Open Chronicles The Crack of Lances - Jousting Tournament

[Karl von Stehlen]

"There is no respect for others without humility in one's self."
- Henri Frederic Amiel​

FU-BUUKX

For the practice and the experienced, that sound of wood cracking under pressure was a familiar sort, one that was oft associated with the shattering of lances against its target. What followed was the roaring of a crowed, watching in awe as lances splintering against metal plating, watching as one rider is inevitably knocked off his mount, the sound of his painful landing drowned out by the cheering and jeering of the crowed around him.

The art of jousting is considered by many to have been a time honored sport that could put on display for the masses to see and enjoy. Nobles, commoners, a tournament such as this attracted all types of people, for all types of purposes. And for the participants? Glory, pride, and the adulations of dozens, if not hundreds of cheering voices that came from people of all walks of life. Indeed, even as the unconscious knight was dragged off by his squire, the winner of the bout took his lap around the tournament arena, the visor of his swan crested helmet tilted up so that his charming smile may be adored by all.

"The winner of the previous round, Sir Charlys Roffire, eldest son of House Roffire, will now tilt against..." As the novelty of cheering for the winner died out, all eyes shifted towards the other side of the arena, watching as another mounted knight took to the field. Unlike the previous contestants, who had been decorated in colorful regalia from head to mount, the armor that the advancing knight wore was as bare and as plain as when it had first left the forge. In fact, the only notable thing about this knight was the colored plum mounted on his helmet. "...Sir Karl von Stehlen, youngest son of House Stehl!"

Karl von Stehlen, a knight of his realm sworn to its protection, particularly loathed these types of festivities. From a young age, the boy was taught that his duty was to his people first and foremost, that his skills as a combatant was to be used like a shield against a showering of arrows. Karl was a protector, a knight that honored his vow without many needs or wants of his own. So, a tournament of vanity did not in any way appeal to the young man; in fact, he loathed the attention of the crowed, the expectant eyes that watched his every move. A disagreeable experience, to say the least.

Alas, even a pompous event such as this can be twisted into another one of his duties. All Karl could do was ignore their gazes and lower his head, paying his respects to the hosting lord, who watched from the stands high above all others.

With the signaling of the jousting announcer, the two knights parted from the center of the arena, riding to their respective corners in preparation for their upcoming bout. Each were handed a shield that displayed their coat of arms and a lance by nearby attendance or squires. For Karl, he would wield the shield with the Iron Cross in the middle, a symbol of House Stehl and the knightly order he belonged to. On the other side, the son of House Roffire was equipped with a shield that bore two halves; one half was a combination of blue and white stripes, while the other was a red merchant ship imprinted across a background of blue.

Charlys Roffire, Karl had vague memories of meeting the man once, when they were both younger. It had been one of the first times Otto had requested that Karl accompany him to a gala, and one of the first times Karl had ventured out of realm at all. Now that Karl thought about it, Otto was the same reason that he was even here at this tournament. His brother had asked him to represent their house and realm at one of those tournaments, where all the sons and house retainers from this and that noble family would come together to compete for in some good-natured sport...aka, polite society's version of a pissing contest. But unlike that Queen's festival, this tournament had been a request, not an order.

Which Karl had a choice...and his choice, probably should have been to remain back home.

Regardless whatever Karl should have done back, it was too late now; as the drums began to roll, the young knight could only urge his mount forward towards his starting position, flipping his metal visor down as he prepared himself for what was to come. Whatever the outcome, win or lose, this was going to sting just a tad bit...

As the drums continued to roll, growing every louder as time moved on, the crowed around the stadium quieted down. There was a tense sense of anticipation in the air, as all eyes were on the two competitors.

The sound of the trumpets was the signal for both competitors to advance, as each mounted warrior quickly urged their steeds forward. With their lances in the air, both began to pick up speed, their mounts flying into a full gallop as the charged at one another. As the two closed their distance, they began to lower their lances, couching the base of their weapons underneath their armpits as they steadied their weapons for the final blow. Where their mounts provided the power in the gallop, the riders would need to provide the accuracy to land a telling blow. Each competitor only had one shot during any tilt to unseat their opponent, with glory and honor going to the last knight that could remain on his mount.

If it had been against any other opponent, be it bandits, raiders, giants, trolls, wyverns, if all had been bearing down upon his lands, his people...then there would be no question of Karl's efficiency with the lance. But against an opponent like Charlys? Fighting in an arena for the amusement of others? There was no real glory or honor in any of this, no higher purpose other than to amuse people who've never experienced danger and real men who like to play at danger.

Perhaps...it would be best to just forfeit the match, get knocked off the horse, and just leave with the excuse of defeat. This tournament was meaningless, it was just all so meaningless...

FU-BUUKX

Once more, the sound of lances shattering echoed through the arena, and once more a wave of reactions enveloped the crowed. But Karl could barely register any of it, as the only thing he could feel was the pain of the lance having shattered against his chest, sending a shockwave through his upper body that sent it flying backwards...

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

The nostrils of the beasts flared as hooves pounded the sand and kicked up in great sprays the detritus of contest. Ostrum watched from the stands with hypersensitive eye the movement of the steeds as they propelled their riders into the deeds that would be committed. How they threw their heads forward as they drove on, to carry the lance that loomed heavy and portentous in their vision to collide into the plate. So full of life and determination to fulfil their training.

Damnable fate that had rendered his own mount one with the earth. Damnable strategy of the troglodyte with toxin dipped spear to pounce upon them both, knight and loyal steed. The creatures had been brought down low for their effort to bring down the knight, and failed to deliver the slow death to Ostrum. But his horse?

I might have participated in this tournament had I still my horse to ride, to pitch a lance and tilt alongside my class of warrior. Alas. Alas true combat robbed me of that fate. An ambush by scaled things that could do little more than hiss words and jab with venom born from other beasts. Knight relies upon steed to crash into the foe like a thunder if they serve as cavalry, a decisive aspect in the field, a symbol, and those troglodytes, well, they relied upon their toads to carry the day.

And carried it they did until their death at my hand.

Ostrum allowed a tremor of anger to warm his blood at the memory of that contest. This much he allowed as he moved slowly through the crowd to observe all manner of knights who gathered here today as they rose in prestige and fell into the sand.

Felled my horse, worth more than a thousand of their number, ignorant they were of what they robbed me of, and ignorant of the value of life I deprived them of.

A crash of lances and the collapsing of a knight from their mount. Ostrum smoothed his beard and moved through the crowd, his own plate a burnished copper, ornate in design and lacking the heraldry of the fellows he watched. A blade at his belt, like so many others, plate, like so many others, even stranger design and less designed for tournament plays. No shield upon his back. Just a look that was clear he would not give rise to the whooping and cheering of the common man at such a display. A respectful nod here and there as jousts rendered themselves complete, the betterment of the fighting class was something to be observed.

And so Ostrum did, his expression serious, his taste in valour difficult to appease, his eyes upon the most recent one to fall off their horse.

Perhaps a failing in confidence in the cause. Unfailing resolve was not with them. Assured zeal, surely not here in this moment. Pity. Pity.

Ostrum continued to list off his own vows to compare. His prejudices guided him as they always did. To be a knight was one thing. To be a champion of contest was another. And to see the slight failing in the lance propelled into combat against a knight was always a cause for concern.

What could be the cause of this lack in a knight?

He thought on his recent loss and how it was tempting to grow sad over the matter. To think of the horse's dying moments with regret.

Instead there was hate. Hate for the enemies to come, to prevent that fate from happening to the innocent and the just. And the just did tilt and the innocent did cheer, Ostrum walked between them, judging them both, and considering if there might be a way to provide contest with longsword on foot instead of relying on some unknown beast that might betray him.