(514-09-14) Straight Outta Totnes
Summary: Sir Elrick sends a Cornwallish knight flying.
Date: 514-09-14
Related: N/A

NPC played by


Elrick checked his tourney of 7, he rolled 15.

Elrick checked his lance of 15, he rolled 10.

Eirian makes a check for Average Knight Lance at 15, she rolled 4.

Elrick rolls 6d6 and gets (4 6 2 6 2 2) for a total of: (22)

Eirian makes a check for Average Knight Horsemanship at 15, she rolled 19.

With his reprieve from the Dorset front at an end, Elrick is tasked with another necessary event that he must attend to and this one would be the Summer tourney. Though his focus is on the Dorset front these days, a knight must still make a showing at these types of affairs to make his name known and the name of his house. Wearing a surcoat of Laverstock colors, the young knight is set for his turn at the tilts. Beneath the surcoat is his protective gear, a set of reinforced chainmail that has fully repaired for use.

He leads his horse to his end of the list and then unburdens his charger with the three blunted lances that he has prepared for this event. Stabbing them into the ground, he then mounts up on Havok, settling into the saddle. It appears his mood is less than stellar, no doubt not as focused as he was during the Pendragon's Wedding Tourney. A half-hearted salute is offered to the crowd before he reaches over and pulls free one of the pinned lances. He offers the knight he is supposed to face a respectful nod and then slips on his bucket helm.

The hour's tilt is announced by the shout of a crier, already hoarse from announcing many of the young knights from the bumper crop of 489 to 495. "Sir Llwyd of Totnes!" he calls, and this alone stirs interest from the crowds fanning themselves in the dusty tourney field. So many horses have churned up the dirt, and the warm September afternoon is already somewhat horrific for allergies. Pollen floats around on the air, and for some equines and courtiers, this is miserable. Llwyd of Totnes is a rather dark fellow, face pointed and sallow under his helmet, and he wears the marks of many encounters on his oft repaired chain. His shield is a solid kite, his spears of wood and blunted for the tourney, handed up to and prepared by a squire with hair so pale a blond as to be white. He guides his charger to the tilt bar, hoisting up the lance in a strong, firm salute. The marshal, Sir Haxton, finishes conferring with another official and shoos the squires and helpers off the field, leaving Llwyd to impatiently wait. He can almost be heard tapping the inside of his shield.

The flag flies high, lifted by Sir Haxton. Almost immediately Llwyd spurs his horse into a full charge rushing at the line. Its gait jars him up and down in the saddle, and the crowd shrieks its acclaim and excitement. He struggles to hold the lance down and the shield close to his body in the cavalry charge but clearly the Cornwallish knight favours his lance to his defense. And it may cost him dear.

Once the signal flag is raised, Elrick spurs his own charger into motion as well and both rider and steed gain speed. The thunder of hooves hammering into the packed dirt is a very familiar sound for all spectators. Though the Laverstock may have been lackluster in his presentation, his focus once they start charging at each other is evident. Leaning forward in his saddle, his lance remains raised until the right moment where he brings it down with a controlled descent. Elrick's strike is true, the tip of his blunted lance hammering into Sir Llwyd's shield with a punishing force while he weathers the counterblow with ease. When he slows Havok at the other end of the lane, he wheels his charger about and trots the horse towards the fallen knight to see if the man has been injured or not.

In a blur the action happens. Wood cracks off chain mail and earns a grunt from the Cornwallish man. He shudders with the violence of the impact rolling up his side, throwing him off balance. His own lance cracks on Elrick's shoulder and diverts under his arm, finding that open space and veering down. Llwyd releases the weapon and hauls on the reins to slow his foundering horse, but the force of the collision skews him badly in the saddle. His foot catches and he drags from the back, crashing down behind the rearing animal. All at once his queerly pale squire comes running out, arms pumping at his sides. The groans and cheers mingle together in a wave of sound as the dazed man sits up slowly, favouring his side. He puts his fist to the forming bruise and salutes them, showing all is rather well. "Yield," he says, to Sir Haxton's ringing cry, "The tilt to Sir Elrick de Laverstock!"

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