(514-09-14) Sarum Summer Archery Round I
Summary: A place for all Round 1 archery logs.
Date: September 14, 514
Related: Any Tourney Logs.
gwynaelle llewelyn 



Back at in the City, the Archery area is once more set, and the marshals have probably taken a book from Carlion for the setup is remarkably similar. Two targets set, each with a colored flag atop it: One blue, one red that lets the archers gauge wind-speed and direction, and two smaller flags marking the 'line' for each of the contestants in the same colors. There is no need for a loud herald at the smaller tourney, but a herald is there nonetheless. "Lady Gwynaelle de Newentone at the blue target. Fryd de Sarum at the red target.". Fryd is — from the looks of it — a commoner, perhaps a hunter or one of the freemen peasants toiling the fields around Sarum for the Earl or one of his vassals. Young, tall and with a surprisingly well-maintained bow. Once announced, the man gives the Lady beside him a bow that might almost pass as courtly. Almost. It is clear that he is a bit out of his depth. "A-After m'Lady…". Well, he is giving her the first shot.

Gwynaelle checked her bow of 10, she rolled 14.
Glaw makes a check for Fyrd's average Bow at 15, he rolled 12.

Stepping forwards as her name is called, Gwynaelle turns to see who she might be against this day. A smile given to the young man who steps forwards as well, her head dipped towards him, "Merry meet to you, good sir." Pleasant and polite is she, and when he offers to let her have the first shot, she turns towards the waiting targets. With crossbow in hand, she takes careful aim during a lull in the wind, but just as her bolt is released, a gust picks up, taking her bolt over to the side, leaving it to thunk home on the very edge of the taget, far outside the marked circles. A slight frown touches her lips then. "Well.." She hmms to herself.

Perhaps Fyrd's a hunter indeed, for after Gwyn has shot her shot with that infernal machine of his, he draws back his bow, taking deep breaths, before letting go. It is not a perfect shot, but it is damn near so, the arrow thunking and quivering in the inner ring. Yep, if that was a deer, it would not run off far. Smiling — or rather beaming — the man gives Gwyn a look. "A…good attempt, m'Lady. Perhaps your next shot will be more lucky?". Apparently he aims to have her go first again.

Gwynaelle checked her bow of 10, she rolled 8.
Glaw makes a check for Fyrd's average Bow at 15, he rolled 7.

"Thank you, good sir." Gwynaelle accepts his words as they are meant, her smile warming further as she chuckles to herself. "Darn the wind, but next time.. I'll be prepared for it." Maybe she waits, making sure of the wind, but whatever she does, this time when her bolt is released, it flies towards the target to thunk home within the circles, close enough to the center to earn a bit of a beaming smile from the lady. "Ah.. that's the way it's done." She waits then, his own shot, nodding as he once more hits the target, "Good one, good sir."

"Hold your bows…", the marshal demands, stepping closer, then giving Gwyn's crossbow a disdainful look. "…and that thing too.". Yep, not a fan! Ahem. Still, he steps towards the targets, inspecting the two shots, soon even getting out a measuring string to determine whose arrow/quill was closer! OF course that actually makes poor Fyrd more nervous, and he frets a little, until the marshal finally turns, pointing to the blue flag. "Lady Gwynaelle scores this point.". And then he hurries out of the way, lest the lady accidentally fires her crossbow like she did in Carlion. Oh, perhaps he was there!

Fyrd however smiles a bit chargrinned. "One versus One. This will be a close match, m'Lady.". He once more gestures for her to begin, fiddling with his own arrow.

Gwynaelle checked her bow of 10, she rolled 18.
Glaw makes a check for Fyrd's average Bow at 15, he rolled 11.

Gwynaelle knows how many may not like her crossbow, but it has to be easier to use than a regular bow. At least, that is her story! While the marshal measures, she waits patiently, glancing aside towrads Fyrd, "That it will be.. a good match overall." When finally the okay is given to once more take aim, she steps forwards to aim, though for some odd reason, she jumps a little, eyes widening, not because her bolt goes off and once more thunks into the ground below the target, but because of something else, "Oh!" Her hand drops tothe swell of her belly, a bright smile appearing upon her lips as she glances over her shoulders to check the crowd. There's a curious excitement, though she turns back without saying anything more, watching as Fyrd makes his shot, well within the target, "Congratulations to you, good sir. Now and in the further competitions you face."

As the quarrel goes wide, the marshall just scowls a little at Gwynaelle, at least until she holds her belly. Well, she is not huge enough to be in the danger of needing a midwife, right? Right. So after she continues to talk to Fyrd he relaxes again. "Fyrd of Sarum, two points, Lady Gwynaelle de Newenetone, One point.". he announces. Well, Fyrd only need to score higher one more time to win this match, so he smiles brightly at Gwyn's praise. "Thank you. Shall I go first this time, so you know what you need to beat?", he wonders, perhaps getting a touch overeager now.

Gwynaelle checked her bow of 10, she rolled 6.
Glaw makes a check for Fyrd's average Bow at 15, he rolled 7.

Gwynaelle cannot help the way she is smiling, some secret perhaps held. When it seems she will go again, she ohs, "But you won two.." But, she gives a mental shrug, and steps forwards, loading the bolt and then glancing to him, "I'll go ahead and go.." Careful aim is taken, and with the release of her breath, the trigger is pulled and the bolt flies across the distance to find the target. Close, but she'll see how it goes once he takes his shot.

Well, it will go well enough. Enough that the marshall has to walk up to the targets again, giving the two contestant a bit of evil eye. "Bows. Hold them.". More measuring string cut. Twice. Then he finally announces to the red flag. "Fyrd of Sarum reaches three wins and wins the contest.". Applause, applause.

Fyrd actually blinks, perhaps not quite sure how that happeneed, but he soon steps closer to the young lady. "You're a good enough shot with your crossbow, m'Lady. I'd hate to be on the other side of it.", he offers, then glances at her belly. "Blessings on you and your children.", he offers, before turning to walk off the contest area, so arrows can be plucked from the targets and the next contestants can step up.

Amusement is shown to the marshal as he calls for the bows to be held, her own held pointing down to the ground at her side. Not that it would matter as no bolt has been loaded. The man is safe! Promise! But with the announcement, she turns towards Fyrd and smiles, "As are you with your bow, good sir. Congrats again, and I do hope you do well with your further matches." Polite is she, smiling further when he offers the last blessing, "And thank you.." Happy is she, and once the bolts have been gathered and brought to her, she seeks out Lysette, the two whispering about something as they head off towards the tourney fields where the joust is set up.

Llewelyn checked his bow of 15, he rolled 14.
Brynmor makes a check for Llew's Old Archer at 18, he rolled 2.

Away from the land of horsey-chargey funtimes, some of the commoners, pagan knights, and others inclined toward it are taking shots on the archery range, each doing their best to put an arrow near the center of a target. The ever surly Llewelyn, one of Sarum's huntsmen, is among them, no doubt hoping to make a better showing this time than he did in Arthur's tourney. When it rolls around to take his shot, it seems as if his opponent is a… rather decrepit looking older knight with a long white beard. The firehaired commoner looks a little dubious of him, but then again, these geezers have an odd habit of being rather skillful! The old man is up first for his shot, and makes it, but suprisingly only places his arrow in the outer ring of the target. When Llewelyn comes up, he spends a few moments breathing slowly as not to rush to his own shot, and then finally takes it. The shaft is true, striking just off the bullseye, and despite the other man's venerable age and status, Llewelyn can't keep from hooting in victory! "Feck yeah!" Then he realizes himself, and gives the old man a sheepish smile. "Erm, sorry, ah, Sir-" He doesn't know his name. "Well, good Sir. Ahem. Well shot, then." Once again, Sir Santa-beard proves a gracious loser!

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