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[Region-Based] Tournament of Magnaborgh

A battle ground for the sportsmen and women of nations worldwide. [In character]
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Miklaland
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Founded: Apr 30, 2020
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

[Region-Based] Tournament of Magnaborgh

Postby Miklaland » Fri Jul 03, 2020 6:59 pm

With an upcoming marriage presenting her with a perfect excuse, the notoriously martially-inclined Prince of Magnaborgh has arranged for a grand tournament to be held in the couple’s honour and according to tradition arranged for it to play out in the purpose cleared fairground located just outside the city walls. Similar fairgrounds can be found throughout Miklaland, designed specifically for jousting contests. These are often in general pleasant, temperate fields complete with jousting stilts and stands. During jousting competitions, brightly coloured tents and buntings matching not only the Knights' Heraldries, but also the local crafting and merchant guilds, decorate the area. The event usually draw in nobles and peasents from miles around to watch and perticipate in the sport, leaving Inns and taverns near the jousting ground full to bursting. Letters, containing the Prince’s personal guarantee for the safety of all participants outside of the list field has been issued far and wide, officially in the spirit of cultural understanding in this period of unparalleled peace, in truth for the Prince and the other spectators to enjoy a varied and exotic collection of champions.

The Lord's/Lady's Favour

On the day before the joust, the competitors parade before the assembled crowds where it is custom for the Knights to ride up to the stands of spectators and ask the Lords and Ladies for their favours. The Knight chooses the Lord or Lady whom he/she regards as the most beautiful to beg a favour from. If he/she is flattered by the request, or secretly hopes that the Knight will win the contest she will attach an item of his/her apparel to the Knight’s lance. The more intimate the garment the luckier it is believed to be and thehigher the Knight can consider himself in her estimation. Of course, this custom always delights the multitudes of bawdy townsfolk and mercenaries whose lewd remarks and whistles often cause the nobles to blush. It requires a lot of bravery on the part of the most beautiful men and women who are invariably asked to give their favour to an embarrassing number of Knights and risk catching a chill by the end of the day. The more modest Miklalandian nobility usually attend well-prepared in advance with several .

In practice, a token of favour translates into luck points for the knight, allowing them to discard a dice-throw and roll for a new one. They must state that they'll use a point before rolling and will forfeit the point if they're satisfied with the first result.




ItemsLuck PointsRoll d4
Veil+1d1
Girdle+1d2
Garter+2d3
Tress+3d4


Victory Conditions

Most individual jousts ended when one knight was unseated. Although at some tourneys, the battle continued on the ground with sword combat until one knight yielded or was killed. A knight has occassionally yielded to his opponent even if not unseated due to injury to himself or his/her horse. The knight would ride down the list with lowered lance in order to demonstrate his/her defeat. Disqualifications were not often seen, as knights were expected to be chivalrous at all times. The noble's or crowd's displeasure will cause a knight to be disqualified for unchivalrous behavior, such as striking his opponent's horse.

Knights gain points based on the result of their pass. A herald tallies the points, announcing the victor at the end of the contest. The following guidelines are general only; many possible variations apply.





ConditionsPointsRoll d20
Striking an Opponent+1Beat Saving throw
Missing an Opponent-1Fail to beat Saving throw
Shivering a Lance+1Beat Saving throw, moderate success
Shivering a Lance-3Cricital failure
Unseating Opponent+3Critical Success


Two jousting knights will go through three rounds (unless on manages to unhorse to other through a critical roll), each using the three stats of Horsemanship (Initiative), Strength (Attack) and Endurance (Saving throw). Each knight has 15 points all together which they can choose to spend however they wish.

Alternately, the winner may simply be the knight who unhorses his opponent first. If no knight is unhorsed after three passes, victory is given to the knight who broke his lance upon his opponent's shield more times.

Conduct

Regardless of alignment, there are certain rules all jousters must abide by, and violation is grounds for dishonour. The key rules are as follows.

  • Jousters may never strike opponents from behind.
  • Jousters may never target an opponent's steed.
  • Jousters may not continue to fight after unhorsing their foe, unless such action has been sanctioned before the match.

Champion Name: McNobody von Whosyourface
Horse Breed: Generic destier + 1 Horsemanship
Armour-style: Armour with an arrêt de cuirasse +1 Strenght
Hereldry Description: Dull grey
Short Description (Optional): Incredibly dull and forgetable, McNobody has salt and pepper hair and comes from from a principality within the Empire where all military experience comes from running down unarmoured and unarmed serfs, their own or those from neighboring villages. Battle-scar across his eyebrow from hitting an protruding roof beam when raiding a peaceful hamlet.
Horsemanship: 5 +1 (generic destier)
Strenght: 5 +1 (armour with arrêt)
Endurance: 5


Representatives:


Representing: The Dales (Dalarna)
Champion: Helga Hjortmundr von Öhrn
Horse: Heserrish Purebred +1 Endurance
Armour: Askr-style +1 Strength
Hereldry Description:
Image
Character Art (Optional):
Image
Short Description (Optional):
Horsemanship: 5
Strenght: 5 +1 (Askr-style Armour)
Endurance: 5 +1 (Heserrish Purebred)


Representing: Höghrheim
Champion: Björnr von Sfvartskogh
Horse: Full-blooded Hvit +1 Horsemanship
Armour: Rahnish-style +1 Endurance
Hereldry Description:
Image
Character Art (Optional):
Image
Short Description (Optional):
Horsemanship: 4 +1 Horsemanship (Full-blooded Hvit)
Strenght: 6
Endurance: 5 +1 Endurance ( Rahnish-style)


Representing: Randmark
Champion Name: Reinhard Oswald von Freidburg, Waldherr von Freidburg
Horse Breed: Purebred Wälderzeiter
Armour-style: Streubetal Style with visored Schaller.
Heraldry Description: Raven volant on a field of green
Image
Character Art (Optional):
Image
Short Description (Optional):
Horsemanship: 5 + 2 (Wälderzeiter & Streubetal Style)
Strenght: 4
Endurance: 6


Representing: Imperial City of Drakhovf
Champion:Henrietta von Drakhovf
Horse: Heserrish Purebred +1 Endurance
Armour: Askr-style +1 Strength
Hereldry Description:
Image
Character Art (Optional):
Image
Short Description (Optional):
Horsemanship: 6
Strenght: 5 +1 (Askr-style Armour)
Endurance: 4 +1 (Heserrish Purebred)


Representing: The Grand and Honourable Company des Chevaliers de la Rose Noire
Champion Name: Grand Sous-Capitaine Marie-Claire Bittencourt
Horse Breed: White Marble Destrier + 1 Horsemanship
Armour-style: La Coilouaire Armour +1 Strenght
Hereldry Description: A field of white, A black thornless rose
Image
Short Description (Optional):
Image
Horsemanship: 5 +1 (generic destier)
Strenght: 5 +1 (armour with arrêt)
Endurance: 5


Representing: The Empire of Tawantinsuyo, as part of a state trade mission and cultural exchange with the various Lords and Ladies in attendance.
Champion Name: Eztli Necalli. Whilst unfamiliar with the sport of jousting, as most are in Tawantinsuyo, Eztli is willing to put his life on the line both for the glory of the Empire and to demonstrate the strength of the Jaguar warriors for all to see.
'Horse' Breed: The Great Urcuchillay Llama. Larger than the more common pack llamas which are native to the mountains of Tawantinsuyo, the Great Urcuchillay Llamas have been specially bred for centuries, selected for their size and aggression. Famous for being stubborn and hostile, they bite and spit at anyone who irritates them, even sometimes their own handlers and riders. The Cavalry of the Tawantinsuyo do not ride in formation, instead they are trained to operate by themselves or in pairs as outriders and shock troops along the mountain paths of their homeland.
Image

Armour Style: Belonging to the elite warrior order of the Jaguar, Eztli has earned the right to bear the traditional Jaguarskin armour, feathered shield and obsidian macuahuitl through the personal capture of four enemy combatants in battle.
Image

Heraldry Description: No personal heraldry. Entirely representing the Empire of Tawantinsuyo.
Image
Short Description: In his early thirties. Short and stocky as is common of the people of Tawantinsuyo but extremely muscled and fit from constant training and a lifelong career in the military. Almost always seen in his Jaguarskin armour.
'Llamamanship': Penalty for having a stubborn mount but bonus for it spitting at opponents/ steeds. Neutral.
Strength: +1 for not needing to carry around heavy armour.
Endurance: -1 for lack of effective armour.[/quote]


Champion Name: Ulfen Enebesh Burim
Horse Breed: https://www.dropbox.com/s/zm3rggdjw6kejm9/Moorbounder.jpg?dl=0 The Ravanoran Moorbounders are a strong species of swampland predators, owing their survival to their thick leathery hides, powerful legs, and deadly claws and fangs. They are able to run at great speeds, though some would call it leaping rather than running. For the purpose of this sport however, 'Princess' Kasha will be restricted to a slow run, though Enebesh claims to be unable to stop the other contestants' steeds from being frightened of his beloved Kasha. Enebesh can promise that Kasha is being well fed so the mounts are safe from being eaten, though the occasional person is in danger should they be careless. (+1 Horsemanship)
Armour-style: https://www.dropbox.com/s/glsn0pyskg39bnc/Vendal%20Knight.jpg?dl=0 High Quality Vendal Plate Armor. (+1 Endurance)
Hereldry Description: Blue Field with a stylistic image of a wolf's head facing to the left.
Image
Short Description (Optional): Dirty blonde hair, kept tied in in tight braids up top, the sides of his head are shaved and tattooed. His skin is tan and his almond eyes are green, though the left one has a significant scar running down across it. When he is not in the joust, he will often be found wearing very simple, well made tunic and trousers, or the cloth padding beneath is armor, and Kasha never leaves his side, ever.
Horsemanship: 6 (+1 Moorbounder)
Strenght: 4
Endurance: 5 (+1 High Quality Heavy Vendal Plate Armor)


Representing: The Caliphate of Córdova, the royal house of Umayyad and the brave moor soldiers of Tulaytulah.
Champion: Prince Razim al-Rahman, younger brother of the Caliph of Córdova, General of the royal armies of the al-Awsat March and lord-emir of Tulaytulah
Horse: Andalusian (+ 1 Horsemanship)
Armour: Moor field armor (-1 Endurance)
Hereldry Description: Golden sunburst on a red field (see below)
Image
Character Art (Optional):
Image
Short Description (Optional): Average height with a sturdy frame, dark hair, umber skin and a closely cropped beard. The prince´s countenance can be charming and warm when his attention is on another but often is seen as distant, scanning and ever-alert
Horsemanship: 5 (+1 Andalusian, -1 inexperience with joust)
Strenght: 6 (+1 for active combat experience)
Endurance: 4 (-1 for field armor not designed to take the impact of a lance at full charge)


Representing: The Order of the Wyrm
Champion: Ärke-Lektor Sigmund von Gudahammare
Horse: Borrowed Magnaborgh Destrier +1 Horsemanship
Armour: Älghudskyller (Elk hide coat) 0 Endurance
Hereldry Description:
Image
Character Art (Optional):
Image
Short Description (Optional): Sigmund von Gudahammare, or simply God-Hammer as he is often called with awe and fear is a charismatic holy warrior, having lead an independant people's crusade against the Vendal barbarians. The ill-equipped and poorly supplied peasants proved little match against the slightest of organized defence, as such his personal crusade resulting in a failure. Despite being rediculed by the less zealous nobility, the god-fearing masses and Princes praised his attempts as a way to draw attention to the Miklalandians suffering under Revenor suzerainty. Enjoying the status as a half-martyr, Sigmund travels the empire campaigining for another crusade, but this time not composed of fanatic plebs, but the thundering hooves of full-plated knights and arquebuses of the Landsknechts.
Horsemanship: 4
Strenght: 7
Endurance: 4
Last edited by Miklaland on Tue Jul 21, 2020 12:34 pm, edited 30 times in total.

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Miklaland
Political Columnist
 
Posts: 5
Founded: Apr 30, 2020
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Miklaland » Fri Jul 03, 2020 7:17 pm

Representing: Höghrheim
Champion: Björnr von Sfvartskog
Luck Points: 3 (Björn trots towards the box holding the nobles of higher rank, pacing his horse back and forth before settling on the Prince of Magnaborgh herself. Following a respectful bow of the head and a cheeky wink, the Prince surrenders a lock of her hair, the two seeming to sharing a deeper bond of friendship or perhaps even something more?)

vs

Representing: The Dales (Dalarna)
Champion: Helga Hjortmundr von Öhrn-Rosensfvärd
Luck Points: 3 (Helga manages to pick out her lover in the crowds and approche at a gallop, to the fright of all those surrounding her target. The display of reckless horsemanship amuses the lover who surrenders a lock of hair)

Round 1:

Bjorn Horsemanship: 4+1
Helga Horsemanship: 16
Helga Strikes : 8+1 = 9
Björn Save: 9
Björn Strikes: 6
Helga Save: 6

Round 2:

Bjorn Horsemanship: 11+1
Helga: Horsemanship: 14
Helga Strikes, uses luck point: 18
Bjorn Save, uses luck point: 1 Critical failure

Round 3:

Bjorn is unhorsed and invites Helga to fight on foot, Helga accepts and the crowd applaud her chivalry.

Bjorn Horsemanship: 5 +1
Helga Horsemanship: 5
Bjorn strikes: 17
Helga Stroles: 17
Bjorn Saves: 1
Helga Saves: 1

Björn and Helga fights till exhaustion, evenly matched on foot. The Prince of Magnaborgh declares Helga the victor
Last edited by Miklaland on Wed Jul 08, 2020 7:06 pm, edited 7 times in total.

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Ravanor
Civilian
 
Posts: 1
Founded: Apr 05, 2020
Compulsory Consumerist State

Postby Ravanor » Sat Jul 04, 2020 5:35 pm

Champion Name: Ulfen Enebesh Burim
Horse Breed: https://www.dropbox.com/s/zm3rggdjw6kejm9/Moorbounder.jpg?dl=0 The Ravanoran Moorbounders are a strong species of swampland predators, owing their survival to their thick leathery hides, powerful legs, and deadly claws and fangs. They are able to run at great speeds, though some would call it leaping rather than running. For the purpose of this sport however, 'Princess' Kasha will be restricted to a slow run, though Enebesh claims to be unable to stop the other contestants' steeds from being frightened of his beloved Kasha. Enebesh can promise that Kasha is being well fed so the mounts are safe from being eaten, though the occasional person is in danger should they be careless. (+1 Horsemanship)
Armour-style: https://www.dropbox.com/s/glsn0pyskg39bnc/Vendal%20Knight.jpg?dl=0 High Quality Vendal Plate Armor. (+1 Endurance)
Hereldry Description: Blue Field with a stylistic image of a wolf's head facing to the left.
Short Description (Optional): Dirty blonde hair, kept tied in in tight braids up top, the sides of his head are shaved and tattooed. His skin is tan and his almond eyes are green, though the left one has a significant scar running down across it. When he is not in the joust, he will often be found wearing very simple, well made tunic and trousers, or the cloth padding beneath is armor, and Kasha never leaves his side, ever.
Horsemanship: 6 (+1 Moorbounder)
Strenght: 4
Endurance: 5 (+1 High Quality Heavy Vendal Plate Armor)
Last edited by Ravanor on Sun Jul 12, 2020 9:48 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Chenjithuujen
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Posts: 15
Founded: Mar 30, 2020
Father Knows Best State

Postby Chenjithuujen » Sat Jul 04, 2020 5:37 pm

:clap: Wow bois.

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Verschwald
Civil Servant
 
Posts: 9
Founded: Sep 02, 2017
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Verschwald » Tue Jul 07, 2020 7:34 am

Representing: Randmark
Champion Name: Reinhard Oswald von Freidburg, Waldherr von Freidburg
Horse Breed: Purebred Wälderzeiter (+1 Horsemanship)
Armour-style: Streubetal Style with visored Schaller. (+1 Horsemanship)
Heraldry Description: Raven volant on a field of green
Short Description:
Image


Horsemanship: 5 + 2 (Wälderzeiter & Streubetal Style)
Strength: 4
Endurance: 6
Last edited by Verschwald on Thu Jul 09, 2020 6:18 am, edited 2 times in total.

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Miklaland
Political Columnist
 
Posts: 5
Founded: Apr 30, 2020
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Miklaland » Wed Jul 08, 2020 6:51 pm

Representing: Randmark
Champion Name: Reinhard Oswald von Freidburg, Waldherr von Freidburg
Luck Points: 2 (Reinhard leads his horse directly to the banner of Elsbeth von Lehr, the maiden of Acherath and daughter of his liege lord, where he drops to one knee before her. She quickly surrenders a seemingly spare garter with a coy smile, prompting rumours on any relationship they might share.)

vs

Representing: The Grand and Honourable Company des Chevaliers de la Rose Noire
Champion Name: Grand Sous-Capitaine Marie-Claire Bittencourt
Luck Points: 2

Round 1

Horsemanship, Reinhard d10+7: (1)+7 = 8
Horsemanship, Marie-Claire (9)+6 = 15
Marie-Claire proves the better rider and strikes first, 1d10+6: (4)+6 = 10
Reinhard saves, (7)+6 = 13

The Waldgraf strikes (6)+4 = 10
The Mercenary failes to save 1d10+5: (3)+5 = 8

Round 2

Horsemanship, Reinhard d10+7: (1)+7 = 8
Horsemanship, Marie-Claire 1d10+6: (6)+6 = 12
Marie-Claire proves the better rider and strikes first 1d10+6: (5)+6 = 11
Reinhard burns a luck point and saves d10+6: (6)+6 = 12
Reinhard strikes, d10+4: (3)+4 = 7
Marie-claire saves 1d10+5: (6)+5 = 11

Round 3

Horsemanship, Reinhard d10+7: (5)+7 = 12
Horsemanship, Marie-Claire 1d10+6: (6)+6 = 12
Both Strike at the same time
Strength, Reinhard burns a luck points and crits (10)+4 = 14
Strength, Marie-Claire burns a luck point and re-rolls (4)+6 = 10
Marie-Claire critical failure 1d10+5: (1)+5 = 6 to save and is unhorsed, the honorable Waldgraf offers to continue the fight on foot

Round 3,5

Initiative on foot, Reinhard, d10+1: (6)+1 = 7
Initiative on foot, Marie-Claire, 1d10+1: (4)+1 = 5
Reinhard Strenght, d10: (8) = 8
Marie-Claire Strenght, 1d10: (6) = 6
Reinhard Endurance, (7) = 7
Marie-Claire Endurance, 1d10: (9) = 9
Last edited by Miklaland on Mon Jul 13, 2020 12:15 pm, edited 7 times in total.

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The Confederation of Mercenaries
Political Columnist
 
Posts: 2
Founded: Jul 05, 2020
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby The Confederation of Mercenaries » Wed Jul 08, 2020 7:51 pm

Representing: The Grand and Honourable Company des Chevaliers de la Rose Noire

Champion Name: Grand Sous-Capitaine Marie-Claire Bittencourt
Horse Breed: White Marble Destrier + 1 Horsemanship
Armour-style: La Coilouaire Armour +1 Strength
Heraldry Description: A field of white, A black thornless rose
Short Description (Optional):
Image
Horsemanship: 5 +1 (generic destrier)
Strength: 5 +1 (armour with arrêt)
Endurance: 5
Last edited by The Confederation of Mercenaries on Sun Jul 12, 2020 8:22 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Tawantinsuyo
Civilian
 
Posts: 1
Founded: Apr 21, 2020
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Tawantinsuyo » Thu Jul 09, 2020 5:37 pm

Representing: The Empire of Tawantinsuyo, as part of a state trade mission and cultural exchange with the various Lords and Ladies in attendance.

Champion Name: Eztli Necalli. Whilst unfamiliar with the sport of jousting, as most are in Tawantinsuyo, Eztli is willing to put his life on the line both for the glory of the Empire and to demonstrate the strength of the Jaguar warriors for all to see.

'Horse' Breed: The Great Urcuchillay Llama. Larger than the more common pack llamas which are native to the mountains of Tawantinsuyo, the Great Urcuchillay Llamas have been specially bred for centuries, selected for their size and aggression. Famous for being stubborn and hostile, they bite and spit at anyone who irritates them, even sometimes their own handlers and riders. The Cavalry of the Tawantinsuyo do not ride in formation, instead they are trained to operate by themselves or in pairs as outriders and shock troops along the mountain paths of their homeland.
Image

Armour Style: Belonging to the elite warrior order of the Jaguar, Eztli has earned the right to bear the traditional Jaguarskin armour, feathered shield and obsidian macuahuitl through the personal capture of four enemy combatants in battle.
Image

Heraldry Description: No personal heraldry. Entirely representing the Empire of Tawantinsuyo.

Short Description: In his early thirties. Short and stocky as is common of the people of Tawantinsuyo but extremely muscled and fit from constant training and a lifelong career in the military. Almost always seen in his Jaguarskin armour.

'Llamamanship': Penalty for having a stubborn mount but bonus for it spitting at opponents/ steeds. Neutral.

Strength: +1 for not needing to carry around heavy armour.

Endurance: -1 for lack of effective armour.

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Miklaland
Political Columnist
 
Posts: 5
Founded: Apr 30, 2020
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Miklaland » Mon Jul 13, 2020 8:28 am

Representing: Ravanor
Champion Name: Ulfen Enebesh Burim
Luck Points: 3

vs

Representing: The Empire of Tawantinsuyo
Champion Name: Eztli Necalli
Luck Points: 0

Round 1

Round 2

Round 3

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Caliphate of Cordova
Political Columnist
 
Posts: 2
Founded: Jul 12, 2020
Father Knows Best State

Postby Caliphate of Cordova » Sat Jul 18, 2020 9:28 pm

Represetning: The Caliphate of Córdova, the royal house of Umayyad and the brave moor soldiers of Tulaytulah.
Champion Name: Prince Razim al-Rahman, younger brother of the Caliph of Córdova, General of the royal armies of the al-Awsat March and lord-emir of Tulaytulah
Horse Breed: Andalusian (+ 1 Horsemanship)
Armour-style: Moor field armor (-1 Endurance)
Hereldry Description: Golden sunburst on a red field (see below)
Short Description (Optional): Average height with a sturdy frame, dark hair, umber skin and a closely cropped beard. The prince´s countenance can be charming and warm when his attention is on another but often is seen as distant, scanning and ever-alert

Horsemanship: 5 (+1 Andalusian, -1 inexperience with joust)
Strenght: 6 (+1 for active combat experience)
Endurance: 4 (-1 for field armor not designed to take the impact of a lance at full charge)

Image Image
Prince Razim al-Rahman and shield heraldry of Tulaytulah

Image
mounted





Desiring to deepen the diplomatic relationship between the Caliphate of Córdova and the Confederacy of Miklaland and establish the Caliphate as a friend and trading partner, the Caliph has deemed to send no less than royal blood to the games taking place in Magnaborgh in the person of his younger brother, Prince Razim al-Rahman. The prince, who is not in-line for the throne, serves as commander of the royal armies of the al-Awsat March along the Caliphate's central borderland with the remnant petty gothic kingdoms who share a minor poertion of the lands of al-Andalus. The prince is also lord-emir of the fortress-city of Tulaytulah, known in its latinized name as Toledo.

Prince Razim also happens to be one of the Caliphate's most eligible bachelors, having avoided taking a bride in favor of dedicating himself to his armies and constant vigilance of the March. He frequently joins patrols and visits the local villages where he his beloved by the people.

However, the Caliph has instructed the Prince and his advisers to assess the potential for a marital union with one of the great houses of Miklaland while at the games, a political link to the Empire seen as serving the interest of greater cooperation and cultural and economic exchange. The Prince himself, while doubtful such a match could be found, is not averse to the idea, knowing the noble ladies of Miklaland often share his passion for martial pursuits and the idea of a warrior princess to join him in Tulaytulah interests him very much.

When asked about the question of religion, the Caliph has decreed a potential foreign bride need only convert and proclaim the true faith publicly, but is free to practice and observe the Norse faith in private, if desired. Such an arrangement would not be seen as scandolus in the more permissive attitudes of the Caliphate, especially in the Marchlands of al-Awsat.




The Prince and his royal entourage arrived in Magnaborgh with much fanfare, the locals gathering to watch the spectacle of the strangely dressed and colored Cordovans. The Prince's umber colored skin looked almost pale contrasted to the charcoal colored moors tending the pack mules and wrangling the exotic animals brought from lands barely on the edges of the maps of the Miklalandians. Iberian ibex, falcons, zebra, a caged lynx, numerous brightly colored birds from tropical climes and a gaggle of common ostrich followed by a trio of their larger cousins, twice as large with three-times the wingspan, the legendary flying ostriches of Cordova. All gifts for the host, the Prince of Magnaborgh as well as a coffer of treasures from Cordova; golden oil lamps, silver serving platters, candlesticks and incense burners and a curved dagger in a hardened gold sheath studded with brilliant gemstones. A wedding present for the happy couple.

On the day of the games, after setting up the royal pavillion and after making his presentation to the gathered crowd to a rather mixed reception, Prince Razim stood with his advisers as handlers began preparing rider and horse. The advisers were reviewing the names and ranks of potential ladies to be wooed by the Prince, hoping to make a union with a Markgreve or even Landtgreve. But the Prince, while a squire placed a leather breastcover over his tunic which would add a layer of cushioing under the armor, was only half-attending to what they were saying. His thoughts were preoccupied by an unknown lady maiden he spied earlier, assisting one of the other competing knights. Before mounting for his bout, the knight was warming up with a practice fight using wooden swords with this elegant lady. She was obviously comfortable with combat, keeping her eyes on the knight´s, never betraying her next move. The Prince watched her footwork and marvelled at her style, which emphasized jabs and forceful stabs rather than the cuts and swings favored by the moors. The Prince was enthralled at the young fightress, her chestnut hair bound for the mock fight, giving full view to a face of light freckles on milky skin.

Having dressed and mounted, the Prince was handed his lance and he trotted onto the playing field. His advisers, having come to the decision the Prince should approach a demure and recently widowed Hertiginna, were dumbfounded when Razim instead made straight for an unknown lady of unknown peerage. The advisers noted the banner underwhich the young lady sat with various other unknown persons, a silver pear on a light blue field. They srcambled through a pile of loose parchments to try to identify the heraldry.

Razim approached the lady who was surprised at the sudden appearance of the Cordovan prince. Razim removed his helmet and bowed from the saddle and began in his broken Norse,
"My dear lady, though I know not neither your name nor station, your radiant beauty and skill at arms have beckoned me here to ask your favor. Would you grant this stranger to your lands the boon of your affection to carry him through this contest?"

The young woman's initial round-eyed look of surprise passed to mild self-consciousness and then quickly to coy playfulness. "Your highness, are you sure you wish the favor of a proud daughter of Miklaland such as myself, of whom you know not name nor house?"

The Prince gave a winning smile and replied, "Truly the skill you showed with yonder knight proves your worth to Miklaland beyond any confines of name or title. It is this I treasure above all. My adversary's lance calls me forward; would you send me to face harm and injury with your refusal weighing in my soul? Or will you grant me your favor to carry on my lance and in my heart, such that to be defeated one thousand times with your token be more rewarding than any victory without?"

The lady-fighter furowed her brow and conceded, while almost seductively untying the ribbon around her waist, "Very well, for I cannot bear to be at blame for any misfortune which may befall you. May your skill on the horse befit the charm of your words, dear prince. Take then, this girdle, as a token of my favor, that you shall return with honor proved and regale me with stories of your lands."

Taking the long strip of ribbon gently from the young lady and noting the firmness of her grip as she gave it a playful tug before releasing it, Prince Razim gave a bow of gratitude, affixed the girdle to his lance, and gave a click to signal his Andalusian steed to his mark on the field.

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Verschwald
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Verschwald » Sun Jul 19, 2020 4:53 pm

The crier’s call echoed above the cheering of the crowd as the next bout was announced; von Svartskog and Öhrn-Rosensvärd had given them quite a show, and they were eager for more.
“From the edges of the Empire, the Waldherr von Freidburg, Reinhard Oswald von Freidburg!”
Reinhard waved to the crowd, acknowledging their cheers as he steered his horse, Zelda, onto the lists, his other hand holding his lance point high. Above his head, tied about the shaft of the lance, fluttered the token he’d been handed by Elsbeth just moments before. He knew the ostentatious way he’d approached her would raise eyebrows - and waggle tongues - but she’d seen the humour in it the way he’d intended, and making the woman smile had been the goal all along. Zelda snorted, and held at the head of the lists; the horse had been with him some years now, and at times seemed to read his mind - like now, as his opponent revealed herself at the far end of the list.


A bird's call sounded across the cloudless sky, interrupted by the crier echoing across the grounds announcing the arrival of the challenger to the empire's man from the forest. Trotting onto the field with great clods of earth thrown up in the hooves wake came a Mercenary to great boos and jeers of the crowd. Lance couched in her arms with one arm spread wide, welcoming the abuse of the crowd. A young woman held herself proudly, arrogantly amidst the verbal battering. Her horse, Emmanuel shook his head and winnied against the assault of the crowd as the black lace of the mercenaries garter flapped in the wind. The mercenary was Marie-Claire, Champion of the Black Rose and chosen to represent the Grand and Honourable Company des Chevaliers de la Rose Noire. She wore a simple breastplate with russet coloured cloth filigree creeping out of the sides of her finely polished plate. She pointed her free hand at her opponent and gave him a thumbs down. “I do not know you sir, nor do I care. For the honour of my own, and the honour of my company I shall put you on the ground!” The crowd soared with boos even as the clarion call of the announcer called for the joust to start.

Reinhard leaned in close to whisper in Zelda’s ear as the clarion sounded. “She’s a little too eager, don’t you think, Mädchen?” Flipping his visor down, he called back to the mercenary woman. “Come on, then, lass - for honour it is. Für Ehre und König!” He urged Zelda forward to meet the charge.


With a tap of her spurs her white charger surged forwards in great gallops, spewing out dirt from beneath his hooves with encouraging yells from the lightly armoured mercenary atop. Her lance braced in the forward position, aimed squarely at the incoming walderman knight. Be it the speed of her horse, or the freedom of her movement. Marie-Claire struck first by a fraction. The shock reverberating down her arm turning it instantly numb. It seemed solid, even as a grin began to creep onto her face as her opponent smashed into her. Seemingly unphased.

Reinhard smiled slightly, under his helmet. A different Confederate mercenary had come at him like this, back in König Matthias’ War. He took the blow the same way he had back then - turning his body to knock the point aside with his shield, and lending the point of his own lance that small portion of extra momentum. The point struck firmly, splintering against Marie-Claire’s shield and sending her reeling with the force of the blow as they passed each other, slowing at the far end of the lists to wheel around, and receive fresh lances. Reinhard took the opportunity to raise his visor, and address his opponent once more. “You ride like a young woman, all energy and enthusiasm! A few more years of experience, perhaps, then we’ll see, ja?

Marie-Claire took her lance with a huff. “Lucky once! Never shall you be lucky again!” She declared. Again the crowd booed even as she spurred her white destrier forwards. Cheeks scarlet with indignation and she charged forwards. Garter whipping in the wind and the rush of air in her ears. Surely he’ll expect something different as she aimed her lance at the dead centre of his body. The two closed rapidly. The jarring crash of the lance impact caused her to blink, even as she brought her shield across the impact of the walderman’s lance sent stars sparkling in her eyes.

Reinhard brought his body round again, mimicking the maneuver he’d pulled off in the first round, but this time the Chevalier was ready for him, her shield correctly interposed between his lance point and her armor. He grit his teeth at the impact, knocking her lance point aside just as she did his. The sunlight dappled on Zelda’s mottled hide as she carried him off to the end of the lists as he recovered his wits, wheeling around to prepare to charge again. He took a fresh lance from the waiting squire, and brought it up in salute to his opponent - a tribute to her swift learning. An enemy you could beat the same way twice wasn’t worth the effort.

Bringing the point down again, he urged Zelda forward into a charge, aiming square on for center mass on his opponent. His token flapped in the wind, and the noise of the crowd dulled down to a low roar in his ears - despite being near deafening. As the mercenary drew near, astride her resplendent white charger, and all other concerns faded away, he became a being of singular focus - to strike.
He struck.


Emmanuel charged. Invigorated by the same shame that burned in Marie-Claire's cheeks. Her head was still ringing from the previous blow. Her arm ached with the weight of the new lance. She shifted her point of arm towards the shoulder above the shield, aiming to get above the walderman’s guard this time. They closed. The glint of his plate filled her vision as a terrific crash overcame her senses. She vaguely recognized the shock to her arm as her lance connected with something and her sudden lightness. The loss of feeling from her dear Emmanuel underneath her as the ground came rushing to meet her back. Knocking the wind out of her and a temporary blackness to consume her consciousness.

The impact of the Chevalier’s lance on his shield as it splintered against him jarred Reinhard back to the wider world. Glancing behind at his opponent, he was shocked to see her horse riderless, it’s previous rider lying prone on the ground where she’d been forcibly dismounted. He reigned Zelda in, wheeling her around to trot toward where she lay before dismounting with a jingle of mail. “You still kicking, fraulein?”

Marie-Claire blinked as vision flared back into her consciousness. Bright and blue the sky appeared unfocused. A black spot sailing far above in the winds of the world crossed her vision. The pain burned across her entire side. The grand dent in her plate intensified the pain a hundred fold even as the accented voice called across the grounds towards her. She rolled over. Propping herself up and then kneeling. Throwing her good hand out to a squire as the other hung limp. Drops of blood dripping from her leather gauntlet. As the sword was pressed into her hand she rose pointing as best she could at the knight from the forest. Far longer than what should have been acceptable she replied. “Kicking to your grave, you pine needle.”

Caught momentarily off-guard by both her swift recovery - despite the blood dripping from her arm - and the barbed words, Reinhard paused in his step, before turning and beckoning his own squire over. “Gunnar! My sword.” As the squire hurried over, he caught the attention of the match crier, nodding his acceptance of the continuation of the match on foot. As the man announced his intentions to the crowd, he drew his proffered sword from the squire’s grip - a heavier broadsword, compared to his opponent’s more slender blade - and addressed his opponent, voice pitched lower so only she could hear. “You sure you’re up for this?” He nodded at her arm. “No shame in getting that seen to.”

Her cavalry sabre in hand, eyeing up her opponents much heavier sword and armour. She simply spat a bloody goblet of phlegm into the dirt in response as she strode forwards moving to ten paces from the forest knight. One arm still limp, she raises her sword to her face, glaring at the helmeted knight with fierce green eyes. “On our honour be it, but first. I wish to know your name, walderman.”
“My name is Reinhard Oswald. You’ve fought well, chevalier. Bravely. I would know yours.”
The crowd was silent as the two combatants addressed each other with swords raised. Almost holding their collective breaths in anticipation. “I am Grand Sous-Capitaine Marie-Claire Bittencourt. Sous-Captain to the Honourable Jean-Luc Le Tonnelier of the Company des Chevaliers de la Rose Noire. It is an honour to meet you here like this.” She heaved a breath as she swung, even as her weak intent was read by her opponent.

With skills honed by years of facing Vendal raiders on the fringes of the Empire, Reinhard moved as the mercenary lauded her titles, bringing his sword down in an overarmed arc. The mercenary, finishing her statement, quickly clashed her sword across the walderman’s, causing it to strike thickly into the first a fraction of an inch besides the merc before she danced away. Her sword slid off to strike with a shower of sparks even as the walderman brought up his own to defend the oncoming strike. Slowed by the shock of her situation and the pain of her wounds, her sword came down sharply towards the waldermans left shoulder but was intercepted with another shower of sparks by his broadsword.

Both strikes came to an end with the jarring impact of individual crossguards. Both pushed against each other's eyes locking together with a mix of fury and respect. Even to the young mercenary the old man moved with a speed unmatched. To the walderman, the merc moved with almost serpentine grace as she deflected his sword, shifted to each side to get out of the way of the heavy blows she could never hope to stop yet never managed to be hit by. Even her weak and bloody hand supporting her sword in the more jarring encounters causing more blood to fleck from her wounded limb. The two locked swords once again, with a grinding clash that flicked yet more blood from the mercenary’s arm.

...Even as the grand call of the announcer called an end to the match. The two remained locked for a second more before breaking off, both with swords held in front of their faces in a sign of respect, before flicking them to the side as the announcer calls out: “Four points to the Waldherr. One point to the Grand Sous-Capitaine!”
Their respective squires hurried forward to once again take possession of the pair’s weapons, as they regarded each other. “A well fought bout, Grand-Sous Capitaine. Now, if you’ll permit my saying so - go and have that arm seen to before you bleed to death. Hard to get that extra experience when dead, ja?”

The mercenary hung her head momentarily before letting her sword drop. “By your will, I am defeated.” She paused in her shameful stance even as the crowd cheered the walderman’s victory. “But. I suppose, If I am to beat you I should let myself heal non?” She grinned at the helmeted knight before half collapsing into the arms of her extremely concerned squire. Halfway off the field she called back. “I shall see you in the ale hall!” With a cackle unbefitting of her wounded state she laughed her way off the track.




Some hours later, as dusk gathered over the tournament grounds, the two opponents met again, in one of the ale halls adjacent to the tourney fields put aside for the attendees. Reinhard had long since removed his armor, and Marie-Claire had her arm bound in a splint as they sat together, toasting honour over a bottle of Rosenhafen Port - a Confederate drink which Reinhard found quite agreeable - whilst their squires shared a cheaper ale at the next table.
“Now,” began Reinhard, pulling a sealed bottle from under the table where it had rested since his arrival. “We’ve sampled your homeland’s Port - which I commend for it’s many fine qualities - but now, I insist you try mine own homeland’s offering. Obstgeist. Distilled amongst the trees of mein home.” He broke the seal, and poured them both a measure of the clear, cherry scented liquid.

The Merc, her arm still radiating pain but still managing a degree of movement. Smiled. Her belly full of warm port and her head both warm and agreeable. “If this can batter me as well as you can well. I’m sure to welcome it.” She chuckled before wincing as the movement agitated her wound. Taking a gentle sip as she savoured the complex flavours of the drink. Nodding in agreement as she painfully drank the rest of it. “You know, drinks like this after a fight aren’t the norm, back home once you’re done you’re done. Nothing but dirt. I can’t say I’m used to this.”

“We’ve always been called a hospitable people, us Waldermen. Always a seat at the table, even for someone who fought you hours before. And anyway - a bout is a bout; we’re not enemies on the battlefield; we’re competitors on the field of glory. Things might have been different, otherwise - but we can drink to that not being the case.” He poured them both another measure, raising his glass for another toast.

“Zu Ehren. Honour.”

“À notre honneur. For our Honour.”




Some translations are spelled out - namely, the ending toasts - but others are presented without context, so they'll be translated here:

Mädchen = Girl, Lass; Used here by Reinhard to refer affectionately to his horse
Für Ehre und König! = For Honour and King!; Used here as a battlecry
Fraulein = Young woman; Used here by Reinhard to address Marie-Claire, who is significantly his younger


Written jointly by Verschwald and The Confederation of Mercenaries

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The Confederation of Mercenaries
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

von Drakhovf vs Marie-Claire

Postby The Confederation of Mercenaries » Tue Jul 28, 2020 10:13 am

The arrival of the Imperial Knight from Drakhovf was announced by a distant drumming, soon revealed to be the hairy hooves of the monstrous Heserrish horse, pale and terrible as it carried the comparably tiny, but imposing Draklandian champion fully-dressed in steel. The armour had received a layer of red paint, skilfully applied to match the famous poppy hair common to the knight’s homeland. Bystanders could see that what paint the numerous lances, swords and claws scratched away had been badly, but lovingly reapplied. Moving with stoic swagger, ignoring her opponent for the moment. The Monfourmaise champion looked like a wounded animal, and the Red Knight a hunting dog, withering blood on the wind.

Marie-Claire arrived to a far more mixed reception this day, even as the announcer called out the titles of the Knight from Drakhovf. The dent in her armour had been hammered out in the night and her dislocated arm had been pushed roughly back into place. It was sore and painful and she tried not to wince as she used it. A fresh lance hefted into the air in her grip with a white garter, courtesy of a blushing imperial lady fluttered in the breeze. She eyed up the blazen red rider facing her from opposite of the ring. She bit her tongue, Her stinging defeat fresh in her mind from yesterday and the pain in her arm all too real. She stayed silent as she trotted to her end of the track, the booing of the crowd interlaced with a few ragged cheers and claps.

The Red Knight trotted down the lists, stopping half-way and gesturing for the mercenary to do the same when she seemed to hesitate.
Henrietta: “Seeing trash like you in noble gatherings almost reminds me of home” The Red Knight raised her visor in a salute.
The Mercenary trotted up to the halfway point. Keeping her gaze fixed on the scarlet knight. She spat a bloody glob into the dirt in response to her barbed call.
Henrietta:“If you win, I’ll let you...”
The knight paused for a moment, deep in thought before leaning in close over the lists with a firm grip on the Southerling’s collar.
Henrietta: ”Ríddu mér” Her breath heavy with the scent of cheap Rahnish wine.
Marie-Claire ripped the Imperials grip off of her collar and stared her down. “Keep your filthy tongue between your teeth, lest it sully what remains of your beauty.” The mercenary didn’t know what effect she hoped the words would have, but excitement wasn’t it, especially not the kind she could see in the Red Knight’s eyes and especially not directed solely at her.

Von Drakhovf made a theatrical gesture of raising her lance into the air, gauging the crowd and hoping for the ear-deafening cheers of approval that rang out shortly thereafter. The mock-lance was discarded, and according to courtly etiquette, challenging the Monfourmaise representative to a joust of war.

Marie-Claire matched the gesture automatically after being released from the Imperial Knights grip. Snorting to clear her air of the stench of her opponent's breath. Tossing her lance into the dirt did she realise what she’d just agreed too. A knot of fear tied its way into her belly as her squire handed her a lance of war. Trotting back to the starting point she tried to put the pain of her arm into the back of her mind. Hell, a lot more was about to come her way.

The seasoned chevalier thundered forward, the ghostly hooves of the Heserrish charger drowning out all other sound, rattling the teeth of the front row audience members. Marie-Claire spurred her white charger into action a fraction of a second after the red knight. The weight of the lance burned in her wounded arm as the two thundered towards each other. Her shield was raised low across her torso, her lance aimed squarely at her rapidly closing opponent. The two collided in a colossal crash of noise. In an instant both the Red Knight and the Mercenary felt their lances connect.

Marie-Claire screamed involuntarily as her opponent's lance smashed into her. Wrenched around by the blow and almost getting knocked off her horse. Hanging on desperately even as her already battered limb burned in protest and the fresh heat of blood began pouring over what was once her good arm. Heaving her weight back onto her mount she gingerly glanced at the wound as she slowed at the end of the track. A solid chunk was missing from her bicep on her shield arm glistening and twitching as it moved. She gritted her teeth and wheeled around to meet her opponent once more. The first drop of blood of the bout dripping into the dirt.

The Mercenary glanced back at the Draklandian Knight, struggling to slow down her charger at the end of the lists. She was seemingly unharmed, making Marie-Claire question if her lance had connected in the first place, a noticeably deep crack in the lance reassured her of the opposite. The lance had found its way into one of the segments of the nobel’s Askr-style armour, ripping the chainmail and flesh underneath open, torn between the stubborn will of Henrietta to remain firmly in the saddle and the sharp tip of Marie-Claire’s lance. The Knight’s red armour hid the warm blood starting to run down her chest for now, but the eagle-eyed observer could however see the increasing amount of red droplets hitting the pale mane of her horse.

Afterwards some in the audience claimed they could hear cackling laughter in-between the drumming of hooves, Marie-Claire, focused only on her pain at this point charged forwards after the red knight. Red flecks decorating the side of her mount as the two closed at speed. The impact began with von Drakhovf shattering her weakened lance on her opponent's shield, delivering no damage. The tip of Marie-Claire’s lance found its mark in von Drakhovf’s shoulder, the metal tip embedding itself in the low-born nobility's meat. It initially looked like she’d be pushed off her horse, if it hadn’t broken the tip and freeing the rest of the lance to continue upwards and put a dangerously deep dent into the Draklandian knight’s helmet.

The two separated. Both remained upright and reached the ends of the track at the same time. Marie-Claire breathing hard. Both arms now numb and her shoulders aching. She seized her new lance and eyed up her opponent at the opposite end of the track

The already red knight, now having received an additional layer of colour struggled to remove the disfigured metal now providing a substantially tighter fit than what she had commissioned. Left with only one good arm as the lance tip still embedded in the shoulder of her shield-arm would suggest, a squire, bearing similar features as the Knight herself rushed forward to help with the removal. Blood oozed from a deep gash to the eyebrow, providing additional colour coordination. The world was becoming less vibrant and she herself drowsy, starting to increasingly lose interest in the joust and look forward to furs, wines and local prostitutes awaiting her in the lavishly decorated tent, not too far from the field.

Her shield was heavy in one hand, and she struggled to keep her new lance couched in her other.

The final round was of little interest to von Drakhovf herself, if she scored, it would all result in a boring tie, and she wasn’t optimistic about unhorsing her opponent given how her strength seemed to be running thin in accordance with the blood she was losing. She made a mental note of telling a doctor to look into this possible correlation.

Marie-Claire found she had an extraordinary difficulty staying upright in the saddle, let alone keeping her lance and shield aloft. It seemed however her opponent wasn’t doing all that well either. She summoned what strength she could as she spurred her mount Emmanual onwards for death, glory and whatever it was that lay between.

The two exchanged hits, both managing to block each other’s attempts at bodily harm.

Henrietta von Drakhovf, Imperial Knight with the Hadseborgh Emperor as her direct overlord made a sign as if to pull up the visor on her now missing helmet in a salute to her victorious opponent. A shallow bow in the saddle was all her balance would allow, initially intended for Marie-Claire, the now somewhat flustered servant boy seemed to appreciate it however.

Thundering to a halt at the end of the track, her body felt like fire as she painfully swung around to see her opponent. Still seated on her horse but as equally battered. Distantly her opponent called to her.

Henrietta: “It’s true what they say about cornered and wounded beasts, even if they are little kaniner”
Again the Mercenary spat onto the floor, visibly paler than when she’d started. Dismounting as her squire fussed over her wounds she called back “I’ve seen rats fight harder than you. You’re lucky enough to be left with two legs to stand on!”
Henrietta: “What?”
The disoriented awkwardness of the Draklandian knight ruining the moment as she was dragged away by medical staff.

The announcer called over the din of the crowd. “Two points to the Southling Mercenary! One point to the Imperial Knight!”


Written jointly by The Confederation of Mercenaries and Miklaland

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Caliphate of Cordova
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Father Knows Best State

Reinhard vs Razim

Postby Caliphate of Cordova » Tue Jul 28, 2020 4:18 pm

Written jointly by Verschwald and Córdova

After his flirtatious exchange with the mysterious lady and winning her favor, Razim passed by the royal box, made a respectful bow, then took his spot at the end of the run where his squire waited nervously. Everything about the set-up felt foreign and unnatural to the Andalusian warrior-prince, accustomed to fighting as part of a unit against lightly armored foes, using bow and scimitar instead of the awkward-feeling heavy lance in his hand. Still, he was intrigued by the formality and regulation of the northern joust tradition and was honored to be part of the festivities. It felt cultured and civil, the code of chivalry having already been embraced in his homelands. In preparation for the wedding joust, the prince had practiced with his men the past few weeks to get a better feel for the form and technique of this strange engagement of arms. Now he would put his practice to the test and see to what effect his drills would pay off.

His advisers informed him he would be facing Sir Reinhard of Verschwald for his first bout, a hardy knight who decisively vanquished Marie-Claire Bittencourt earlier. Razim eyed his mounted opponent at the far end of the run, encased in a metal shell that looked nigh impenetrable. How such fighters could perform in battle baffled the prince, who always relied on flexibility and swiftness on the field. Razim guessed that the weight of the armor suit must make the good knight top-heavy and a high blow might best unseat him. Satisfied with his tactic, Razim raised his lance, signaling his readiness. A page in the middle of the list raised high the staffed banner of the hosting Magnaborgh, and after a quick reconnaissance of both risers, abruptly lowered it to signal the beginning of the charge and stepped back out of the way.


Reinhard’s previous victory had left him in a fine mood for his next bout. Not simply a well fought match, but an opponent who hadn’t borne him any ill-will afterwards. Such things could be rare, at times. He knew little about his next opponent - a foreigner Prince, from the southern realm of Cordova. He’d never met a Cordovan before - his own, more limited holdings lay much farther to the north - but he’d heard tell of skilled, nimble swordsfolk from those who had. Gunnar, his squire, had seen the Prince practicing with some of his own armsmen - a smart decision, Reinhard concluded, as the Prince held the lance with much better form than might have otherwise been expected. Absently patting Zelda’s neck, he brought his own lance up, both to indicate his readiness and in salute to his opponent, before lowering his visor and readying himself to charge.

Razim spurred his light brown Andalusian mare, Ginger, and began his charge, eyeing the target spot on the fast approaching Verschwald knight. He lowered his lance to intersect high on his opponent's breastplate. Too soon!! Razim realized his timing was poor, signaling his intent with enough advance warning that Reinhard raised his shield to easily deflect the blow while coming down low to the far side of Razim with his own lance. But Razim's reflexes were fast and he managed to block the blow with his own shield, feeling the lance point impact then slide away. The force of the hit, however, took Razim by surprise, momentarily compromising his balance. Wide-eyed under his helmet, the prince realized perhaps his men with whom he had sparred had been reluctant to come at him with their full force, for fear of injuring their own lord. The Walderman would not have that compunction. Indeed, Razim took note of the sheer size and brute strength of the knight. The prince was no weakling but his Arab stock was lean and agile, better adapted to the dry, hot plains and deserts his race inhabited for generations. Yes, Razim decided, to defeat this valorous and powerful opponent in joust he would need to be quick and elegant with his blows. This would prove to be a grave miscalculation on the part of the inexperienced Cordovan prince.

Reinhard grit his teeth at the force of the impact, and shook his head clear as Zelda carried him clear to the end of the lists. The Prince’s reflexes were impressive, and despite his evident lack of experience - the strike had been clearly telegraphed, but well struck regardless - there was certainly natural talent there, too. A few more tilts, and the Cordovan could go far.

The prince brought Ginger to a halt before his squire and took a second lance, leaned forward and spoke into the mare's ear, "Be swift and cunning, my dear, and we will fare better this ride". With that, he made a slight tilt of his lance towards Reinhard as a sign of respect, then began his charge. Trying to get his timing right, Razim waited for the last moment he thought he could spare then tried to force down his lance to square with Reinhard's body. But the prince, overthinking the ploy and unaccustomed to the instrument's distant center-of-mass and weight, widely missed the mark, failing to impact Reinhard at all.

Reinhard returned Razim’s gesture of respect, before urging Zelda forward to meet the Cordovan’s charge. If the Prince was kind enough to telegraph his strike again… there! As the Prince went high, Reinhard went low. Again, the Prince’s reflexes were quick - the shield came in to block the blow, but not quite fast enough - instead causing the blow to deflect into the Prince, knocking him clear off his mount.

Razim's frustration at the miss lasted only a fraction of a second before he felt a sharp, powerful blow slide across the edge of his shield, directing the Verschwalden lance point to his side where his scaled armor took the hit but forced the prince off his horse, spinning him to the ground off the mare's right side. Razim was completely disoriented when the hit occurred, viewing ground, then sky, then ground again through his visor before landing on his belly and with his face in the dirt. A lesser noble might feel disgrace at such a show but the good prince had been knocked down before in far more lethal engagements when fighting raiders from the neighboring gothic kingdoms that pillaged through the March he protected. He felt no shame in being bested by a more honorable gentleman in the person of brave Sir Reinhard than the Castilian scourge he usually fought against.

The crowd went wild as Reinhard wheeled Zelda around, dismounting into the sand of the list with a thud. “Are you harmed, mein Herr?” He motioned Gunnar over, and the young squire hurried in from the edge of the lists, the knight’s broadsword cradled in his arms. “If you desire so, I am willing to continue this match on foot.” His craggy face broke into a grin. “I’ve heard good things about your people’s skill with a blade. If you’re as good as I think you could be with the lance, then this should be interesting!”

Still dizzy and his thoughts a little fuzzy, Razim staggered to stand, throwing off his helmet in a vain attempt to clear his head. He put a hand over the right side of his ribcage, assessing the wound. No blood, but certainly a severe bruising and likely a cracked rib or two. He spied his assistants hurrying towards him with wide-eyed horror at the same time he saw Reinhard dismount and raise thevisor on his own helmet to better speak. Reinhard drew his broadsword and asked Razim if we desired to continue on foot. Feeling he might fare better on solid ground with scimitar instead of lance, Razim, despite the sharp pain in his side, waved off his approaching men who hesitantly came to a halt. The prince called back to Reinhard,

"My brave and worthy knight, you strike from horse like the thunder of God! I would be pleased to call you friend and let us see how we match on solid ground!"

Smiling and in pain, Razim drew his scimitar and picked up his shield as Reinhard approached. Razim made a series of fast, cutting practice swings to loosen up his arms as the Verschwalden knight set himself in a defensive stance. Trying to clear the remaining cobwebs from his mind, the prince deftly approached and began a series of quick, short slices at the well-armored knight, the rapid blows bypassing the knight's heavy sword but clanging harmlessly off shield and plate. Finally, Reinhard found an opportunity to take a strong swing but Razim, in his flexible armor, easily ducked the blow which whooshed over his head.


The younger Prince fought like a demon - Reinhard had long been grateful for the degree of extra mobility provided by the Streubetal-style of armor he habitually wore - when compared to the heavier Askr-style preferred by so many knights of the Empire’s heartlands - and years of experience wearing the plate let him move faster than many would expect. But against the Cordovan Prince, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the time he’d seen a bobcat defending it’s lair against a foraging badger, in the woods outside Freidburg as a child. Lashing, vicious strikes, while it was all the badger could do to keep up. He’d have to find a way to leverage his superior size and weight against the smaller man, before he was too tired to keep up any longer.

Again, Razim realized he needed to use the encased knight's weight against him and try to topple him to the ground. With a sudden burst of energy, Razim moved in close, shield and sword raised to neck-level and pushed hard against Reinhard 's upper torso. The knight leaned back, retreated a step, but was able to steady himself and find sure footing. With a forceful counter-push, Reinhard threw Razim back, pushing him a few inches off the ground, and then onto his back in the dirt yet again. Spying the towering metal hulk standing above him, broadsword leveled over him, Razim had no choice but to yield to the Verschwalden master swordsman.

The prince rolled over and stood himself up, looked Reinhard in the eye and made a reverent bow, saying, "You fight like no opponent I have faced. I must learn more about your northern ways of combat. Had I one hundred, nay, merely a dozen knights such as yourself, I am sure I could finally bring all al -Andalus into compliance. The day is yours, as is my respect and esteem, good sir knight."


Reinhard pulled off his helmet, taking a moment to catch his breath before replying. “You honour me, sir, though I fear you overestimate my capabilities. I am far from as young as I used to be. A moment longer and our positions here might have been reversed.” He handed his sword off to Gunnar, waiting awkwardly at the periphery of the conversation. “You fought well, sir, and with honour. I could not ask for more in an opponent.” He returned the Prince’s bow as the herald announced his victory to the cheers of the crowd.




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Festivities continue in Magnaborgh

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Miklaland
Political Columnist
 
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Founded: Apr 30, 2020
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Miklaland » Sun Aug 02, 2020 1:50 pm

A Joust of War had been declared even before the opponents entered the field, freshly sharpened and heavy weapons arranged as the organizers didn’t even bother with the blunted mock-weapons.

Björn rode up towards a woman he’d listened to singing the night before. She’d written a particularly unflattering spin on a local song about his defeat against Öhrn and pulled no punches about his skill not only as a knight, but as a man waning with age. The song had grown more popular than even the bard herself had anticipated, being played by less-creative bards in other taverns and now seeing the target of her ridicule approche armed wasn’t looking great. Björn pulled up his visor and leaned down to exchange a few secretive words, a conversation ending with the flustered bardess giving him a token of favour in the form of a kiss on the cheek, the vibrant red lipstick visible to all. He was looking forward to hear what the bards would be singing about tonight.

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Björn had cultivated an increasing dislike for his fellow countrymen’s habit of labeling all foreigners as “Barbarians” over the years. He’d seen the grace and chivalry in how the southerling warrior-prince had committed himself throughout the joust, despite a somewhat rough first bout. The Vendals on the other hand he had grown to hate in his early years, living in the saddle through rain and mud on campaign against the Empire’s foes, seeing the destruction they wrought to the peoples of hamlets and villages so similar to his own. Even as time and mistakes grew to mellow his emotions, the hatred still remained deep down and he could feel it flaring up as he saw his opponent. The raiders weren’t particularly wild in nature compared some of his kinsmen, the heavily forested Draklands of the Empire for example where the crimson Draklandian knights roamed the woods foraging, fighting and fucking in times of peace, and unsurprisingly doing much of the same in times of war. He’d spent a year with such a group, becoming close-friends with most during a particularly long expedition and in the end accompanying them home when it concluded to see more of Miklaland. Hunting during the seemingly shorter days, felling monsters in the dim light which the canopy allowed to pass. Few brought tents, preferring to sleep under the open sky with the stars watching over them, not that he managed to get much sleep with the all the feasting. The nights seemed endless, the mixture of fatty meats roasting over great roaring fires, accompanied with fortified wines and bardic song made him feel immortal.

When Björn finally left for home, he felt a decade older and was discovering his first grey hairs. The Draklandians had a fire in their blood that drove them, the spirit and wilderness in their souls unmatched by any other people he’d interacted with during his journeys, feeling compelled by nostalgia to join the party he was certain von Drakhovf would host later tonight. The thought of seeing a face similar to his own wasn’t an impossibility given the fleeting, but feral companionship he’d shared and blamed for his aging in those dark woods.

The upcoming joust was of particular interest to the crowds who wanted to see a tale of triumph over their arch-nemesis and Björn was feeling a mounting pressure to perform despite his old age. He resisted the urge not to salute the Vendal, choosing to remain chivalrous and exchanging a nod with his opponent.

The fearsome Rahnish knight for a brief moment put on the airs of being significantly more sluggish and feeble in the eyes of his opponent, resulting in the Vandel letting down his guard in the presence of a man he thought long past his fighting days, especially considering how the bout with young Öhrn had gone. The Miklalandian knight waited, curled up and ready to strike till the last moment, managing to faint and avoid taking the Vendal lance to any of his soft-bits and in return successfully striking the foreigner with his deadly spear.

Slowing down at the end of the lists, the sensation of warm blood dripping down over his knuckles woke something in him, Björn felt his emotions cool and the idea of death started to weigh heavier on his conscious. Satisfied in his own mind with the slight humiliation he'd inflicted, the two exchanged blows two more times, Björn unable to strike his opponent even if he had wanted to and the Vendal finding himself equally matched by the experience of the silver fox.
Last edited by Miklaland on Sun Aug 02, 2020 1:53 pm, edited 2 times in total.


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