(514-05-20) More Challenges
Summary: Several rounds of personal challenges and questions of honor fly around the yards.
Date: May 20, 514
Related: Arthur's Wedding Tourney
kamron seraphina aeryn morag caerwyn eirian braelynn selivant idris rozenn martyn catryn heulwen amalthea landon brynmor nalia rowan 

It is the day before the Grand Melee, and it dawns bright and clear, chill at first, but warming quickly for the spring. Perhaps it is true what they say, that God — or the gods — have blessed the union of Arthur and Gwenevere. Or it is just a warm, early spring. Either way, knights, squires, and onlookers have thronged to the Tournament Grounds for personal challenges between knights. It is an opportunity to show off one's skill, test it, and teach one's squire with the example of others. And to get a look at prospective matches.

Sir Kamron de Dinton is accompanied by his tall, gangly squire Jonnin de Newton, the squire carrying a sheathed sword, a helmet, and an oft-repaired wooden practice axe. He manages to carry all three without dropping anything… so far. Kamron watches a match between a pair of Cambrian knights, pointing out where this man or that slips up, and then clapping a mailed hand to his shield in approval. Turning away from the match as it finishes with one knight on his back and the other standing over him, Kam looks about, "So, Newt, who should I challenge, in your estimation?"

Even in the lightening of spring and the warmth of the sun, a shadow still lingers just to the side of the lists. A Knight dressed in Ebony, cloak fluttering in the wind to give view of a dark chainmail form, a hood covering the head and shadowing any features as they listen to the young squire to the left. The squire is a young, short boy who is holding a helm and sword tightly and nods quickly at something that must have been said.

Just finishing up a challenge herself, Aeryn gives her challenger a polite bow and watches as they walk off to something else. The Winterbourne Stoke uses the lull to look around at the others arriving, leaving or looking for challenges. Her squire, Beth, remains a short distance away since Aeryn had all she currently needed for a spar.

Morag is perhaps surprisingly not in the stands, but rather on the edge of the field, no doubt having earned access in her capacity as a churgeon. However she is quite purposefully loitering near her brother and his squire in what is surely a show of familial support and not an expectation that Caerwyn will get hurt.

Newt looks around the area, picking out the cloaked knight, "The Mystery Knight, sir." Kamron chuckles softly, looking around to find the cloaked figure, "Oh, you like the romance of the idea of a mystery knight, do you Newt?" Reaching up to clap a hand on the taller squire's shoulder, "Alright then, we'll start the day with the Mystery Knight." Hefting up his shield, he directs his steps in that direction, speaking up as he approaches, "Sir Knight of the Shadows, as you are armed and armored, I presume you are here to indulge in challenges. I wonder if you would care to test your skill against an axe?"

At the edge of the tourney grounds is the mews and pens for the horses, where Caerwyn stands, leaning against the wooden post fence with a rather lackadaisical devil-may-care manner. But it's always the case with the Black Burcombe - black for both his hair, and his oft-quoted reputation, as well as his choice of armor. His iron chainmail hauberk is worn over his usual leather padding, reinforced with a fine mesh underneath - a Burcombe secret and what some have noted as the reason why Caerwyn has been hailed as a man 'proof against arms'. Though pale and almost fragile looking in his fine good looks, Caerwyn has survived more assault than some other houses - Staplefords and Idmistons, among others, have had a distinct lack of good luck in terms of survivability, despite being far haler and heartier than the Burcombe. He is a tall man of moonlight looks - dark of hair and brilliant of eye, ivory of skin. He also happens to be sipping a mug mildly, watching the competition with a skeptical eye.

Beside the Burcombe heir is his squire. A floppy young man with a mane of straw-colored hair that looks like hay, sticking this way and that, Alecwyn de Salisbury looks like a frolicking jester in armor more so than a squire of an armored knight. Fourteen or fifteen, extremely tall, but thin to the point of sickliness, the young man has better horse legs than land legs - he attends to the rouncies that the pair ride so often. "Just because you lost to your sister, Sir, does not mean you're not strong at arms. Challenge this bunch. Clowns and rogues, the lot of them," he says, a wheat grain dangling from the corner of his lips.

Caerwyn, however, sees the challenge from Kamron to the Knight of Shadows and starts to stalk towards the pair with purpose. "Sir Kamron, you will do no such thing. At least not before you fight me first," he says, challenge in his voice, a glint in his emerald eyes.

As Kamron comes near to that shadowed figure, the small squire straightens up as if trying to look much bigger than he is. But it is the Knight in the hooded cloak who's attention is pulled to Kamron, it's hard to see if those eyes look the Knight over, but there is a feeling of intensity that only breaks as Caerwyn comes over to issue his own challenge.
There is one deep and husky chuckle from inside that hood; no words and it could be missed in the challenge between the two males, but the sounds comes nevertheless and the Knight in Ebony bows towards both Knights with a gloved hand over the heart. But it's clear that waiting till they figure things out would not upset honor.

Kamron checked his awareness at 9, he rolled 2.

Kamron looks over to Caerwyn as the Burcombe makes his interruption. Drawing in a slow breath through his nose, he draws up a hand to stop Newt from sparking back at the tall knight. The youth closes his mouth, for all that he still looks near mutinous. Kamron studies Caerwyn for a moment, drawing down his own anger, and when he speaks, his voice is calm, even quiet, "Thankfully, Sir Caerwyn, you have no power to command my actions. I have offered a challenge to this brave mystery knight, and you would have me make a Lady wait?" 'tsk'ing softly, Kamron continues, "Most ungentlemanly, Sir Caerwyn. But I am happy to face you afterwards, provided that this Ebon Knight leaves me in a fit state to do so."

A pause from Caerwyn. A glance at the cloaked knight. And then he sticks a finger in the air at Kamron. "I call bull on that, Sir Kamron. You're just afraid, too cowardly to challenge a Burcombe knight," he notes with a scowl. Behind him, his squire hurries over, an armful of equipment in his bosom, trying to keep it all together and failing at it. The scabbard barely looped around one arm falls to the muddy tourney ground, and Alecwyn grunts before dipping down to pick it up, only to lose the helmet. Alecwyn - only a boy of fifteen or sixteen - still gives a levelheaded stare at Kamron and clears his throat. "You'd best to accept his challenge, Sir Kamron. Burcombes are stubborn." He raises both eyebrows, to which Caerwyn turns to the boy and levels a cold stare. "Alecwyn, desist in speaking. My stubbornness is determination in spades."

Kamron checked his just at 16, he rolled 13.

The Ebony Knight's head turns towards Kamron as they are named as a lady, and if it was possible to see inside that hood or feel curiosity then that is what is happening now. The form that looks very much like any normal male Knight, not the huge/tall males that seem to grow like weeds around Salisbury but other normal ones gives nothing away while hood and simply stands there turning to look at Caerwyn as he speaks, a little sound; much like a chuckle mixed with a growl and purr comes from that hood but it seems aimed at neither Knight.
The Ebony Knight simply reaches out a gloved hand and places it on the shoulder of the small squire at her side, stopping any words that the boy was about to speak. And he was, his pale features turning slightly red with desire to burst out with something.

"You will wait, Sir Caerwyn, and I will face you afterwards." Gathering his shield more securely on his left arm, Kamron reaches out for his practice axe from his own squire, "It is unbecoming of a knight to flail about like a petulant child when he does not get his way." And then the Dinton tilts his head down, "Newt, my helm." As the squire reaches up to place the man's bucket helm on his head, Kamron adds, "Don't worry, Newt, I'll face the Burcombe afterwards." Turning his helm toward the Ebon Knight, he gestures toward the nearest cleared space, "Unless you would prefer to remain aloof, Sir. I should never want to force my attentions on a knight, be they man or lady."

Morag apparently thinks Caerwyn can do no wrong, from the way she smiles fondly at her brother. "Let him fight the black knight, brother." The priestess counsels him. He'll be worn down from it, and by his own choice. Either an easier victory for you, or a more credible victory for him. Either way, advantageous for you both."

"Attentions? You're about to throttle him with an axe. Talk about unknightly," Caerwyn notes with a scoff, before lifting his hand with a wave of dismissal and turning away from Kamron. "We will fight the Dinton next then," he notes with a scowl - it turns his pretty features not /ugly/, per se, but rather dark. And if the type of commoner girls in attendance were around to swoon, they would. Dark tempered young men always seem to seize the public attention, even as the Church authorities declare them anathema. But when Morag - dark Morag, priestess-sister of a fond Beltaine night - comes to soothe his unruly temper, he manages to finally loosen his temper and then smile, if a little uneasily. And — Lord help us all, the Apocalypse is at hand — Caerwyn turns to Kamron and dips his chin in a nod. "You are in the right, Sir Kamron. I — I have had a tension in my humors lately, and it makes me most untempered. My apologies. I shall await your fight eagerly." Pause. "… For the love—" Another pause. "…of combat, of course."

Caerwyn turns and presses one gauntleted hand on his bony squire's chest, pushing him back and nearly tipping him over. "We must wait, Alec. Patience has won wars, if you believe the Latin writings."

Kamron checked his merciful at 10, he rolled 6.

The Ebony Knight listens to this all and then with a slow movement a hand leaves the squires shoulder and she gives another half bow to Kamron, but then also to Caerwyn. The body does stiffen in surprise over something but then turns back and motions with a gloved hand towards the nearest free green. The cloak stays in place as the Knight moves to settle with a slight bounce of limbs and then brings sword up for a salute. The air around where Seraphina was holds a hint of honeysuckles, unusual but not totally telling.

Morag checked her awareness of 10, she rolled 4.

Kamron turns his helmet back to Caerwyn as the man moderates himself under Morag's influence, and he nods slowly, "My own words were intemperate as well, Sir Caerwyn, and I apologize for them. For the love of combat, after this." And then his attention is all on his opponent, and he brings up shield and axe, his left side turned toward the Knight in Ebony and his practice weapon carefully held up behind the shield. "At your ready, Sir."

Seraphina checked her sword of 15, she rolled 13.
Kamron checked his axe at 15, he rolled 16.
Seraphina rolls 5d6 and gets (2 3 1 4 2) for a total of: (12)
Kamron checked his dex at 13, he rolled 3.

Without a word spoken, for the silence that surrounds the Ebon Knight is total, movement of silent feet takes the Knight within range of Kamron. A sword, slightly shorter than some, but none the less strong flashes from the left hand and aims with a quick twist to land just on the Axes'men shoulder before another backward step pulls Seraphina out of range of that flying axe.

Kamron accepts the advance of the other, stepping back before the taller knight's assault and beginning to step out to his left. He is not quite quick enough to intervene his shield before the blow, however, evidently not used to fighting a left-handed opponent. The blade rings across his mail at his right shoulder, and he is driven back another step , his own reversed sweep coming up just short of its own target at her ribcage. "Neatly played, Sir Knight."

Kamron checked his axe at 15, he rolled 2.
Seraphina checked her sword of 15, she rolled 14.
Seraphina rolls 5d6 and gets (1 5 3 6 3) for a total of: (18)
Kamron checked his dex at 13, he rolled 11.

A dip of the chin is all that is answered to Kamron as the form of the Ebon Knight shifts and allows the incoming Knight to get closer. It is the shift that once more gives the advantage to the slightly taller Knight and that sword sweeps in from the other side, sliding along the right hip to score another point. A shield is pushed up to redirect the incoming axe..

Morag watches the initial exchanges for a few thoughtful moments before leaning in toward Caerwyn and remarking softly, "I think I may know that knight."

The shorter knight advances readily, looking to cut down on the taller's reach advantage. Kamron gets his shield up in time, although the Ebon Knight's sword still slips past to strike home at his hip, even as he hammers his axe into the other knight's shield. A twist of a grimace touches his lips within the helmet, invisible to those outside, and he notes, "Two to none."

Kamron checked his axe at 15, he rolled 6.
Seraphina checked her sword of 15, she rolled 19.
Kamron rolls 4d6 and gets (1 1 1 3) for a total of: (6)

It is the very last shift that throws the Ebon Knight off balance with a swirl of that cloak and a shift of her shield, it has allowed Kamron in closer. Maybe Seraphina has never fought one with an axe for the very weapon hooks on her shield and pulls it away from her body just enough for her to take a punch with the other Knights shield. A slight bounce back and her sword misses Kamron's upper shoulder though there is not even grunt at the impact.

Kamron presses forward hard this time, his axe lifting up to feint an overhand blow, then snapping back, looking to hook the head over the top of his opponent's shield and pull it down far enough for him to punch forward with the front rim of his shield. It is without a doubt an unconventional attack, but certainly seems to work well against most of the knights he faces, so long as his practice axe holds up to the strain. He twists aside from the slash at his shoulder, shaking out his axe to free it from its confinement over the Ebon Knight's shield.

Kamron checked his axe at 15, he rolled 18.
Seraphina checked her sword of 15, she rolled 18.

Hawthorn blossoms, Rozenn's leathers, and a hastily donned tunic of appropriately ladylike length suggest Eirian's activities to be more active than stitching in a solar. She crosses the tourney field towards the stands. In lieu of sword, dagger or Saxon skull, she carries a basket of honey cakes and spiced sweet rolls. A few braided ribbons dance off her sleeves, the wordless battle cry of a generation captured in the Burcombe colours. Beelining to the stands, eventually she will ease in towards her cousins, almost bouncing off her heels.

"Is that so?" Caerwyn says, studying the knight make moves, slash, hit and parry. When Sir Kamron pushes forward with the attack, Caerwyn roars out his approval: "The Dinton gets a burst of courage and pushes his advance!" Lowering his voice, Caerwyn leans towards his half-sister and murmurs something in her ear, arching a brow. "… Who is he?"

Kamron must have worked something loose on his axe-head with the maneuver. The perils of an oft-repaired practice weapons. Because when he next strikes the Knight in Ebony's shield, the head pops neatly off, spinning away to land in the trampled grass. Kamron glances down to the headless haft and tosses it aside. Newt is quite ready for this, unfortunately, having practiced it many times now, and so when Kamron begins to quick-step back, reaching behind him with his now-empty right hand, "Newt, sw — " and there's the hilt of a rebated sword in his palm, courtesy of his squire. Good Newt.

Seraphina checked her sword of 15, she rolled 2.
Kamron checked his sword at 10, he rolled 13.
Seraphina rolls 5d6 and gets (6 6 3 2 1) for a total of: (18)
Kamron checked his dex at 13, he rolled 6.

"If she's gone out of her way to be anonymous I'd rather not say." replies Morag thoughtfully. But if she unmasks, I'll tell you if I'm right."

The head of the axe coming loose would cause a blink within that hood, but not a change in movement, the pull at her shield is the real issue and it tugs the Ebon Knight to the right, having her sword slide once more just inches from Kamron. A breath, a tiny step to the side does give Kamron time to get his sword, but there is no true pause and the left handed Knight slashes her sword past Kamron's shield once more and tags him pretty hard on that same right hip.

It is Alecwyn who first notices the Burcombe cousin, sweet with eau de parfum and the sweet baked scent of honeycakes. He immediately rushes forward, dropping the equipment he was carrying for Caerwyn to attend to his cousin instead. Anybody with an eye for such things would have known Alecwyn's puppy crush on Eirian de Burcombe - like a baby duck imprinting on a pair of boots as its mother, Alecwyn immediately rushes forward to take the basket from her. "M'Lady Eirian, I would gladly hold this for you. So sweet and kind, you are, to bring us honeycakes. It is a most delightful — errr, delight, to have you here with us."

Caerwyn, however, is not amused. "… Alecwyn, bloody get back here. You dropped my helmet and scabbard. Honor before hunger, lad! Anytime some peasant girl or, Morrigan damnit, my cousin brings honeycakes, you drop everything and run. It's funny you haven't got a wider girth."

Alecwyn, torn between loyalty to his knight and amore for said knight's cousin, stands there for a moment, contemplating. Thin, hay-haired, and lazy-smiled, the blonde youth hurries back to his knight, but not without unhanding the basket he offered to take from Eirian. If Eirian is still holding onto the honeycakes, she just might be dragged along for the ride by a happy-go-lucky squire of gangly proportions.

Kamron nods his head as the Ebon Knight gives him a breath of space to rearm, but he is now set with a less-familiar weapon and a left-handed opponent. He tries to hook the incoming blade aside with his weapon, but it does not hook like an axe, just sliding away and letting the blow through to thump into his right hip. Again, he grimaces inside his helmet, staggering a moment at the blow, but he nods, "Well-fought, Sir Knight of the Night." Behind him, Newt has gathered up the parts of the practice axe already, hurrying to repair it as best as he can while looking to Caerwyn and his own squire.

The Ebon Knight pulls back with a soft silent turn of her feet, and then without a word the sword is slide back into place with a soft swirl of silver into black. The movement pulls the cloak to the side slightly and offers the highlights of red that mingle within that ebony chain. But it settles again as a gloved hand covers the heart and a bow is given to the loser of the challenge.
Seraphina still cloaked steps off the field and turns her attention towards the cousins and the going on of the honeycakes. Again that very soft husky chuckle appears within that hood and slow steps take her closer to the three and her own squire. The later seems all excited at the win, but a hand to the shoulder calms the young boy.

Morag beams broadly at Eirian upon sighting her. "Caerwyn's going to fight Sir Kamron. Shall we give him our favors again?"

Rosewater is rather the herald for Eirian, though it's a subtle fragrance rather than a cloying one in the way she applies it. The girl murmurs her pardons as she pushes past the spectators blocking her from where she wishes to be, and the squire haunting her after the honey cakes will have his own curse for that. She knows him, after all; she might know his interest, though her unpredictability shows itself in a quicksilver stroke. "Will my good cousins think so when their bags lie in the dirt where any could walk off with them? I might bind you thrice in bronzed and silver pledges if a thief makes off on your watch. What a hunt that might be through the city, worse than the woods, no?" Her fingertips course over her jaw and she then will retreat with the young man back towards her relations, the cakes and sundry fruits with her. Though how on earth she acquired an apple that red beggars belief or someone she made friends with in the kitchens.

And the addition, once in hearing: "Yes, of course. This time fickle favour will no doubt owe us."

OOC: Missed several rounds of Seraphina/Caerwyn's challenge. Please feel free to add them if possible.

Seraphina has to ignore Caerwyn's words now, those eyes narrowing as he keeps speaking of things that make no sense, of course a touch of a blush hits her cheeks as she slides in to cut up and to the side of his sword, only to be cross his guard and place herself almost perfectly into position for him to hit her once more. The swirling of cloak, hair and the whispering of swords does atleast put on a show in this challenge.

Braelynn rests a hand on Selivant's arm and says, "You had the courage to face an opponent who could have killed you. That says a lot about you." She smiles comfortingly and turns her attention back to the fight.

How is one to interpret this? She knows Seraphina as may be witnessed by her narrowed eyes, speculating a mask over her face. Lips part and and exhales when Caerwyn finally acts instead of talks. "Morrigan take their tongues if this becomes a historical epic instead of a tourney, for then I have right to enter the fray."

"Wait, wait — " Caerwyn pauses briefly and then resumes the defensive. "… You can't be. She was twenty-four when I was a young lad of sixteen. Are — " The handsome Burcombe heir pauses and then glances at Seraphina. "… -You- studied with my father. You must be…" He glances at Eirian and Morag helplessly for confirmation before he turns back to Seraphina. Smoothing down the front of his tabard - Burcombe colors and Eirian's favor flapping high in the sudden gust of chill wind, a relic from winter past, that whips his clothing about him - and then Caerwyn steps in to swing his blade in a misdirected blow. A feint upwards, Caerwyn ducks his knee and moves forward with a skewering stab.

Caerwyn checked his sword of 15, he rolled 1.
Seraphina checked her sword of 15, she rolled 14.
Seraphina rolls 5d6 and gets (2 2 5 1 5) for a total of: (15)
Caerwyn checked his dex of 12, he rolled 16.

Selivant gives a nod to Braelynn's words, before looking over to Eirian at what she says. "Well they may not appreciate you joining the fray, especially if it was a personal challenge." He watches Caerwynn as the poor man stumbles over the identity of his opponent. "He needs a hand and I don't mean with regards to combat."

Maybe not having him think she is someone else is better for Seraphina because she does not seem nearly as distract as before. Her movements slow, her eyes narrow and she follows the tells that Caerwyn gives off. The misdirection does not work this time for the amber eyes Knight steps back just as he slides him and cuts down with a hit to his hip once more, pushing with a sweeping motion.

Caerwyn checked his sword of 15, he rolled 9. (+10 Defensive=25 Skill, 20 Skill +5 to Roll=14)
Seraphina checked her sword of 15, she rolled 12.

Braelynn is watching the combat intently now, her brow furrowed with a mixture of worry and amusement. She bites her lower lip considering as she does.

Kamron has gathered with Newt, the knight and squire alike working to fix Kamron's broken (again) practice axe. His helmet is grounded at his feet, the rebated and sheathed sword alongside it. Neither of them is a woodworker, but they're both trying to get the wedges in place to lock the wooden axe-head onto the haft. He frowns as he looks up at the challenge still ongoing.

Once more, when Caerwyn gets clipped, he regains some sense of composure. The score is 2-2 - anyone's hit, anyone's fight, really. And Caerwyn realizes, once more, that this is a squire - pretty girl or no - that trained under his father. And he has fought his father countless number of times. Slash, stab, parry, press the assault. That is Roaman the Dark's way. The Black Burcombe - Caerwyn the Black, for all his conquests, both in knightly combat and unknightly bedroom (and all the conquests attributed to him that he did not actually do), has a different way of fighting. He lifts his sword up in defense, keeping his guard at ready - this is a slow fight. The smaller Ebon-knight - a woman, of all things - must tire more quickly. At least, that is Caerwyn's reading of the situation.

But finally, Caerwyn steps in and swirls his sword in a wicked slash - a pump with his fist up, and then an articulate downward cut. Low is go, for the Black Burcombe.

Caerwyn checked his sword of 15, he rolled 2.
Seraphina checked her sword of 15, she rolled 19.
Caerwyn rolls 5d6 and gets (5 2 1 2 2) for a total of: (12)

Selivant raises an eyebrow as the two knights continue to fail landing any decisive blows on one another. "Hmmm, I wonder if his confusion and her anger are cauing them to lose their clear-headedness in combat." He gives them an appraising look; though, he is just as skilled as either of them if he were honest.
pose raises his voice at this point, a frown touching his lips, "Come now, Burcombe, stop dancing around and fight." By now, he's gotten the axe back together, rising from his kneel to give it a couple of tentative swings. "You've another match after this one, don't forget." He's not helping anything, but apparently, he's not trying to.

Kamron raises his voice at this point, a frown touching his lips, "Come now, Burcombe, stop dancing around and fight." By now, he's gotten the axe back together, rising from his kneel to give it a couple of tentative swings. "You've another match after this one, don't forget." He's not helping anything, but apparently, he's not trying to.

Idris has come back from a joust; he's dirtied in mud, so likely the outcome wasn't too good. Still, he draws his sword quietly, his squire sort of hanging back while the Bodenham's temper sizzles in that sort of taciturn rage. And it is even more likely he's looking for a challenge to let go of some aggression.

Well after what comes to be known as the seventh pass of the pair moving from attack to defensive, to attack, and both ending on the ground atleast once, an end has to come. Of course it being Seraphina's first lost on the dueling field probably makes the growl that come from her throat as she is caught low and hard, make more sense. But as it doesn't stagger her to much, she slips away from Caerwyn with a soft twist of her hips and only a slight limp from his first hard cut and bows with sword over heart.
The wind picks up those curls and they flow around her face, the cloak flutters in the wind to bath her in shadows once more, while the scent of dark honeysuckle teases the air. "Sir Seraphina de Newentone, former squire to your Sire.." Just to make sure there is some introduction from that husky voice, even if she sounds as if she'd be better at a simple growling purr.

The jousts were over rather early for Rozenn. She was down in the first pass of the first round. One of the first match-ups, too. It's left the woman a lot of time to do other things. Such as drink. And interact with her newly betrothed. Also time to trawl the dueling fields, observing the other Knights. Perhaps she's just curious. Maybe she's hoping for some duels ofher own. Or, she could be looking for those due to be on the opposing army when it comes down to the grand melee. Whatever it may be, the woman is attired for combat — should it come her way — and has a sword at hand. She is currently watching two men duke it out, perched upon a fence. Her squire is nearby, quickly repairing a broken strap upon her shield.

"Ah. Newton Tony," Caerwyn says, stepping away from it. "… You're Sera? My father loved you quite a bit," he says, arching a brow. "… Rather said that he'd prefer someone like you as another daughter for a knight, than myself as a son. With a father and a sister like mine, who needs enemies?" Caerwyn's eyes twinkle before he turns to glance at his cheering squad. "Then you must already know my dear sister Morag and my cousin Eirian. I went out to squire. It was a good fight. Albeit, a bit confusing. But a good fight nonetheless." He starts to offer his hand to Seraphina, before thinking better of it, withdrawing it at the last second. "Well, um. Good fight. Go on." And with that, he removes his helmet, shaking out his head of dark locks and hand the metal box to his squire, Alecwyn, who mutters something in his ear.

As Caerwyn moves over to stand with his fellow Burcombes, he can be heard sighing and murmuring something: "Ah, Gisela."

"Sir Kamron, you're next," Caerwyn says, before dusting off his tabard and checking his chainmail. He rolls his shoulders and turns to Kamron. "… Fight with a sword. The axe is bloody unknightly. And broken, for that matter. See," Caerwyn says, shouldering his shield. "I'm not using a shield and I'm not a bloody Saxon, so there's no need to chop me up with an axe like some kind of tree. First to three. Are you ready, Sir Kamron de Dinton?" His squire rushes over to fit the helmet over his head. One fight right after another.

Seraphina watches Caerwyn as he speaks, those amber eyes curious and somehow doesn't wince at his words, or the withdraw of the hand he almost offered. But those eyes do close off before she blinks and glances towards the ladies on the side line. "I know them yes.." Her voice soft, husky and warm but then Caerwyn is walking off and the lady Knight can only shake her head abit in bemusement before she moves with slow steps towards her squire.
The young but very small boy looks up at her and then rushes off towards the field once more. He will soon return with the hood that Caerwyn cut off and mutters something over his breath. This causes Seraphina to give a soft chuckle, reaching over to cuff his shoulder but sliding her cloak off and handing it to him before turning to look over the field once more.

"I knew it was you, Sir Sera." Morag calls out to the knight, though her attention is quickly diverted to Caerwyn's newest challenge.

Well, who better than Rozenn to fight Idris when he's in a mood? "Sir Rozenn de Burcombe. Do you feel like a rematch from our Sarum bout? At least we won't get in trouble for it," Idris calls out, sword drawn and pointed at her, but not really in a threatening fashion since he offers a salute with it afterwards. And the faintest of smirks.

Kamron hefts the axe again, just to test it, then shakes his head at Caerwyn, "A little less profanity toward a God you do not believe in, if you please, Sir Caerwyn. You do not hear me cursing the Morrigan, or Gwynn ap Nudd, or Danu." Apparently, he actually knows the names of some of the Pagan gods. "And if you fear facing an axe, I shudder to think what will happen when you run into Saxons. They are not known for their use of the sword." He ducks his head, beckoning to his squire, and Newt slips the bucket helm atop Kamron's head. Turning back to the Burcombe, Kam steps into the cleared space, rolling his shoulders to loosen them up again, "Use the weapon you will, and I will do the same. You may even learn something that could save your life against the Saxons. First to three."

From her perch on the fence, Rozenn is even taking a long swig from a skin. Probably some thinned wine. Nothing to overly affect her abilities, but enough to wet the tongue and make all the better her enjoyment of observation. But then! Ho! A familiar voice! The Burcombe sits up straighter, bright eyes pulling away from Kamron and her cousin. There's an arch of brow at Idris and his challenge. Hopping from the fence, Roz pulls her own blade and extends her arm; Squeak quickly and deftly securing her shield. "I do believe I can attend to that, Sir Idris."

"Oh, excellent. I look forward to our fight, then," Idris states respectfully once Rozenn is in conversational range, keeping his blade to his side as he watches the Burcombe approach. "First to three, then?" He wonders, turning to head further into the field where they won't stumble or bash their shields at anyone during their fight.

Ensuring the shield is fit well, Rozenn shakes her squire off. Git! The woman follows Idris at an easy pace, no longer looking this way and that to the other combatants. She has her own to focus on! Tilting her head, Roz murmurs agreement. "First to three." She does, briefly, look over Idris. "I am glad it was not yet muddy when I fell."

Seraphina looks up as Morag calls out and then with a nod to her squire she makes her way over to the Burcombe ladies and throws Morag a wink followed by a chuckle. ONly when she is near enough does she offer. "Some might know me, though of course others not. It also seems when I'm a mystery I do much better on the challenge field.."

Caerwyn checked his sword of 15, he rolled 6.
Kamron checked his axe at 15, he rolled 4.
Caerwyn rolls 5d6 and gets (5 3 4 2 6) for a total of: (20)
Kamron checked his dex at 13, he rolled 6.

"Unfortunately it all started getting a little slippery with the occasional drizzle. Getting to best so many knights at a bout of jousting is an honor, however. Even if there is one still on the lists I would not mind bleeding a little bit," Idris comments to Rozenn, the fury in his eyes rather telling, should one look closely. "Alright, be ready," he warns as he dashes forward, sword sent in a short wave to hit at Rozenn's shoulder, or perhaps across her torso.

Braelynn retrieves her basket from the ground next to her and turns from the tournament grounds, heading toward the tent city.

Critical Success!
Idris checked his sword of 15, he rolled 15.
Rozenn checked her sword of 15, she rolled 4.
Idris rolls 10d6 and gets (5 2 1 6 6 4 4 4 5 1) for a total of: (38)

Stepping out to the field, Martyn watches the goings on out there. He's all ready for some of the challenges if that's how things will go, but for now, he just watches the happenings rather thoughtfully.

"I was unhorsed in the first round. First pass. I should not have signed up, to be perfectly honest." Rozenn feels little shame in it; jousting is not her strong suit and she's well aware of that. At least she tried. The woman does bring her shield up, attempting to prepare. But without that simmering rage, well… Her shield is up, yes, but between Idris' size, the charge, and his anger at someone NOT NAMED ROZENN… the woman is sent to the ground. She's still awake and aware, but there's a grunt and she doesn't immediately get herself upright.

"Well, ask your God to strike me down if they do not like it," Caerwyn says, lifting his sword with both hands, and letting the flat of the blade rest against his shoulder as he stares down the smaller Sir Kamron. He starts to walk forward, bearing down on Kamron. The young man projects a certain gloom to him, a callous strength. Lips curling up into a confident smile, he starts to swagger towards Kamron, before bringing his blade off his shoulder. He has no shield. He wields his Celtic long-blade with an easy grace. "Does your God grant the three-fold strength of the Morrigan? Or Lugh Long-Arm's throw?"

Caerwyn pauses briefly, and then lifts his sword up an inch, threateningly. And then he stops. It is obviously a ploy to frighten the smaller, stouter Dinton. "Do you not fear the Fates? The Maiden brings her undying youth, the Mother her uncompromising support, the Crone her wicked wisdom. What does your God bring you? Faith? The knowledge that there will be a life beyond death?" He steps forward, and then with one easy lift of both hands, lifts his blade up in a wide arc. It would split chests and cleave sternums, were it sharpened to kill men.

"The knight I squired under made sure I could face a lance charge head on, which meant riding out to lance charge, myself. It is the only reason why I lasted so long in the tournament. Apparently, so did my brother John. It's quite funny, really. We went all the way to the finalists but lost before we could be in the deciding match," Idris explains, while striking down Rozenn with such force it actually breaks through the chainmail. There is a moment where his expression is one of regret at what he just did, and he is chivalrous enough to offer a hand for her to stand back up before the fighting resumes.

Kamron does not seem intimidated by the height of the Burcombe… but then again, most knights are taller than him, even some of the lady knights. "I don't pray for unimportant things, but when He is needed, He is there, with the strength or speed or grace necessary." As the blow comes down overhead, Kamron slides to his right, lifting up his shield to intercept the blow. It is not quite quick enough, however, and the shield is driven down into his shoulder, the rebated blade still striking hard enough raise an immediate bruise and send Kamron staggering back half a step. He retains his balance, however, stepping out and around to his right and sweeping his practice blade before him to gain some room.

Idris checked his sword of 15, he rolled 19.
Rozenn checked her sword of 15, she rolled 8.
Rozenn rolls 4d6 and gets (1 5 4 4) for a total of: (14)

There is a long sigh from Rozenn. Is this a glimpse of what lies ahead for her in the melee? She doesn't seem too injure, no, though she does pluck at the chainmail where it has rended. Lovely. Her squire has a long night ahead, to be sure. The Burcombe does accept the hand back to her feet, checking over her shield once upright. "I will say, I am not the one your ire is directed at. Perhaps you should find them or contain yourself by a measure?" There is a hint of a smirk upon her lips, but perhaps an edge of -serious- as well.

Kamron checked his axe at 15, he rolled 2.
Caerwyn checked his sword of 15, he rolled 2.

Ah, what excellent timing! Heulwen has decided to wander by the tournament field to goggle at the personal challenges, and lo and behold - her brother fighting that one pretty-eyed Burcombe. The spring breeze is not particularly refreshing today, and she pauses to remove her cloak, the garment being rather unnecessary at this point in time. Draping it over her arm, she glances between the two fights occurring, trying as best as she may to get in as much viewing time for each pair as possible.

Seraphina is settled near the stands, clearly having been talking with someone, but the Knight is unclocked and Ebony chain and leather glimmer lightly in the over head sun. It's a warm day, but there is from time to time a cooling breeze that causes Seraphina's hair to get in the way. A gloved hand raises and pushes the hair back into the braid, which does not stay to well while she watches the challenges going on.

Martyn watches the challenges rather thoughtfully. Taking a few mental notes as he studies the styles of the combatants now, humming a little to himself.

"Your God," Caerwyn says, "will give you what you need, I trust." He takes a step forward and then spins in a swirl on the offensive - while the Black Burcombe may not fight like his father, who has relentless assault on his side, he still has taken a few pages from his father and his twin sister's book - when people talk about their faith, one need only shatter it to frighten them into submission. When he whirls like a dervish, his blade lashes out like a cobra, an extension of his arm, and it swings in a slashing arc with the kind of brute strength that does not seem likely to spawn from this slender man's body.

At the last moment, though, Caerwyn briefly glances into the crowd - losing his concentration - and spots Heulwen, sister to the Dinton. The confident smirk on his face disappears like the moon behind clouds.

The Bodenham listens to Rozenn, watching her and perceiving the serious and the smirk both. This time, however, Idris' usual strategy fails. Rozenn manages to hit him squarely on the side, awarding her a point. "Good one," he tells her, stepping back and lifting his shield, opting for a defensive or counter-offensive stance, this time, rather than his usual all-out tactics.

Kamron brings his axe up to parry the strike from the Burcombe as he slips away, but it betrays him once more, the other man's rebated blade catching it at just the right angle to send the oft-repaired head spinning off into the trampled grass. Again. Backstepping quickly, he holds out his right hand behind him, and Newt is already slapping the hilt of the rebated sword into it. "If it is something that I need, Sir Caerwyn, God will see that I get it, if I prove myself worthy. If it is something that I want I must work for it myself."

Idris checked his sword of 15, he rolled 12.
Rozenn checked her sword of 15, she rolled 7.
Idris rolls 5d6 and gets (4 5 5 3 3) for a total of: (20)
Rozenn checked her Dex of 14, she rolled 10.

Catryn stands quietly on the sidelines after arriving, she notices her family and offers a wave to them, but mostly she watches Roz in the duel with Idris. A second duel with less heated passions, possibly? Curious about the outcome, she rarely looks away except to check on the progress of her twin.

See, this is how it ought to work. Back and forth. Rozenn rolls out her shoulders, finding a better pacing. When they clash once again, Idris does get inside her guard. However, she does not fall. Her back leg braces and the Burcombe remains standing. Stepping back, she dips her sword in salute. "Much better. Find this man after he is done the lists. Use your anger on him. I still have plenty to attend to." Yup, much less heated. Almost as if they've worked things out!

You check your sword at 10, you rolled 17.
Critical Fail!
Caerwyn checked his sword of 15, he rolled 20. (+10 Defensive)

Seraphina checked her awareness of 11, she rolled 7.

Heulwen glances up at movement nearby, and spots Seraphina stopping to view the challenges. She bobs her head to the woman, but not recognizing the face, she eventually turns her attention back to the challenges. Her eyes are wide as she follows Kamron's movements, and she worries her lower lip between her teeth. Her fingers twist up the fabric of her cloak in nervousness as the axehead goes flying (no surprise there). "Well damn!" she exclaims, and then immediately covers her mouth with her hand. Well, damn.

"Oh, I am going to make sure I find him," Idris promises, smiling at his opponent. Yeah, he's smiling at her. It's brief, though. "Maybe I will make sure to challenge him so that he ends up falling face down in the mud, just as I had to find myself falling on my ass from a horse and getting my tabard, chains and leather dirty." Seems like he really doesn't like the guy. He salutes her back and carefully aproaches, swinging his sword as it is aimed for a quick strike to her hip.

Idris checked his sword of 15, he rolled 11.
Critical Fail!
Rozenn checked her sword of 15, she rolled 20.
Idris rolls 5d6 and gets (3 2 3 3 4) for a total of: (15)
Rozenn checked her Dex of 14, she rolled 10.

"Well, shouldn't he fall on his ass, to make it even?" Rozenn nearly laughs, but not quite. She has a final round to go,r ight? Or two, if she manages- but no, the womans foot twists the wrong way as she tries to avoid that strike to her hip. Instead, she stumbles a half-step and Idris manages to get a solid thwack on her rump instead. Still upright, but the loss in the round, Rozenn leans back on her heels and begins to strip off the shield. "Next time, we duel through tankards of ale."

"… I don't know if there's something I need or want - who knows if one truly -needs- something, huh?" Caerwyn says, glancing over at the tourney stands. Heulwen there, by Seraphina. Suddenly, he isn't fighting like a torturer, pressing his advantage so easily. He looks back and stands up defensively, wielding his sword with the cautiousness. He calculates his odds. He shouldn't press his advantage on the man who lost his axe. It isn't very manly or knightly or anything nice. Impressive. That's the word. Plus, Kamron is her brother.

Finally, Caerwyn decides to fight again, this time, artfully lashing out his sword for a mild tap. He's not fighting for keeps this time.

Kamron checked his awareness at 9, he rolled 7.

"Deal," Idris agrees with the tankards of ale duelling, as it seems like a good idea to him, glancing over to see if there's a healer around, "Let's get someone to check where I hit you though. I don't want you to be at a disadvantage in the melee because of me." He does smirk again but only briefly because he manages a hit on her rump, but he suppresses that after a moment before he tells Rozenn, with a grin, "Well fought, Sir. I enjoyed it."

Kamron draws out the sword, frowning slightly as Caerwyn goes on the defensive. He makes a testing, feinting thrust toward Caerwyn's chest, easily parried aside, and then he glances in the direction that Caerwyn keeps looking. The smaller knight draws in a sharp breath through his nose, his lips purse, and his eyes narrow within his helmet. He takes the little tap from the Burcombe on his shield, then advances.

Critical Fail!
Caerwyn checked his sword of 15, he rolled 20.
Kamron checked his sword at 10, he rolled 5.
Kamron rolls 4d6 and gets (2 5 3 6) for a total of: (16)
Caerwyn checked his dex of 12, he rolled 5.

Amber eyes look from the fight where Caerwyn has just stopped in his tracks over to the lady that is nodding to her and a slight smile touches her lips as Wen is given a curious glance over. A dip of her chin comes to the woman but she follows her eyes back tot he Kamron and Caerwyn fight and can't help an arched eyebrow, her eyes narrowing in thought. When Heulwen curses outload, a little husky chuckle escapes the Knight and she has to step up next to Heulwen and speak softly.

Mostly, Rozenn seems more concerned in regard to her rended chain. She's already slipping free of it to hand off to her squire; down to the leathers beneath. "I can find my cousin, if need be. I may be bruised, but-" There's a roll of shoulders, perhaps just the barest of flinching. "Don't worry about it. Go find your true foe, Sir Idris." Another nod and she's angling off.

Looking around at those not currenltly participating in one of the fights, Martyn's gaze stops on Catryn, studying her for a few brief moments, before he steps over in her direction, offering a brief nod. "You look like you are contemplating chllenging someone," he remarks. "Perhaps I could offer you a challenge?"

And no sooner than it is spoken, it is done. Catryn accepts with a gracious smile. Okay, maybe not gracious, but there's a glint of competition in her eyes! "I gladly accept, Sir Martyn de Baverstock." Shield is already on, she reaches for her sword and nods towards the open area. "Ready when you are."

Critical Fail!
Kamron checked his sword at 10, he rolled 20.
Caerwyn checked his sword of 15, he rolled 9.
Caerwyn rolls 5d6 and gets (4 2 4 1 3) for a total of: (14)
Kamron checked his dex at 13, he rolled 7.

Kamron checked his sword at 10, he rolled 9.
Caerwyn checked his sword of 15, he rolled 12.
Caerwyn rolls 5d6 and gets (4 1 3 5 5) for a total of: (18)
Kamron checked his dex at 13, he rolled 11.

Landon de Baverstock is hanging around the tournament grounds, looking a bit restless. He's prepared for personal challenges, geared up and blunted blade in hand.

Getting his own sword and shield ready, Martyn nods, as he moves into position. "Ready," he offers, giving the Burcombe a few moments, before he moves in for his first strike.

Idris glances at the newcomer. Since he has his blade already drawn, and yes, it is not a blunted sword at all, he points the weapon to the 'Bear of Baverstock'. "You there. We shall fight."

The distracted Dinton girl jumps in startlement as Seraphina suddenly leans over to murmur something to her, and Heulwen's hand flies up toward her throat as if trying to catch her heart before it leaps out of her mouth. Her cheeks flush in slight embarrassment, and she tips her head down for a moment before looking up to the knight. Her lips curve up into a wry smile, and she responds first with a light laugh. "Well then, that is a great relief, good sir. I'm not sure anybody else heard me, in any case, over the sounds of combat, aye? But thank you." Her gaze drifts away, going back to the fight between Kamron and Caerwyn. "I'm afraid I'm not sure who is winning, though."

It wasn't a surprise that Landon would get a challenge eventually - his size was worthy to note, as well as the mutterings of Bear of Baverstock - could be because of the golden bear on his shield, could be because of his size, could be because he /ate/ bear liver and meat… could be a lot of things, but he turns toward Idris all the same. "We shall. With real swords or tourney blades? Yours looks to have an edge-" he points with his own.

Catryn is on the field across from Martyn and when he moves to strike first, she grins, ducking and lifting her shield while trying to bring her sword against his side. Tricky!

Catryn checked her sword of 15, she rolled 19.
Martyn checked his Sword of 15, he rolled 8.
Martyn rolls 4d6 and gets (4 6 1 4) for a total of: (15)
Critical Success!
Catryn checked her dex of 17, she rolled 17.

"I promise I will pull back on my blows if you will, as well," Idris replies, "But if you care to use real blades, then yes, we shall use real ones. That is the best way to fight." Perhaps because he is a tall fellow, but not as big as the Bear himself, the Bodenham isn't really intimidated.

Seraphina dips her chin towards Wen, that smile still tugging at her lips as she keeps her voice low when speaking, "Ah, sometimes the wind is a funny thing, but forgive me for startling you.." She offers the Dinton woman before those amber eyes focus on the Caer/Kam fight. "I believe it is Sir Caerwyn at the moment.." Her voice is cautious at that, her own gaze now staying on the fight.

Not having any of those tricky sword against his side, Martyn manages to get his shield into position in time, while his own swing goes towards his opponent's knee. Swing finished, he moves back a bit to be ready for the next strike, his eyes carefully on Catryn now.

Landon frowns a bit at Idris, "Are so eager to injure fellow knights?" He hands off his sword to a squire that's been tailing him, "Real swords then. However if you are more valorous than that, then tourney swords. It is completely up to how you want to be spoken of, Sir." The squire holds the tourney sword, looking anxious to run for a real one soon enough.

"Go Sir Caerwyn!"

It is not Heulwen or his half-sister or his cousin that cheers him on, but the gangly sixteen-year-old Alecwyn de Salisbury, who pumps his fist in the air. Perhaps this scares the crap out of Kamron or perhaps it takes Caerwyn's attention off his opponent's sister long enough to focus on his actual opponent, but when his squire cheers him on, he furrows his brow and picks up his sword when it goes flying into the dust. He scrambles to get it before lifting his sword up with two hands, assuming la posta di falcone. "Sir Dinton, I am dreadfully… I'm sorry," Caerwyn says. "You see, this fight between our houses cuts deep - it hurts this heart of mine, and I would not fight you if it would deepen wounds."

And it's quite likely that Kamron's going to press the charge anyways. He swirls his sword in response, knocking it out and striking forward. When the Dinton loses his sword, he backs up again and tries his best to assuage the Dinton. But he falters at his words - Caerwyn is a warmaker and a lovemaker, but he's not a diplomat. Not a peace-maker. And he steps back. "Should we really fight for love of combat, when love of family is at stake? I believe that this vendetta will tear our families apart," he says mournfully. "Let us end this." And with that, he presses his attack once more, once Kamron has regained his sword.

The strike finds its mark but Catryn isn't even close to being toppled by the hit to her knee. She does take the moment to step back and consider him, a calculating look. Without warning, she lunges towards him, shield lifted to bash against him while the sword is swung against his side.

"I will be spoken as a man who challenges other knights with real blades and does not frown upon their use." Idris replies, apparently finding himself quite bored already, judging by the tone he replies to Landon.

Catryn checked her sword of 15, she rolled 17.
Martyn checked his sword of 15, he rolled 14.
Martyn rolls 4d6 and gets (2 5 5 6) for a total of: (18)
Catryn checked her dex of 17, she rolled 12.

"Mm, yes, I think you are quite right about that," Heulwen replies to Seraphina quietly, watching with narrowed eyes as Caerwyn retrieves his sword. She cannot quite hear their words this far away, but does note that they are speaking - or at least one of them is. Her attention shifts to Kamron, brow furrowed deeply in thought, but eventually she pries her attention away to look back to the knight beside her. "Will you be challenging anyone soon, good sir? I think not too long ago some knights were lingering hoping for someone to test to their mettle. Have you any wins under your belt this tourney?"

Landon nods, "Then we fight with real swords." His eyes remain on Idris as his squire moves back with the tourney sword, so that Landon can draw the true metal at his side, "What is your name then, Sir?" Asked before his helmet is drawn down over his face.

It's definitely Sir Caerwyn now. Kamron puts up a valiant fight, but he is not as skilled with a sword as the taller knight. He allows the other man to pick up his sword, then makes his own attack, "I have fought friends and allies in these practice rings, Sir Caerwyn." The words come around and through the clatter of rebated blades as Kamron is driven back. And then his sword goes slipping from his grasp, and he rushes aside to grasp it up once more before he returns to the fight, "You are making something personal when it is not, Sir Caerwyn." He is struck a third time, and shakes his head in disappointment, grounding the tip of his sword, "That is three. You have fought skillfully. But next time you wish to make a good impression, you might try not insulting a man's faith, God, courage, and weapon. Good day." Newt darts out to gather up the haft and head of the broken practice axe as Kam sheathes the rebated blade and starts over toward Heulwen.

"Idris de Bodenham, at your service," the knight replies, hefting the blade so that the tip is at his eye level, the shield held slackily by his side before he surges forward to attack Landon, a quick jab to the Baverstock's shoulder.

Idris checked his sword of 15, he rolled 13.
Landon checked his Sword of 15, he rolled 14.
Landon rolls 5d6 and gets (1 3 6 5 2) for a total of: (17)
Idris checked his dex of 8, he rolled 3.

Once more his shield goes out to protect himself, although the bash of the Burcombe's shield makes his own strike come a bit faster than he had planned, going for the sword arm of Catryn. This time, he doesn't step back, going into the next attack almost immediately.

Well Catryn isn't doing so well, and she's aware she's not doing so well.. two hits to zero! It's not looking pretty for the Burcombe's today. Damned that Baverstock! He manages to hit her sword arm but she holds it tight, and when he counters almost immediately, she pivots to offer her shield as fodder to try and get herself straightened enough to counter with her own sword.

Seraphina watches the end of the fight happening as she speaks to Wen, at her question another graceful nod is given to the lady. "Four it would seem, enough to have tried my arm and given honor of my Lord.." She admits before stepping back a few steps. "But forgive me for interrupting. As pointed out I should see if I am needed elsewhere.." That smile still lingers as Seraphina will finally make her way into the crowd again.

Catryn checked her sword of 15, she rolled 14.
Martyn checked his sword of 15, he rolled 3.
Catryn rolls 4d6 and gets (4 1 6 1) for a total of: (12)
Martyn checked his dex of 12, he rolled 18.

Landon parries the quick jab to his shoulder with the bash of his shield, raised in time to catch the blade as he makes a thrust inside the leverage he's created against the other's blade. The thrust stabs toward Idris' gut. The other doesn't seem phased so the attacks continue, the fight had just started after all and he's not going to let up.

Landon checked his Sword of 15, he rolled 13.
Idris checked his sword of 15, he rolled 1.
Landon rolls 5d6 and gets (1 3 5 5 5) for a total of: (19)
Idris checked his dex of 8, he rolled 14.
Landon checked his Merciful of 10, he rolled 5.

There's a new arrival to the spectators area, and she smells like the stables. Amalthea, garbed in a plain brown tunic and dark tights, her tall boots leaving imprints in the ground, spots Heulwen and her steps turn that way. Her smile is bright as she tries to sneak up behind her cousin.

And that shieldwork by Catryn catches Martyn, causing him to be straight in the way of the incoming sword, sending him backwards down to the ground. Blinking for a few moments, he starts getting back to his feet again.

Catryn checked her merciful of 4, she rolled 14.
Catryn checked her cruel of 16, she rolled 15.

It seems that the Bear has one better on Idris, because the thrust does catch him, but he steadies himself. And there's another attempt at striking the man, this time on the side, but he is caught on the shoulder before he can do so. He falls on his ass, takes in a deep breath and laughs. "Well, you are beating me soundly. I suppose it's been long coming." He does notice, however, he is bleeding. His jaw sets and he stands up again.

Critical Success!
Idris checked his sword of 15, he rolled 15.
Landon checked his Sword of 15, he rolled 13.
Idris rolls 10d6 and gets (3 6 2 3 4 3 2 5 5 4) for a total of: (37)

Heulwen smiles to Seraphina and bobs her head in farewell before looking back to the field. She sees Kamron call the fight, and sighs quietly. Her shoulders slump a bit, but when her brother begins to head in her direction, she brightens up and waves a hand to catch his attention…unnecessarily. "You are just in time, brother. We should be going, and I think—ah, there." She tilts her head, gesturing with a lift of her chin toward Amalthea. "She is here. You are going to escort us, aren't you?" Even while waiting for a response, her gaze flits over Kamron's shoulder to watch Caerwyn.

When Martyn falls, Catryn lifts her sword and brings it down on his shield deliberately, not going for a point, but perhaps proving a point before she steps back and nods to him, "On your feet, Baverstock."

Grimacing as his shield is bashed, Martyn shakes his head a little, before he shakes his head. "So impatient, Burcombe…" he remarks as he regains his footing, preparing for the next attack.

Thea is startled a moment with her eyes on the field, on Martyn specifically, and then on to the lady knight standing over him. Her frown is fierce, but only momentarily as the knight rises. "Ah, right. We are. The horses are at the ready, of course." Amalthea summons a grin. "Ready when you both are."

Catryn checked her sword of 15, she rolled 1.
Martyn checked his Sword of 15, he rolled 8.
Martyn rolls 4d6 and gets (1 2 3 6) for a total of: (12)
Catryn checked her dex of 17, she rolled 18.

Landon checked his Sword of 15, he rolled 10.
Idris checked his sword of 15, he rolled 7.
Landon rolls 5d6 and gets (5 6 2 5 3) for a total of: (21)
Idris checked his dex of 8, he rolled 7.

"Sir Dinton," Caerwyn calls out to Kamron after the fight is called. "I do not wish to fight anymore, for petty reasons. There are Saxons out there," he says.

And then he shakes his head and turns away, turning to watch as Idris downs another victim. When Landon hits the ground hard, he winces a bit. "… That Idmiston is quite unstoppable," he says. "… And I think I should not like to test my blade against him." And then… Catryn? When Catryn goes down? Despite Caerwyn's healthy fear of his sister, he rushes over, nearly taking the field to stop him from pushing his attack on his sister. He nearly rushes on there, full armor, to help her up. In fact, he's already there, kneeling next to her, offering his hand. "Catryn!"

Landon gets back up easily enough when it's his turn to take a knee after the Idmiston's blows catches him off balance enough to make the big man stumble. But, the Bear gets up, with a look in his eye. He nods to Idris, "That was a good hit. I should not like to think what would have happened if you weren't holding back…" And then he curls his shield in tightly as he takes a cautious step forward, wincing underneath his helm for where that powerful blow had bowed him over.

The minute he finds his feet, Catryn is moving in with her sword, but it is too little too soon and she feels the brunt of his attack as it knocks her off her feet and down to the ground with a solid thud. For a moment, she lays there, she was defeated by a Baverstock. A /Baverstock/. And that irks her beyond anything. Then her brother is kneeling beside her and she looks up at him. "If you have not had the chance to challenge a Baverstock, I hope you do. Talented swordsmen, the lot of them." Sitting up, she takes her brothers hand and laughs softly as she gets to her feet. "And a straight on challenge, not that 'no attack' thing you do. It's a measure of skill with a sword, use your sword, not your shield." To soften her words, she kisses his cheek, then looks at Martyn. "Well fought, Sir."

Landon gets back up easily enough when it's his turn to take a knee after the Bodenham's blows catches him off balance enough to make the big man stumble. But, the Bear gets up, with a look in his eye. He nods to Idris, "That was a good hit. I should not like to think what would have happened if you weren't holding back…" And then he curls his shield in tightly as he takes a cautious step forward, wincing underneath his helm for where that powerful blow had bowed him over.

"You would probably be bleeding a lot," Idris explains, readying himself for another strike. A lighter one. But the swing is not good enough, such as it is, and the Baverstock manages to catch him on the chest again, scoring his third point and Idris' fourth defeat. "Well done, Sir." At least, he didn't lose to /this/ Baverstock without scoring a point. "Good fight." And on to the next challenge.

Heulwen loiters for a moment, murmuring to Kamron that she will catch him up, but after another minute or two she turns her attention to Amalthea. "Pretty cousin," she greets, rising up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to her cousin's cheek. "Shall we go, then? We had best hurry. He seems like a knight on a quest - single-minded." Her smile falters just a bit, but she brushes a lock of hair back from her face and her expression softens.

Landon's blade finds purchase through Idris' guard, enough to earn the score, admitting, "Damn well doesn't feel like I won." He will make a good showing to favour where Idris' blade struck, "Good match." And the Baverstock will look down at his gear, to inspect the broken chain where that hit landed and a new dent in his shield. Sheathing his blade, he nods, content with the win but still not content at the loses he took earlier - eyes on Catryn.

Caerwyn checked his reckless of 10, he rolled 5.

There's a brief moment of satisfaction as his attack manages to knock the Burcombe down, and Martyn smiles. Stepping back a little, he offers a nod, both to Catryn and Caerwyn when he makes his way over as well. "Thank you," he replies to Catryn, offering her another smile. "You fought well as well." Another nod is offered to Caerwyn too. "Just let me know if you would want for us to test each other's skill," he offers to the man.

Amalthea laughs softly to Heulwen, tearing her eyes from the field and the match she seemed very intent on watching and lowering her head down to help her cousin deliver the kiss. "Pretty. Pfah! I am a shadow compared to your flame, 'Wen. Were you interested in any of the matches in particular?" she asks, swinging her gaze back to the field. "Out of curiosity, before we go?"

His less familiar knight wanders upon the field, clad in his chainmail and carrying his shield and blade. Rowan stops short of the rest of the gathering, opting to spectate the competition first before he scouts out a possible duel partner. While surveying the field he spots a familiar Dinton lady, but seeing she was with company and looked to be preparing to leave, Rowan simply gives her a faint smile and a friendly wave from where he stands.

Spotting Rowan, Idris stares at the man for some moments, sheathing his blade and drawing another, that his squire so kindly brings for him. Mud, after all, can be detrimental to one's sword grip. "Sir. Are you here for personal challenges?"

"Kamron was fighting with Sir Caerwyn Burcombe," Heulwen replies to Amalthea, although her eyes narrow playfully in mock suspicion. "But you shan't drag more out of me with that question, you clever thing. At least not right now." She glances back to the field, briefly, and then hooks her arm with Amalthea's. She turns and starts leading her away. "But now we had best hurry. I think my brother has left us in the dust."

Not overly interested in the jousting or anything of that sort despite being a knight, Brynmor has stepped foot on the tournament field as a means to pass through to the market square from where his family tent has been pitched. Some of the sounds of combat might draw his attention somewhat, but it's the ladies in the crowds that he finds far more interesting. Fair maidens with their lovely faces and pretty hair. There's a few blades of grass caught upon his tunic that may hint that he was probably laying down somewhere just before he got here, but otherwise, he is unarmored. His squire, Guffud, watches the combat with rapt attention. One day, he was going to be like one of them! He then looks to his own knight and he hopes that he doesn't end up like.. that.

Rowan is not allowed to stare for very long, apparently, for there is a knight who seems curious about him. He turns to face Idris, giving him a quick once over, before simply nodding. "That was my intention, yes. I suspect you are looking for someone to challenge yourself, then?" It was an obvious assumption.

Amalthea barely has time to return Rowan's wave before her cousin is dragging her off, laughing. But wave she does, offering the distant knight a shy smile in the process.

"Yes," Idris nods to Rowan, weighing the sword in his hand thoughtfully as he takes to the field once again, "that is indeed what I am looking for, Sir. I am Sir Idris de Bodenham, a pleasure to meet you. Then," he lifts the sword. "Shall we begin?"

"… You're going a little soft there," Caerwyn says with an amused smile as Caerwyn helps Catryn up. "I believe I will not fight anymore today, Cat. Perhaps I am a lover, not a fighter," he sighs wistfully. And then he he pulls his Catryn up and nods. "Should I fight a Baverstock for your benefit - this one specifically - or should I prepare our manor for Beltaine? It approaches quick."

Not realizing that he had bested one of the better /younger/ knights of the tournament, Landon continues to wander through the challengers. Many of them he doesn't know personally, by heraldry sure, by face yes, and all of them haven't had enough fame to really be known by sight. The larger Baverstock does come across Brynmor, taking time to regard him, then offering, "Are you here to fight Sir? Sometimes the fights draw other sort of attention…" a nod toward the cluster of fine maidens looking on and watching the match-ups.

Having walked onto the field prepared, there was little else for Rowan to do in anticipation of the duel, but he does move so he's directly across from Idris and he hefts his sword and shield, shifting into a defensive stance. "Well met, Sir Idris. I'm Sir Rowan de Wylye," the smaller knight answers evenly. "I am ready when you are."

"Thank you, Sir Martyn. I look forward to the next challenge with you sometime in the future." Catryn gives her brother a bit of indulgent look.. maybe she /was/ going soft! "No more fights for you today. The ride home is several days, you should go ahead and go. Prepare it for the celebrations. I will try and make it back in time."

There's a brief moment of pause as he listens to the two Burcombes, and Martyn shrugs a little. "Perhaps…" he offers to Caerwyn, words a bit thoughtful. "Perhaps it is not your sister that has been going soft, but you?" It's said quietly, before he shrugs a little. "But if you have to leave, by all means. Don't let me hold you back, hmmm?" A grin is offered to the man.

"Very well," Idris draws in a deep breath, steadying himself, and starts by taking a few sure steps towards Rowan. Then the steps hasten, the sword is raised, the shield kept closer to his body, and the Bodenham's opener is made.

"I think I'll have a bite to eat from the market and then rest up a bit, because the day has been grueling thus far." Brynmor idly mutters to his squire about his plans, even if his 'day' has only just begun. "But if you wish, you may walk Stone around. He's always restless, I don't think you're doing a good enough job exercising him." All that the poor squire can do is nod as he trails behind the Steeple Langford. But it is once Landon approaches his knight that the young squire's eyes light up, looking all the more excited. He even raises a hand high in the air as if telling the Baverstock to 'Pick me!!!!!!!!', before pointing in his knight's direction. Brynmor, on the other hand, looks to be avoiding Landon and ignoring his words for as long as he can, before he notices that little squire punk back there is trying to start trouble. "If I wanted to do this personal challenge non-sense—" He starts, before his tired gaze looks to Landon, "Not particularly, no." Is his sharp and rather annoyed response!

Critical Success!
Idris checked his sword of 15, he rolled 15.
Rowan checked his sword of 15, he rolled 9.
Catryn checked her rowan of , she rolled 12. <— Left this in because it was cute
<OOC> Catryn has no Rowan :P
Idris rolls 10d6 and gets (2 1 5 3 5 2 5 5 3 6) for a total of: (37)

Nalia has not been hiding out.. really, but she hasn't been seen as much at the festival as one might have thought. Of course as the woman makes her way down into the tournament field, a reason could be seen. Along the right side of her face is a large bruise in the colors of black, blue and purple, and a slight swelling of the eye. How the tiny woman still looks like she does, is anyone's guess. But to the edge of the stands she s

Landon smiles over at the squire, who seems more enthusiastic with his appearance than the knight attached to him. His own squire, a little squirt picked up just for the tournament, gives a proud squaring of his shoulders to the other squire. Landon merely looks at Brynmor, "You apparently are if you're here, into the non-sense I mean." He considers Brynmor, "So spar with me. I will use blunted blades or we won't go that hard on another. Your squire certainly seems inclined to take your place if you are too… wary to do so yourself." Taunt. Little bit.

It's difficult to taunt someone so lazy as Brynmor. His mind is usually always set on finding that secret hiding place to curl up in for a nap and very little else tends to get a rise out of him. Well, unless you disturb said nap. So when Landon mentions his far too energetic squire, the Steeple Langford's bored eyes looks from Guffud to Landon before stating, "If he wants to go ahead and do so, I won't object. Not that he has armor to fight in or anything." And he even waves a dismissi— His eyes then narrow from where he was spying out a trio of pretty little things in the crowd. It seems that one of his elder brothers has spotted him and for whatever reason, it is his family who troubles him the most with their pushiness for him to strive and do glorious things. Not even his own /knight/, when he was a squire, made him as nervous as when confronted with his own family members. So with that, his posture stiffens and he reaches to force Guffud's still raised hand down. "It seems that I've had a change of heart." He starts, "Guffud, fetch my armor if you will. My sword too!" Then to Landon, he mutters, looking at his would-be-opponent warily, not liking being cornered into this mess, but he makes his own introduction, "Sir Brynmor de Steeple Langford at your service. Hopefully, this won't take /too/ long."

Rowan unwisely underestimates just how strong and quick the Bodenham was. He senses the trajectory of the overhead strike too late, and lifting his shield to block it proves utterly futile. There is a loud, jarring clash as the lord of Wylye is brought to the ground, the likely recipient of quite a large bruise which felt like it extended through his entire arm. He grunts and picks himself up, adrenaline beginning to creep up and take hold. "Alright…" He mutters under his breath - to himself, mostly. He strides forward to engage Idris again.

Landon wasn't one to force one more than the said little taunt into a personal challenge, perhaps, why he hasn't really accumulated many of them. His heart was into fighting Saxon's, not necessairly other knights. Really, the Baverstock is left to look at the squire, who may have become hopeful for that split second in which Brynmor suggests he would be allowed. There is a subtle disappointment as he's turned down and waved off, prepared to move on when the other man gets a change of heart as he calls it. "Sir Landon de Baverstock…" a beat, "You're a Steeple Langford, the same Steeple Langford that is in relation to Lady Signe?" He smirks a little at the last, "I hope there to be some challenge at least, Sir, for you or I."

Rowan checked his sword of 15, he rolled 17.
Idris checked his sword of 15, he rolled 3.
Idris rolls 5d6 and gets (4 4 4 6 1) for a total of: (19)
Rowan checked his dex of 14, he rolled 13.

As the Wylye lord approaches, and Idris is courteous enough to let the man stand up, after all, this is a duel between gentlemen, the Bodenham waits until his opponent is close enough. It is not a matter of speed, but rather to be preemptive. The Knight of the foremost of the southern Manors brings his sword to bear at Rowan once he is close enough, stepping forward to ensure the range is appropriate, while the shield is brought forward in case there is a retaliatory strike impending.

Nalia's steel grey eyes move towards Landon at his voice, and her good eye blinks gently at something said. A tiny frown tugs at those soft lips before she pulls her hood back around her features and watches from the depth of that hood. Her flicker over Bry, before a quick look has them wondering over Rowan and Idris, then back to the first match.

Having just gonve back to watching the various people present now, Martyn's expression is rather thoughtful. A bit absently he starts whistling a tune, something made up as he goes.

Guffud is off and running before Brynmor even finishes his statement and soon enough, the young squire returns, his arms piled high in armor while his knight's sword rests in a swordbelt hanging at his waist. In his excitement, he nearly trips, which would have been disastrous if he dropped all of this gear. "Here you go, Sir! Let me help equipped you with it, Sir!" His voice is full of excitement as he uses Brynmor as a knightly dress up doll now.

Brynmor, himself, looks totally unenthused as he stands there, arms outstretched and such, though he does help to work some of the fastenings when the pieces are slipped on. "Shield." He demands, before keeping his free hand outstretched when he finally calls for, "Sword, Guffud, if you will." And to this, the young squire draws the sword from its sheath and ever so carefully places into the Steeple Langford's hand. All the while Brynmor murmurs some response or other to the questions asked him. Grumbling all the while, "Signe? I suppose you could say that we are related, yes. In various ways." Obviously, he leaves this a mystery and doesn't get into any explanation. Instead, he mutters something incomprehensible under his breath when Landon mentions this being 'some challenge', before his voice lifts, "Shall we then?"

He makes an exasperated noise when his strike uselessly bangs against the other knight's shield, quickly followed by another when Idris's own strike hits it's mark. Thankfully it wasn't nearly as painful as the last and Rowan manages to step back along with the momentum, saving himself from falling again. He exhales in an attempt to calm himself down and focus before he makes his next attempt. Will it work? Who knows. He does not expect the Bodenham to wait for him; he lifts his blade and approaches for next exchange

Landon takes his sword from his own squire, saying no more on the matter of relations. Instead he does start moving toward a patch of earth that will allow them to duel it out without crashing into other fights going on. For now he doesn't really pay attention to who is out there in the sea of faces watching the matches.

Rowan checked his sword of 15, he rolled 5.
Idris checked his sword of 15, he rolled 11.
Idris rolls 5d6 and gets (4 5 5 6 1) for a total of: (21)
Critical Success!
Rowan checked his dex of 14, he rolled 14.

The next response from the Bodenham is a quick jab to the other man's shoulder after a parry of the man's narrow swing; it is only a menacing jab, however, and not one meant to pierce flesh. The sword is then lowered, as Idris nods respectfully to Rowan and sheathes his blade, apparently considering himself done for now. "Well fought, Sir Rowan." A pause, and he grins, gesturing for his squire, Gwyn, to approach. Said squire is carrying a wineskin, it turns out. He opens the cap and drinks deeply from it, the container offered to the knight of Wylye afterwards. "A drink, perhaps?"

Landon checked his Sword of 15, he rolled 16.
Brynmor check his sword at 15, he rolled 13.
Brynmor rolls 4d6 and gets (1 6 3 5) for a total of: (15)

If there's any real motivator for Brynmor when it comes to fighting, if survival isn't an issue, usually it's the idea of finishing the damn battle and moving on. So though he may be lazy, his steps are quick. The sooner they clash swords and be all macho for the masses, the sooner he meets his pillow for that promised date he had set just a few minutes ago before all of this. Those who have fought the Steeple Langford, however, may know that he can also be somewhat chatty, even if he always sounds like he's annoyed by something or other when he converses. "So how do you know," He starts, before finding a quick opening and bringing his sword down for his first point against Landon's arm, bypassing the man's shield entirely, "Signe?"

As the fights go on, the small form of Nalia stands from the seat she has taken and drifts slowly closer to the field itself. It's clear the tiny lady has never been one to sit and wait in the shadows, and being closer will allow a much better view. Dressed in sleeveless and flowing green, the slight golden cast to her cloak contrasts as the wind picks up to flicker her hood from side to side.

Built as large as he is, he doesn't have the speed that some smaller knights carry, but the 'Bear' of Baverstock often tries to counter that with heavier hits, not a thing that was completely possible in a tourney situation when one didn't wish to maim a fellow knight. All the same, the Baverstock is shuffling his feet to meet the on coming blade drawn by Brynmor, not aware of the other's obvious familiarity to dating of pillows (if he did, he'd probably amuse about it). The fact that Brynmor does get around his shield has him grunt, resetting his own stance as he rocks his head back and forth, shrugging up his shoulders, "You wouldn't believe it, but she saved my life once." He steps in to attack after that, maybe with a predictable arc of sword.

Alas, his last attempt to give Idris an actual fight is parried! The jab is struck well, but Rowan seems to realize his impending defeat soon after the parry, and his heels catch him from falling in one fluid movement. He looks less than pleased with his performance, his brows deeply furrowed and a frown tugging down on his lips, but he nods to Idris. "Better fought, Sir Idris. I'll take this to heart." His brown eyes drop to regard the container as it's offered and he takes a few long seconds to contemplate over the decision… before he accepts the wineskin and takes one long swig. He wipes his mouth once he's finished and returns the container to it's owner. "Thank you." Apparently he needed that.

Landon checked his Sword of 15, he rolled 11.
Brynmor checked his sword at 15, he rolled 9.
Landon rolls 5d6 and gets (3 5 6 1 4) for a total of: (19)
Brynmor checked his dex at 10, he rolled 17.

Built as lean as he is, Brynmor doesn't have that speed either! He's basically your average knight; nothing spectacular, despite what he thinks and perhaps, if he trained harder, he might fight a little better. Nevertheless, the Steeple Langford withdraws his sword briefly, holding it outstretched by his side as he continues to size up his rather tall opponent. "Whoever made up the rules for these challenges most likely have never fought in one." He starts with his own complaint, seeing that this is already running far longer than he'd like, "Or else we would be naming the person who struck first, the victor." That way, the match would have already been over a few seconds ago! Perhaps, it's because Landon's words have caught him by surprise, or this is what Brynmor would say if he ever had to tell this tale, regarding Signe… saving his life, that though he believed he found a weak spot against this Baverstock, it is Landon who out-maneuvers him and strikes first, hitting his shield. "…Saved your life? Did she coax you out of some tree you were trapped in?" Signe had definitely done the same to him, but only Brynmor was sleeping.

The news is /so/ surprising or perhaps Brynmor was just not ready for the impact of a blow from such a huge opponent as this, that the force brings him down and brings him down hard, landing in a seating position. "Oof." Maybe he just found that whole idea with his cousin far too funny.

Taking the wineskin back, Idris nods once to Rowan, chugging from the container before it is capped and offered back to his squire. Who stares at it, and seems so tempted. So damn tempted, but he doesn't dare touch the Bodenham's wineskin. Not, unless he wants to get hit on the shoulder again. "You are welcome, Sir Rowan. I hope this tourney has been entertaining for you thus far."

By comparison, Landon doesn't take to casual conversation between swings of his swords - too busy with those bear grunts as he lobbies sword and shield to protect his larger frame that is essentially a larger target to hit. "Being the first to hit does not always secure a victory, here or out there-" he points with his blade to the great wide beyond, "A few Saxon's I fought and killed took more than one hit to strike their head from their necks." To make a point of it and to come back from the first hit, he steps in with a long stride and hacks down without the finesse some knights have. It is effective and that's all he's concerned about as he drops Brynmor. He'll take a step back to allow Brynmor to rise, anwering over the measure of Signe, "It is a tale that is not a short one. Nor one you'd believe. It'd be better told over a pint and a good breast of quail." Once Brynmor is up and ready to fight again, he'll advance.

Rowan passively watches the duel between Brynmor and Landon as he rests and continues his conversation with Idris. "It's had it's surprises. I'm not faring as well as I'd like, but…" He shrugs ruefully, not eager to complain about it more than that. "I suspect you're faring better?" The Wylye knight asks with a hint of curiosity.

"This isn't a Saxon fight though." Brynmor reminds, looking rather indignant as he is seated on the ground and so he rises easily enough, dusting himself off in the process. "I've fought my fair share of those bastards." Strangely, this is no lie! "War is a totally different arena and while some might say that these practices prepare us for what's to come in real combat, I don't believe anything can prepare you for that." Sword lifted once more, he begins to circle around the much larger man in a clock-wise direction, though he is rather disappointed that his opponent is leaving his 'tale' up in the air in such a way, but while he doesn't agree in his own words now, he does spit out a, "Fair enough." Who knows if there will ever be a time for the story of Landon and Signe to be told, not with Brynmor's 'hectic' schedule.

"I lost at the final rounds of the joust, today," Idris replies, removing his helmet as he draws in a deep breath, sweat running down his temples and face now. Two fights back to back, regardless of win or loss, are always very taxing on the body. Especially after a long, well disputed joust.

Rowan offers Idris a sympathetic wince. "Rough. I lost in the first round, against a man over twice my age… but I suppose that is a different sort of defeat." There was an added bitterness when you're so close and the rug is then pulled from under your feet! "There will always be a next time, at least."

"Yes," Idris replies, glancing at the now fraying length of light blue rope wrapped around his wrist. For a moment it seems like he is going to pluck it from around his wrist, hand rising and fingers nearly pincering it, before his hand drops to his side.

Critical Fail!
Brynmor checked his sword at 15, he rolled 20.
Landon checked his Sword of 15, he rolled 17.

Landon checked his Sword of 15, he rolled 12.
Brynmor checked your sword at 15, he rolled 1.
Landon rolls 5d6 and gets (5 4 3 4 5) for a total of: (21)
Brynmor checked his dex at 10, he rolled 12.

Landon checked his Sword of 15, he rolled 17.
Brynmor checked his sword at 15, he rolled 5.
Brynmor rolls 4d6 and gets (4 2 6 2) for a total of: (14)

Landon checked his Sword of 15, he rolled 3.
Critical Fail!
Brynmor checked his sword at 15, he rolled 20.
Landon rolls 5d6 and gets (2 6 5 5 5) for a total of: (23)
Brynmor checked his dex at 10, he rolled 6.

Just the annoyance of being knocked off his feet and onto his rump has made Brynmor less rational and even more annoyed. If anything, though, this newfound spirit in him, the one that now causes him to err, is being fueled by this grand desire to JUST FINISH THIS DAMN THING! There is no hatred in his eyes, though in them can be found utter annoyance. Annoyed to have fallen, annoyed to having his snack time interrupted, annoyed that his idiot squire is jumping up and down on the sidelines. This makes the weary knight bristle. So it doesn't matter when he accidentally drops his sword, not once, but TWICE. Nor that he actually does land a point strike against the much taller Baverstock. Nor that, he is forced crashing to the ground several times since the last time he ate dirt. No, what does matter is that in the heat of battle, with one point hanging in the air in the reach of its victor that Brynmor finds himself thrust down to the floor for a final time, his sword already having fallen and his shield, being the jerk that it is, is absent from protecting him from this attack! So as he is sprawled out on the ground, reeling from the strength of the force against his now sore arm, Brynmor just lays there, motionless. He would be staring up at the sky through his helmet if his eyes were open, but alas, they are not!

Guffud rushes forward to his knight's side, a pillow in hand. "Sir Brynmor extends his congratulations to you for your victory and, surely, he would like to join you for that tale at the tavern. Can I come?" Obviously, Guffud knows all of his knight's antics and as there's no horses attempting to trample him here, he will just…. lay here for a while longer.

Landon rips off his helmet as Brynmor goes down and doesn't get up. Sweat beads in his eyes as he lumbers over toward the sprawled out knight, looking at his sword as if he had somehow put too much power behind it to end the man's day - utterly. A booted toe kick nudge will be prompted at Brynmor's foot, "You alright down there?" It was a good match, a victor could have been either man. The squire's approach staves off more concern as his own comes to collect his sword, helm, and shield - also informing him about a matter which requires his attention. He nods once for the news, then looks to Guffud, "When your man awakens, tell him I should gladly by him a pint and share word of the tale. You can come, if he allows you too." That is said with a smirk, "I should tell him it was a good match then and my apologies for the hard hit." He pivots back around and head for the tent city where the matter had beckoned him toward.

Brynmor fumbles and falls… and apparently stays down. Rowan quirks a brow when his squire rushes forward with a pillow prepared, making it obvious that Brynmor intended to sleep in the dirt! This does not bode well for the Wylye, who intended to make good on his previous promise. He parts from Idris and approaches the fallen knight.

Attempt #1 involves simply nudging at Brynmor's head with the toe of his boot. "Sir…?"

Brynmor checked his lazy at 16, he rolled 19.

With the pillow placed beneath his still helmeted head, Brynmor is blissfully unaware that he's just lying in some field and more than likely there are various other knights clashing swords all around him. No, this was pure heaven now, with the warmth of the sun shining down on him, the sound of birds chirping and this very soft pillow to rest on. It doesn't take long for him to succumb to a light dreaming state right in the very beginning of his sudden dozing. All the while, though, Guffud remains obediently knelt down beside his fallen knight, ever attentive in case someone tries to run him over on a horse, or steal something or other. But it always excites the young squire to see another knight approaching, it can only mean one thing: A CHALLENGE! So even as Rowan rudely nudges at Brynmor's head with a booted foot, the young squire watches with wide-eyes. There is this tension in his wiry frame hinting that he's preparing to up and run at any moment, knowing full well of his knight's ire to being awoken!

Feeling the delicate hand of some fair maiden brushing her fingers through his hair and over striking cheekbones, the napping knight is suddenly stirred into partial awakening. And to this maiden fair, he states, "Give me a for more minutes, sweets."

Rowan hums pensively as he regards the slumbering knight and his squire. His attention momentarily sets on the youth. "You must get awfully bored…" he remarks offhandedly before he casually strolls off, abandoning Brynmor for a minute or two, towards a small patch of grass nearby.

When the Wylye returns to Brynmor, he brings a friend. A GIANT BEETLE is dropped onto Brynmor's forehead.

Being in that pleasant place between dreaming and wakefulness, Brynmor continues to murmur sweet excuses to the woman of his dreams on why she should show patience and allow him this time to rest, to re-energize, so that when he awakens, he may focus all of his… what the hell is that? The woman of his dreams has such sharp nails that he can feel scraping against his flawless cheek, the beetle having been slipped through the opening of his helmet. "You know, you might want to trim those…" that usual Brynmor hint of annoyance comes out, even in this partially sleeping state. Thus, he tries turning onto his side , jostling the thing so that while it no longer covers his face, it does rest nestled in a section of his helmet still. This time, however, he is starting to further enter the waking world, "Guffud. Tell whoever it is that I will speak to them short— What the bloody hell is this thing??" There, he's noticed the beetle as he shoots right up into a seated position, hands quickly working to remove his helmet.

And just like that, Guffud is gone, having darted away to a good distance as to not be the center of his knight's ire.

Mission accomplished! Well, somewhat. Rowan still stands over Brynmor, watching him pry off his helmet in an effort to dislodge his new six-legged friend with vague amusement. "It isn't a wise idea to fall asleep in the middle of a field, Sir," he remarks, neither owning up to or denying his involvement in removing the beetle from it's natural habitat and introducing it to Brynmor. "Why don't you duel, like the rest of us? That is why you came, isn't it?"

With the beetle now in hand, Brynmor's eyes narrow sharply when he stares at it, before those same annoyed eyes peer out into the distance to find Guffud hiding behind some horse or other. "Guffud…" His voice comes out tense, right before the beetle is unceremoniously chucked. "I wasn't going to let this nice and comfortable flat surface go to waste, now was I? And besides, I had just fallen from combat. I needed time to compose myself, that is until you merrily came along." Nevermind that he was down and out for a while since even Landon departed. Forcing himself up to stand, his helmet still cradled in the crook of one arm he mutters, "Why does everyone think that I wand to dual or challenge or practice? Can't someone just go from one point to another without being hassled?"

"But you're not really… going anywhere," Rowan retorts, raising a brow. There is a pause as he further considers Bryn's complaint. "How about this… duel me and win, and I won't bother you for a fight ever again. In this tournament or the next. I can speak for any of the others, though. You should know what people expect from a knight on these grounds."

The Steeple Langford is rather wary of this man's offer, already sensing how much of a raw deal he was getting out of it, in his mind. "Look, why don't we get this over and done with. First touch wins?" He tries to sneak this into the rules, in case Rowan doesn't know them! Still, he doesn't look overly happy about being forced into yet another combat situation even as he goes to scoop up his dropped sword from where it was resting on the ground and then slide his helmet back down over his charming face.

There's a snort from the Wylye. "No, three strikes wins," he insists as he moves to stand across from Brynmor. "I think you can manage to stay awake long enough for that." He rolls his shoulders as Brynmor prepares for another duel he's been dragged into. "Besides… it may work in your favor."

"How is this working in my favor? You're already cutting into my nap time as it is. And before you that, Laverstock." He's sure, that was the name, "was wanting my attention." He then gestures with his sword arm, "Have you both seriously fought every knight out in this field?" Just as Rowan rolls his shoulders, Brynmor moves his head from side to side, loosening up the stiffness there. "I bet you're wanting me to tell you how honored I am that you've chosen me for this task." There is that look in his eyes through the slits of his helmet that says 'enough talk, let's get down to business', but Rowan probably can't see his eyes anyway.

Nalia is still on the sidelines, not that anyone has noticed the tiny lady in the cloak, but now that the sun is not as bright overhead, the hood is pushed down to linger on her shoulders and she simply watches with a curious look for Rowan and Brynmor.

Rowan shakes his head. "No, not every knight, but the others are preoccupied. You do remember I expressed interest dueling you some time ago, yes?" He squints back at Brynmor from behind his own helmet. He has yet to take his off. "And no, I simply wish to test my skill against yours. It is abundantly clear you don't consider this an honor but a chore, but I do thank you for accepting my offer." He speaks in a polite, neutral tone. He raises his blade and shield and takes a step towards the Langford. "Let us begin."

Rowan checked his sword of 15, he rolled 16.
Brynmor checked his sword at 15, he rolled 2..
Brynmor rolls 4d6 and gets (5 2 6 6) for a total of: (19)
Rowan checked his dex of 14, he rolled 17.

"Do not get me wrong, I take my knightly duty very seriously." Brynmor decides to state for whatever reason as their little dance begins, moving to and fro like a well-trained…. well knight, I suppose. He moves with simple ease, even though he was just awoken a few moments prior and should be at least a little gro… okay, he is a little groggy, but when is he not? "While I am more than glad to lend my skills to our war efforts," This is only partially true, "I don't truly see the benefit of games such as this. And before the melee too! If you're hoping to impress someone, do it there." He ignores the fact that Rowan might have asked him for a challenge before, but more than likely, Brynmor was ignoring him then too! So with all of that said and done, he finally strikes, his sword swiping down pass the man's shield to quickly touch upon his midsection as the man fails to protect himself, nor does his own weapon make any contact whatsoever. Here is where Brynmor mutters, "How I wish it was first contact only."

Rowan apparently has difficulty attacking someone who literally just woke up! His natural grace also fails him and he stumbles against Brynmor's swipe and lands on his rear. Today was not shaping up to be his day. He fights back a glower as he carefully gets back to his feet. "Well struck," he admits, wiping some dirt off his cheek with the back of his hand. "I don't think anyone is watching, so no, it's not to impress anyone." He is currently too focused on the duel to note Nalia's quiet presence! "But your continued grousing is duly noted." He advances again, this time lashing out and trying to hit a leg!

Rowan checked his sword of 15, he rolled 18.
Brynmor checked his sword at 15, he rolled 5.
Brynmor rolls 4d6 and gets (6 5 2 3) for a total of: (16)
Rowan checked his dex of 14, he rolled 17.

Brynmor checked his awareness at 11, he rolled 10.

If Rowan doesn't notice a lovely young woman there, Brynmor certainly does! Who knows how long the young lady has been watching them, but all that the Steeple Langford knows is that she certainly has her eyes on him! "Are you blind? There's lovely faces all around us!" He exclaims, leaping out of the way of Rowan's swipe, on oddly nimble feet just as he carefully and far too softly, as if taunting the other in his non-aggression, places just a little tap on the back of the Wylye's shoulder. He even walks over and in some disgust, offers a hand to help the other knight back up, "Now are you sure that we can't just end this at two?"

Critical Fail!
Rowan checked his awareness of 5, he rolled 20.

Another whiff, stumble, and fall. It was a dance becoming all too familiar for him today. It appears Brynmor's tap wasn't even necessary to down him this time! In his frustration, he doesn't even attempt to see if there was indeed someone watching, and he deems Brynmor's proclamation just a fanciful generalization. Or a figment of his dreamscape still lingering with the remnants of his nap. The offered hand is glanced at with a hint of annoyance and he insists on getting up without Brynmor's aid. "To three," he still insists.

Rowan checked his sword of 15, he rolled 19.
Brynmor checked his sword at 15, he rolled 10.
Brynmor rolls 4d6 and gets (2 1 4 5) for a total of: (12)
Rowan checked his dex of 14, he rolled 5.

Well, if Rowan isn't going to take notice of the pretty faces in the crowd, Brynmor surely will! It's strange that this distraction by Nalia's presence does seem to give him this much needed strength and vigor that he just happens to avoid each one of Rowan's attempted blows throughout this challenge. Making it look almost far too easy, in fact! Well, if he /has/ to fight, he may as well impress the ladies and so with that in mind, his brow furrows, making him (in his eyes) look more fierce, when just after helping the Wylye up to his feet, that he attempts to quickly down him again. Unlike with Landon, where he seemed to be distracted in conversation, the lazy knight seems more focused now. After some prowling around his opponent, he quickly lashes out, and strangely, once again, he manages to run his sword right pass Rowan's shield, to this time, tap him on the man's sword arm, just as Rowan misses him with his own arc. For someone known for his laziness, no one can say that Brynmor de Steeple Langford were not a capable knight! Well, when he wants to be… and if the circumstances are right. "Are we done yet?, because I have other matters which I would like to take care of." And unknown to him, that other matter will soon be departing!

Guess who returns? The Lady Amalthea! She still smells like the stables, but at least now she's taken some care with her thick cable of a braid, picking all the bits of hay out of the rich brown tresses. Beyond that, the lady looks as she always does: tall and plain, wearing drab tunic and breeches, with those tall boots. But her smile is brilliant, energetic and exuberant, and as she approaches the front of the stands, that alone might stand out.

Rowan remains oblivious to Brynmor's desire to show off and his newfound sense of fierceness. Well, sort of - his sudden eagerness to actually fight was difficult not to notice, when he was grousing about it just minutes before. Predictably, it helps Lord Wylye none, and he ends up losing the duel he insisted on starting in the first place. His desire to continue to duel is quite dashed in light of this defeat, but he nods in Brynmor's direction. "Very done. Well fought. I will leave you be, as promised." He sighs and begins to move away from the field…

Aaand then there's Amalthea! Hopefully she didn't see all that. Sir de Wylye looks somewhat conflicted at her arrival, but he stops to greet her with a soft nod. "Hello again, Lady Amalthea."

Amalthea saw ALL of that. But she doesn't look too judgy. She looks her usual effervescent self, full of life and still smelling like horses. "Sir Rowan. I had hoped to see you again, sir." Is it flirting? "How is your horse?" Maybe? "Twas only after the other night, when I returned to the stables after my ride, that I thought perhaps your horse might have been quite spooked, enough to warrant extra care." Maybe not? "Then I realized that I ought to apologize. So." She lifts her arms, dangling a basket from one. "I baked."

Rowan remains oblivious that she did indeed witness his knightly failures on the tournament field, but this is likely a good thing for his plummeting mood. He attempts a smile, but it doesn't quite make it. It looks more like a half-hearted smirk before it fades just as quickly as it appears. "Lleu seems to have recovered from the spooking, but I would not mind if you visited him before I take him into the Melee. There may be a reason he's so finicky that I can't quite place." Either that or his horse was just a primadonna! His neutral expression slowly morphs into one of confusion at first, when she expresses her desire to apologize, before his brown eyes alight upon the basket she lifts up. Not even he can miss that! "I… well, thank you." He shyly bows his head, clearly unused to such displays of generosity! "May we go elsewhere, then? This field is not one for a picnic."

"Not one for eating to the soft, dulcet clatter of weaponry?" Amalthea teases Rowan lightly, arching her brows at him. "Of course we may, Sir, though you are not obliged to share with me, and between the two of us, it might not even be edible. What I lack in cooking skills, though, I can certainly make up for by checking upon your stallion.'"

He looks over his shoulder at the knights dueling behind him. "Sometimes I can manage that, but not today." Rowan desperately wants to be away, for once! He continues on his way off the field and towards the marketplace, with Amalthea presumably following alongside. "I hear the gardens are quite nice…" He suggests casually. "And it can't be worse than some of the rations I've had to eat as a squire, trust me." It seems his mood isn't foul enough to be entirely inept at humor, at least.

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