(514-09-16) For Christ or For Love
Summary: Elrick de Laverstock faces one of the great notables of western Britain.
Date: 514-09-16
Related: N/A

NPC played by


Elrick checked his tourney of 7, he rolled 18.
Critical Success!
Elrick checked his lance of 15, he rolled 15.
Eirian makes a check for Famous Knight Lance at 18, she rolled 11.
Elrick rolls 12d6 and gets (5 1 4 5 3 6 3 5 3 5 2 4) for a total of: (46)

Being one of the few knights that have made it past the first two rounds of the joust in the tourney, Elrick has returned to the tourney grounds as he is scheduled to face off against his opponents and according to the list, it is a knight that is quite famous in this event. That does not deter the Laverstock Knight as he takes pride in his own skills on his steed with lance in hand. So once his turn comes up, he goes through the same ritual of preparation.

Leading Havok to his side of the tilt, Elrick stabs his three blunted lances into the dirt before offering his charger a rub behind the ears. Quiet words are offered before he climbs on and once astride the charger, he reaches down for a lance. Though he usually plays well to the crowd and offers the proper respect, it appears that the Knight-Warden of Wilton has forgotten this time. Instead, he slips his helm over his head, fully focused on his opponent.

Elrick checked his recognize of 7, he rolled 17.

The crier does his duty loudly thus, "Sir Elrick de Laverstock, Knight-Warden of Wilton!" Then he waits as a large knight astride a gorgeous sabino charger makes his appearance from the fanfare of noise at the other end of the pitch. "Sir Dywel ap Erbin, the Lord Knight of the West Country!" That name ricochets across the field to a heralding fanfare as his squire walks out carrying his shield, a white cross on a field of black on one side, green ermine on the left. In the middle rears a red dragon holding a mace. Small and boisterous, the West Country contingent throw their hands into the air and roar their approval. The man's horse prances up to the line and his helmet bears the same draconic device. All about him speaks of wealth and talent, from the set of the older man's posture to the excellent condition of his chain. Handed the first of his lances, he takes the weapon and raises it high. "In honour of the High King and the Earl of Sarum!" A cheer greets him in turn. He lifts it again. "For Christ!" A quieter cheer, this time, those dividing on their loyalties answering. "For the great city of Sarum!" Naturally the shout swells louder. The last of his salutes is directly to Elrick.

Then he settles onto the horse as if a fabled centaur, half-man and half equine, the way the two of them ride in utter smoothness. His vert and noir colours are reflected upon the caparison, even the ribbon roiling off the shield handed up to him.

When the name of the Lord Knight is announced, Elrick does not exactly recognize his opponent as he is not a very well traveled man, so his knowledge of those that are further west is lacking. When the spectators roar at the announcement of the man's name though, a smirk appears on the Laverstock, hidden by the bucket helm. The fancy designs are impressive, the local knight would admit to that in silence, but that is all he would admit to. When Sir Dywel offers a salute to Elrick, it is returned respectfully though there are no loud words to proclaim his own loyalties. However, when the flag is about to drop, the Laverstock's loyalty does appear as he says quietly to himself, "For Eirian."

Then the signal is given as the white flag is lowered and Elrick spurs Havok forward, the powerful and energetic warhorse bolting to full speed. Hooves thunder down the lane and the Laverstock is very well composed, eyes fully focused on his target. It isn't the dragonic device on the shield or the same symbol that is on his helm, instead he is focused on the knight's chest. From his perspective, time almost slows and adrenaline pumps through his veins. When he nears his opponent, his lance begins to come down, timed perfectly with grace but the result is anything but. When Elrick's lance connects to the Lord Knight's chest, it is a brutal impact with the weapon shattering. The result is evident though as the Laverstock rides to the end of the tilt and wheels his steed around, looking at the downed opponent. Victory is his.

Splinters fly into the air and roll over the man's shoulder. They gleam in broken fragments like motes of dust dancing in a shaft of light. Time crawls for Sir Dywel. He slides through a narrowing tunnel of dirt thrown into the air, stinking horseflesh and leather hot under the air. His armour creaks and a ripple from the point of the blow radiates up his chest and through the bound rings of chain, waves on the sea. His lance swings up to possibly deliver a strike against Elrick's shoulder, but off-kilter, he goes twisting in the saddle as the charger's mane whips on the dusty air and the caparison flaps. A collective groan starts to rise as he is thrown back and off away from the scarred wooden rail. Lifted into the air, gravity snags him bodily and punches him down into the earth. Ring chimes and he lands in a heap, bounding once off the ground away from churning hooves, and smacked back again to lie heavily upon his side. His helmet is thrown off, revealing dark hair and tanned skin, a man probably with a half decade and more on Elrick. A splinter lodged at his brow where the rim didn't protect leaves a rather ugly red wound starting to bleed into his face, and his squires go tearing over to help him up.

Shock becomes a swell of sound. Applause joins the shouting and the tourney crowd roars their approval.

With the fallen knight looking to have taken a wound, Elrick trots his warhorse in the man's direction though it appears that he will be in good hands as the man's squire runs out to help. "Sir, are you all right?" Since this man isn't a ponce like the previous one he had gone again, the Laverstock does feel a bit of concern as he calls for a healer in case the squire's shocked voice doesn't carry. But that is all he offers as this is a tourney and blows like this do happen in such violent competitions. With the applause rising from the spectators, raises a gloved hand and salutes the crowd before ending with a wave. Then he rides back to where two of his remaining lances await him, pride swelling within him.

The blood is staunched by a folded cloth, blotted and dabbed at Dywel's forehead. He reaches around to find his helmet, a squire fetching up the metal pot for him. Then he raises that in salute to his audience, though a bit woozy from the grievous blow. Arms slipped under his, the two squires help the big man to his feet. Healers already await their opportunity to clean the wound and stitch it up. Lesser men have died from splinters going gangrenous, and a head injury is nothing to be laughed at. But Dywel says, "Bit sore rolling out of bed," and all seems to be relatively well. So is the fourth round Sir Laverstock's; and the third the end of Sir Dywel's gilded journey.

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