(514-05-19) Caerwyn Joust
Summary: Caerwyn's jousts against the bloody Samson.
Date: 514-05-19
Related: none
caerwyn eirian morag 

Tournament day comes around and the jousting lists have been posted. For the few who can read, names have been scribbled next to the coat of arms neatly painted on the list, indicating the challenges. The previous day, Caerwyn de Burcombe had squinted at the list on the parchment - yes, that's his family crest and that — Ka-eh—err-wyn? That's his name indeed. But the coat of arms opposite? It's… Just a red shield, with no accoutrement, except a red tear in the center? It forebodes bad news. Caerwyn glances at it and then inquires around. "A field of scarlet, on it a red tear. Morrigan knows who that is," he mutters. Not knowing more than that, he prepares himself for the joust at hand during the day. Perhaps all his lady loves have spurned him before that fateful day or Caerwyn simply has chased off all ladies when they realized they weren't his only lady love, the Black Burcombe wears a helm of blackened iron and a chain hauberk suitably blackened with coal ash. His squire, Alecwyn, prepares his charger at ready, an irritable black stallion who whinnies angrily, pawing at the dust in his paddock just outside of the jousting grounds. The straw-haired squire soothes the horse, feeding it half a sweet carrot.

Meanwhile, Caerwyn is in a melancholic slump. Surely a man of his caliber would have a lady to give him favor. But the Burcombe heir has been terribly unlucky in this department lately. Before leaving the tents, his baby sister Morag had perhaps attempted to steel the knight's confidence with a speech, tying a woolen band in Burcombe gold and scarlet around his arm. There. He would fight for his house. His cousin Eirian left in a small wooden case, a silken garter of silvered linen, inscribed with the Dark Morrigan's own signs underneath. Blessing from a fickle and terrible goddess above indeed. When Caerwyn rides onto the grounds - Burcombe favor from Morag around one arm and silver Morrigan garter from Eirian around the other (pity favors, certainly, but a bold announcement of the loyalty of Burcombe ladies), he glances at the other end. Already, murmurs are whispering. The man opposite is nigh a giant - six feet and wide as an auroch, the most astounding feature is his hair. A full head of wild red hair, a mane that billows down in a fierce beard of flaming whiskers, Samson the Bloodfrank - a man hairy as a bear and renowned for his victories to the south - claims Frankish heritage and the size to boot. The man spits on the ground and gives an impassive look at Caerwyn - unimpressed, obviously, by how pretty the Burcombe is. The small folk murmur about the knight, dressed in leather-reinforced chain layered with rose gold gilding. A drop of blood on a sea of crimson. A terror - his father was known to be a traveling Frankish mercenary captain who had derived honors as a knight simply from brute force. He had terrorized Saxons with a greatsword, cleaving more heads than Caerwyn had years of age, no doubt. And here he was, to joust Caerwyn.

"@!$&," Caerwyn murmurs in Latin, adding, no doubt, a new curse word to his squire's vocabulary. "Stop gaping like an idiot, Alecwyn. Shield and lance." Caerwyn readies his stallion, who skittishly clips out of the pen and seems unnerved. And with that, Caerwyn mounts.

Caerwyn checked his lance of 15, he rolled 1.

You make a check for Famous Knight's Lance at 18, you rolled 19.

Caerwyn rolls 6d6 and gets (2 4 6 2 1 3) for a total of: (18)

You make a check for Famous Knight's Horsemanship at 18, you rolled 2.

Morag stands with Eirian amongst the crowd, as close as they can get. "He's enormous!" she gasps of Caerwyn's opponent, but resolves, "Caerwyn will be swifter. He just needs to touch, doesn't he? There's…an awful lot of that knight to touch."

Eirian rests her chin upon Morag's shoulder, all those sleepless nights of great adventure and frivolty wearing on her very little. The pattern of flowers in her hair echoes the springtime cloak of Britannia itself, and she claps her hands together. "Where did he come from?" she echoes, taking in the Bloodfrank the way a woodsman eyes up a particularly old, large oak. The axe will still bring it down, given a little more time and effort. "No doubt there will be a spate of ginger babies around Imbolc." The fey slant to her expression crackles with amusement, and the drowning curiosity takes in the full excitement of the tourney with someone holding an actual vested stake in it. She is not the sort to shout and wave her linen handkerchief at any one, but straighten and bounce on her heels at the first pass, that's certainly something. "I doubt Caerwyn need worry about unseating that fellow. Perhaps shout 'kidney pie' and hope for the best?" She's terrible.

"Sir, I would certainly respect you still if you chose to withdraw— the man's not a man, he's a bloody were-bear," Alecwyn starts to say.

Withering glare down at his squire. Green eyes shimmering, the grim slant of his lips, his alabaster skin a little bit paler than usual. The expression on his face? 'We are not amused,' Caerwyn says. He lines his horse up next to the start of his side of the divider. "Burcombes do well under pressure," Caerwyn reaffirms to Alecwyn. "Lance." The lance is handed up to him by his squire.

Silent, grim, the Bloodfrank accepts his own lance from his squire, a hefty red-haired lad with not a single whisker on his face. His son, no doubt. The boy is large, fourteen years of age, and looks like he eats well. Incomparable with Caerwyn's squire, Alecwyn, who is thin as a feather with hay-colored hair. The lad makes the sign of the cross over his chest and sets one hand on the horse, before his father suddenly starts galloping. With a great whoop, Samson easily holds his lance up shouldering it like a toothpick.

Opposite, however, Caerwyn simply stares into the stands, adjusting his tourney lance slightly. It's a slim wooden pole designed to hit by finesse. Still looking for his cousin and sister in the stands, it is the whoop that turns him to more important matters. Like being beared down on by a bear of a man. Caerwyn lurches forth on his charger, covering only a third of the ground between the two when they crash together. He drops the tilt of his lance and it clips the Bloodfrank's shoulder briefly. If it had been metal-pointed, it might have been serious. But the lance does not splinter and Caerwyn - squeezing his eyes shut only the moment before - opens them to find himself unscathed. The lance in the shoulder had thrown the other knight's couched lance slightly off center.

Silence from the stands. Stunned. Then a loud wave of applause. Despite the Burcombe unpopularity, everybody loves an underdog.

Caerwyn checked his lance of 15, he rolled 14.

You make a check for Famous Knight's Lance at 18, you rolled 13.

Caerwyn rolls 6d6 and gets (6 3 1 6 6 1) for a total of: (23)

You make a check for Famous Knight's Horsemanship at 18, you rolled 11.

Morag lets out a laugh. "We could certainly hope for the best and - oh, look! A touch! Does it count?" She stomps her feet and whisles, calling out enthusiastically, "Burcombe! Burcombe!" Everyone does indeed love an underdog, and she leans a bit against Eirian as she smiles down at the joust.

The tip of her tongue tracing her rose lips, Eirian leans in a little closer to Morag. Together the pair make an acceptably solid island in an archipelago of spectators out to watch the lists as knights great and not clash against one another. Something might stand out from the chaos; when the Frank's son crosses himself, she utters a phrase under her breath and plucks a celandine from her hair, crushing the blossom at the same time. A collision strikes a strange note for those used to different music, and she stands on her toes. "La! Favour flies him. Burcombe!" She can sing that song.

The bearded Bloodfrank shrugs the blow off with a grunt and comes around the other side. Caerwyn makes his waythere too. And then the dance begins again. He lifts his helm up and addresses the crowd: "For the ladies of Burcombe, I fight - dark of hair, fair of skin, sweet of song and breath!"

On the other end, Samson the Bloodfrank just snorts and glances at the crowd. He lifts his lance up high, with a single thickly muscled arm, and nods. His favor is his wife's, a single bloodred rose bud worn in the folds of his cloak like a brooch.

And then they begin again. This time, the Bloodfrank adjusta his grip slightly, aiming lower. But when Caerwyn rides on his stallion, he flinches at the last moment, tucking the lancepoint solidly into the shield of his opponent. It explodes into a spray of splinters, eliciting a collective 'ooh' from the audience. And then they're on the opposite ends again.

Caerwyn checked his lance of 15, he rolled 13.

You make a check for Famous Knight's Lance at 18, you rolled 1.

Caerwyn rolls 6d6 and gets (1 3 3 5 6 5) for a total of: (23)

You make a check for Famous Knight's Horsemanship at 18, you rolled 10.


You make a check for Famous Knight's Lance at 18, you rolled 8.

Caerwyn checked his lance of 15, he rolled 16.

Uwain rolls 6d6 and gets (6 6 4 4 6 6) for a total of: (32)

Two passes, they go back and forth! The third pass, Caerwyn splinters another lance on the big knight's shield. Caerwyn glances down and holds his hand out for his third lance, which his squire Alecwyn passes up. Like the proverbial flea and the lion, Caerwyn strikes and bites, splintering lance after lance, only annoying the lion. And then when the fourth hit comes around, Caerwyn steels himself, holding his shield up when he realizes he cannot dodge the hit. It sends him flying off his horse with a loud crash. And there, the joust is over.

Morag lets out a shriek of dismay, quickly clamped over by her hand. "Caerwyn…" And giving Eirian's hand a tug, she starts to head to the field to make sure he isn't injured. She has nothing but scowls for that big awful mountain of ginger as she approaches her brother's supine form.

There are people for this sort of thing of dismounting a foe. Healers, for one, including the one standing next to her. Eirian goes stock still for a moment, then snags up her bliaut's excess skirts to make for a rapid run as need be. Morag may be the one who can do something, but she proves fleet of foot when it comes to bolting for her kin sprawled on the field. "The fates love to unsettle the game," she murmurs, arrowing in and giving the squire, wherever he is, a pointed look.

"I am not dead," Caereyn says to the blue sky above him. Lying flat on hid back, he stares up and repeats this mantra. When his sister's face appears above him, he reassures her as well in a cheerful tone: "Sister dearest! I am not dead. And cousin Eirian! You are both looking quite beautiful!" A pause, as Caerwyn frowns. "Maybe I am dead. Then, his squire, Alecwyn rushes over. "Sir, you flew a good six feet! You can't die, not yet!"

"I am -not- dead," Caerwyn says once more, sharply, before pulling himself to his feet. "Well, my beautiful Burcombe lasses, I did make a good showing." When he rises, confident smile aflash, emerald eyes gleaming, he stares into the crowd. A roar of approval sounds. Everybody also loves it when you fly six feet and still get up. He raises his fist to indicate his still-alive status before he walks off the field with his healing kinswomen in tow. It was a good day, relatively. No one died.

"We make a poor showing in Annwn if you are, for not a hound is to be had and Rhiannon's famed hospitality be denied us." The fluid response from Eirian mingles with the ministrations of her cousin and the noise of the crowd, shaking her head. "You can make do with pottage."

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