of the stands, Edric rose from his seat and proceeded up to the railing. The crowd was near deafening with cheers for their champions, and the sight of the King added to it ever so slightly. With an upraised hand, Edric beckoned for the crowd to quiet, and after a few moments the volume of the cheers and calls receded to a level where the King could then be heard. "On behalf of my family, and the Lords and Ladies of Trevast, allow me to welcome all of you to the Harvest Festival Tournament!" The voices of peasant folk, commoners, and upper class all sounded in one voice in another cheer, at which they eventually abated so as to allow Edric to continue.

"Today, we shall witness the opening of this fabled past time, as has been done for near three centuries prior to us. We shall witness the martial prowess of those who stand to defend us. Strong men stand before me today, and win or lose, you are all our champions. Let us all remember the sacrifices the champions of old have made on our behalf..."


Silence fell upon the crowd as the King's words hung in the air. His ornate crown glistened in the sunlight, and his red tunic with gold trim, and neatly trimmed beard gave the regal appearance a King should have. His voice broke the silence once more after a brief pause.

"Without further delay, I hereby commence the tournament! May the gods grace you all."


As the king returned to his seat, the crowds once again cheered and called: waving the flags of their chosen champions. The red Lion of House Bayne on a field of Gold, the Two Toned owl of House Eule, the Eagle of the Ohminjokuuls, invariably all of the houses of Trevast could likely pick their standards intertwined amongst the crowds. As if on cue (because it was likely on cue) a troupe of trumpeteers blared their instruments, and a herald bedecked in the garb of House Bayne came to the fore to announce the combatants.

"First up in the lists: Ser Gwyn Feled will face off against Lord Constantine Mercer. Further matchups shall be posted publically."


-@Bishy vs @Tristar (Joust)
-@Pureblood-Sin vs @Fyreleader (Joust)
-@Elijah Brockway vs @Tristar (Duel)
@Pureblood-Sin vs @Bishy (Duel)

Additions Welcome.
 

Bishy

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Constantine eyed the giant, then mimed to his wife. The first motion was a point to him, then a finger through a circle made between his thumb and fore finger, then he pointed at himself. In other words. "he'll fuck me over." Instead he was offered the other man, a winged fellow. Ser Gwyn Feled.

His horse trotted to the appropriate location, and he shook his head aboard the horse, flipping down his helmet visor. He sincerely doubted remaining on his horse if this man thwacked him, he'd have to play it smart. The only way he stood a chance was dismounting the man, hopefully those wings of his would provide an unnecessary burden, and make him back heavy. That would mean he's more likely to fall back if hit by a sudden lance.

He rolled his shoulder, and lifted the lance, shouting. "Lets ride boy. Death before defeat. HIYAH!" He slapped the horse. and it broke into a run, charging towards his opponent and kicking up a flurry of dust, his lance aimed square at his chest.
 

Tristar

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The ceremony was grand in the way royalty was. Gwyn cross his left arm over to his right shoulder in the Eulean salute, bowing a little. With all the fanfare and the streamers from every seat his eyes could spot the grizzled Lord Egon in his seat with his wife, speaking in private. He raised his lance at his lord, who noticed with a simple nod. The two men didn't need to talk, what was needed to be said had already been said in the brief moment their eyes met. With the names announced by the royal herald he rolled his shoulders and trotted his horse along to the opposite end of the jousting arena.

From afar, Lord Constantine looked very much like the mounted knights of the Riddermark riders- plain armored, menacing and so full of energy. A little part of him smiled: even centuries of war didn't change the outcome of every Riddermark vs Eulean cavalry charge. Couching his lance properly, he angled his kite shield in an open ward stance and let the Mercer lord charge first. Rearing his horse up, Gwyn maintained his balance as a veteran would do and broke into a gallop, his wings rattling madly and producing a cacophony to rival the crowd's. The Eule's had a knack for breeding horses, and generations of eugenics gave them one of the most sturdy mounts in Trevast, capable of breaking into gallops in seconds with an absurd amount of stamina and strength- little wonder that Gargoyles could ride for hours on end and still maintain a focused charge by the end of it.

His lance aimed straight and true, until the duo were mere meters from each other- a sudden switch of angles, and suddenly Gwyn's lance was aimed toward's the Lord's head. The knight leaned forward and braced himself for the impact of the lance- by all rights, his shield should slide away to his left from the angle. See how him how experience beat nobility! "GAGOHYA!" (Gargoyle!)
 

Bishy

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Constantine thought he was ready, but when the sudden lance shift came he didn't have time to block, he leaned backwards on his horse but wasn't fast enough, as a large, sonorous ringing echoed about the area, and for a moment it seemed as if Constantine was missing his head. But as he sat back up, it was revealed he was now helmetless, and on the end of the gargoyles lance was his helmet, swinging freely from it. Laughing, he turned at the end of the arena,trotting back whilst looking at the man with a wide grin. "I believe thats mine!" He called across the arena, and looked off to his family in the crowd, then back to his opponent. Round 2.

He charged forwards again, wobbling precariously on the saddle, apparently unable to ride straight as he rode towards his opponent, raising his lance once again. This time towards the mans stomach on the side , to pry him from the horse, whilst his shield covered everything below his eyes, ready to raise to his forehead to prevent a sudden concussion.
 
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