Open Chronicles The Grand Tournament of Tides

[Darkweaver]

Spoiler: Music

The Tournament of Tides. One of the oldest and most time-honoured traditions of Alliria. The grinding gears of commerce demanded an ever growing increase of interest, of reputation, of transit and - perhaps most importantly - of coin. It practically flowed through its canals, rivers and strait like golden blood, ladened on burdened merchant ships or on great carts crossing beautifully carved bridges. Some even claimed that the bottom of these waters glinted with gold, silver and copper, of coins dropped by hapless travelers or other pedestrians, an overspilling of wealth that only the fish would get to enjoy. Or those brave enough to plunge the deeps or the muddy banks for spare change.

But today and for the next six days, the efforts of such mudlarks would be foiled. The tournament had set upon the harbour and Inner City of Alliria like an explosive growth of colourful weeds, littering its normally ship-filled strait with gargantuan floating platforms, scores upon scores of colourful tents, stands and flapping banners, all close to bursting with the crowds milling on rickety platforms and quickly crafted steps and bridges. For a few days at least, everyone would get to feel what it was like to live in the Shallows, except if the Shallows was draped in colour, excitement and mirth.

Not even Allir Keep would go free this time. Its impressive courtyard, normally reserved for the City Watch, would be used to host the most brutal of martial competitions, all for the entertainment of the masses. For a week, even common folk could find themselves in this opulent and imposing stone keep, rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty that frequented the Merchant Council's court.

All but the seven members of the Merchant Council themselves, of course. Rumour had it that they would be travelling the tournament in style, boarded on a sleek schooner, The Balance, with an elevated stand, allowing them to cut and weave between the floating platforms and view all that the tournament had to offer. Joining them onboard would be important dignitaries from all over Arethil: the Princess Elspeth and her consort, Prince William from the Royal Family of Vel Anir, an ambassador from the emperor-regent in Amol-Kalit and an Archbishop from the Radiant Church, to name a few. Wherever they would sail, great fanfare and the adulation of the crowds would follow, and each contest observed would take on an added fervour, its contestants fighting as much for the reverence of the crowd as that of the distinguished members onboard The Balance.

Each day would be dedicated to a different House holding a seat in the Merchant Council; as was only right and proper, since the tournament was largely funded by them. It was their way of paying back the industrious citizens of Alliria for the maintenance and dilligence that kept their fair and mighty metropolis running smoothly. Or, as some snarking scholars might have it, it was bread for the people, a practice often seen in Cerak At'thul, where the tyrannical grip of its rulers distracted its common folk with grand spectacles of intoxicating gore and violence.

Not so here. What violence would be put on display would be only from the most skilled and refined of fighters. The first day of the Tournament was the Day of Phlogis, honouring the oldest House to remain in the Merchant Council. As such, this would also be a day of equal praise for artists and those with sharpness of wit rather than steel, the most noteworthy artistic event being the Battle of Bards, held in the middle of the harbour on a raised platform, where it might command the most attention. In this event, artists from all over Arethil would compete on this scene, winning the hearts of the people, and whoever ended up with most wooden tokens by vote, would win the day as the penultimate bard. The prize was said to be a magical instrument of the winner's choosing, along with a bottle of supposedly unending alcohol. Enticing to many a wandering artist, for certain.

For those less interested in music, theatre and dance, tests of martial and physical skill were to be held in Allir Keep, allowing generous ground for running, jousting and fighting. After the joust, a running race and a melee, all taking place at the same time so the wandering audience could go to and fro, the main fighting event would take place. The Duel of Spellswords, a no bars held set of one-on-one combats between fighters who blended magic with martial prowess. The prize? Laced enchantments woven by the greatest guild mages of Alliria, empowering the winner's weapon to new heights, along with the title of Champion of Spellswords.

But even these monumental events paled in comparison to the main spectacle. If whispers could be believed, at the approach of dusk, a recreation of the Siege of Alliria would take place. Mutters and murmurs puzzled on how the terrifying dragon Geladryx, the Emerald Death, would be faithfully rendered. Some grand weaving of illusion magic by several hands? As a grand floating fabric to cover the whole tournament grounds? Or perhaps some captured beast for a truly visceral performance?

Only time would tell. But for now, every visitor could enjoy a free perusal of the thousands of stands, vendors, entertainers and minor contests, either making their way to witness the joust, race or melee in Allir Keep or the Battle of Bards in the centre of the harbour.

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OOC information:
There is information in the Discord channel called the Grand Tournament. Anyone is welcome to join here. Players should be visiting guests or competitors in one of the competitions, the main ones being the Duel of Spellswords and the Battle of Bards. I will probably throw in a few NPC contestants as well for players to compete against, but there is also space for player PvP in the martial/magic fight. Anyone who wants to engage in PVP, LET ME KNOW, and I will match you up against another player wanting the same. I have rules in place for PvP that will allow fights to be determined on a combination of complex rock-paper-scissor games and dice-rolling. Otherwise, feel free to freeform write how your character does in any other competition.

The tourney is more intended for player interactions and to meet new people, as well as introduce the members of the Merchant Council and those that plot against them. Feel free to make up little contests as you go. If it can be imagined, it's there.

Don't derail too much (like exploding the tournament faires with a fireball and causing panic) without asking first. This is an opportunity for characters across the divide to meet. If anyone is going to escalate this thread, it'll be me, and characters get to respond appropriately. Have fun!

 

[Afanas]

The thing about being seven feet and four inches tall, Afanas reflected, was that you could never quite achieve the sort of casual lean that shorter men managed so effortlessly against pillars. You ended up looking like a gargoyle that had gotten confused about which building it was meant to be haunting.

"Social anxieties," he repeated to Baelor, savoring the words like a particularly suspect vintage. "That's what the healers call it when a man would rather split heads with nothing but a butter knife than make small talk about the weather."

He surveyed the crowd with the expression of a man who has just discovered that the 'light refreshments' promised in the invitation involved things on sticks that weren't meat, and tiny sandwiches that could be eaten in one bite by anyone who hadn't been taught that food was meant to be *food*, not decoration.

"The council," Afanas continued, his voice carrying that particular tone reserved for discussing things that made perfect sense to everyone except the person actually having to do them, "believes my presence here serves as a 'deterrent.' Though what exactly I'm meant to be deterring, they were remarkably vague about. Bad fashion choices, perhaps?" He gestured at his own attire, which among the peacocking nobles stood out like a funeral director at a paint factory explosion.

"Or maybe they think someone might try to steal the tournament. The whole thing. Just... pick it up and walk off with it." The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. "Though given some of the characters I've seen wandering about, I wouldn't entirely rule it out."

A servant glided past with a tray of those mysterious things-on-sticks. Afanas regarded them with deep suspicion. In his experience, if food needed to be impaled to stay in one place, it was probably trying to escape for good reason.

"Tell me, Marshall," he said, shifting slightly so his shadow fell across a particularly sunny patch of floor that had been bothering him, "at what point did killing people for the city become less important than standing around looking decoratively menacing at their parties? Because I seem to have missed that particular memo."

The truth was, Afanas thought but didn't say, that he understood exactly why he was here. The same reason a kingdom kept dragons, even tame ones. Not because they expected them to do anything useful at tea parties, but because everyone else knew they *could*. Even if the dragon in question would rather be anywhere else, possibly setting fire to something that actually deserved it.

He adjusted his stance minutely, achieving what he hoped was 'approachable but still capable of violence if the canapés get rowdy.'

"Right then," he said to Baelor. "Let's get this over with. And if anyone asks me to judge a poetry contest, I'm citing a medical emergency. Yours, specifically, because I'll have thrown you through a window."

 

[Xeraphine Yldore]

From the crowd appeared someone who might be mistaken for a nun or a grieving widow, garbed in a starkly black dress and a hood approximating a wimple. She approached the two generals, carrying a small elm-wood casket in her hands. Black hair cascaded over her right eye, leaving one almond-shaped orb to stare past Baelor and Afanas. Her gaze seemed unable to find purchase with any of their faces, drifting between them - and a dull, metal-coloured orb within the pale blue lens rendered the possible culprit cataracts or some other impairment of sight.

"Do I have the honour of speaking with the high commander Afanas? My lord, I was directed here to find you."

Though her gaze still wandered aimlessly, she didn't seem old or doddering. Far from it. Her voice was steady and measured, and she still possessed unblemished ivory skin, an aquiline nose and youthful features, with only the hint of maturity from the slight gauntness of chin and cheeks and the faint crow's feet around her eyes.

Spoiler: The Nun

Afanas

 

[Samantha Black]

Alliria had given her many interesting memories over the last several years, not least of which her time spent training with a master Dwarven Smith or the sleepless nights spent in the dredges of the city with a long lost Marta Martigan.

The dwarven smith had moved on into retirement and without much surprise at all, Martigan had seemingly vanished into thin air. Given the nature of her life of late and the many unexpected, regrettable turns it had taken, her journey here now was simply to fulfill a checklist of necessary chores.

At least now she had company of another sort: her younger sister.

Anja Traue was quiet, observant, and timid. Her pale skin and frail figure giving Sam the distinct impression of another young girl she'd known during her academy days - one with silver hair and far more trouble hounding her heels than she'd had any right to claim. For the most part, Anja was easy to sort, so long as she maintained her anti-magic bracelets, and well-mannered. Sam had yet to suss out if the latter was due to the girl's gratefulness of being freed from their horrid mother, or that she had been more sheltered than Sam really knew.

"Are you partaking in the tournament?" the first words the young girl had spoken since their morning arrival four hours prior.

"No," Sam replied without any hesitation, "it would hardly be a competition at all."

"Then why did we come?"

"To let you see the sights," a lighter tone on that one, Sam's scowl softened as they navigated their horses along a tertiary road, "and to conduct some business."

"I thought so," said the girl, "you're still in uniform."

"I'm always in uniform, little sister," Sam glanced to her, smirking, offered a wink, and then nodded as they turned up another main road, "keep your eyes open for the Marigold."

 

[Afanas]

"Do I have the honour of speaking with the high commander Afanas? My lord, I was directed here to find you."

Though her gaze still wandered aimlessly, she didn't seem old or doddering. Far from it. Her voice was steady and measured, and she still possessed unblemished ivory skin, an aquiline nose and youthful features, with only the hint of maturity from the slight gauntness of chin and cheeks and the faint crow's feet around her eyes.

Spoiler: The Nun

View attachment 1950

Afanas

Afanas's eyes landed on the hooded woman, inspecting her face, darkened by the shadow cast over the pale skin by the hood she wore. He did not recognize the woman. Neither her features nor her voice matched that of any of his colleagues nor the local merchants he had acquainted himself with.

There was something about her gaze, he noticed. Or rather, the absence of gaze. Her eyes moved the way cats move when they're following something invisible across a room, except cats, Afanas had always suspected, were doing it on purpose to unsettle people. This woman's eyes seemed genuinely unable to settle on any particular spot, drifting past him with the gentle aimlessness of autumn leaves, if autumn leaves occasionally passed over your face in a way that made you feel rather uncomfortably assessed.

Slowly, he dipped his head, but only slightly. Just enough to show rudimentary courtesy to the stranger. The kind of bow that said I acknowledge your existence and am willing to be civil about it, while stopping well short of I am at your complete disposal and would love nothing more than to hear whatever is in that box.

The box was another thing entirely. Afanas had learned, in his century and a half of experience, that small boxes carried by hooded strangers at public festivals fell into roughly three categories: gifts, threats, and complications. The first two were manageable. The third had a tendency to rearrange your entire week.

"That you may," he said, in the tone of a man who has already mentally prepared several escape routes, "but I would like to know your name first, and the name of whoever directed you to me."

He paused, then scratched the side of his face with a long, ivory-white finger. It was, he had discovered, a useful gesture. It suggested thoughtfulness and approachability, while simultaneously drawing attention to the fact that said finger was attached to a hand that could, if circumstances demanded, do considerably less approachable things.

"I hope it isn't something concerning the security," he added, with the weary air of a man who has said this sentence many times and fully expects to say it many more. "I already made sure to double the number of guards for the occasion."

 

[Vaezhasar Drakspae]

Vaezhasar hovered around the open backyard surrounding the Allir Keep. The disc, his trusty mount, kept him afloat, roughly two feet off the ground as he levitated from one food stall to another, making tiny gestures with which he prompted the bits of food being displayed to float off the various presented trays and land right into his mouth.

The disc itself was the sort of thing that demanded attention in the way that a house fire demands attention, or the way that finding a spider in your boot demands attention, involuntarily, viscerally, and with a strong underlying suggestion that perhaps you should be somewhere else. It resembled nothing so much as an enormous eye, teal and unblinking, set within an ornate golden frame from which curved horns protruded at angles that seemed to have been specifically designed to make geometry teachers weep.

Oh, there was much to sample. Every kind of sweet imaginable, exotic meats, alcoholic brews from places whose names would twist one's tongue should they try to quickly pronounce them three times in a row.

Vaezhasar kept stuffing his mouth until the sides of it and his lips were thoroughly stained by an amorphous splotch of food bits. Table manners were the last thing on his mind, currently, though in fairness, table manners had never been particularly near the front of his mind either. They occupied a small, dusty room somewhere in the back, between "appropriate festival attire" and "reasons not to arrive on a giant floating eyeball."

But even then, he had enough decency to produce a large napkin, holding it daintily between his armored digits while dabbing away at the mess around his mouth-orifice. There was something almost comical about the gesture, like watching a dragon delicately sip tea.

A man had to live a little, after all, even if the man in question was a sorcerer of considerable arcane affinity. His father, had he been present to see it, would've likely laughed at Vaezhasar's overt gluttony... then promptly proceeded to indulge in heartburn-inducing quantities of foreign condiments. Like father, like son, the saying went.

Most people, upon seeing such a conveyance, would have screamed. The food vendors of Alliria, however, had been doing business for generations. They had seen things. They had sold things to things. And so they merely watched with the calm professional detachment of people who knew that money was money regardless of whether it came from a hand, a tentacle, or was telekinetically extracted from a floating purse.

 

[Marek]

“Fuck me sideways,” Marek muttered, squinting at the sun.

His boots dragged against the stone as he was gently, but also actually very firmly, nudged toward the wide, sand-slicked fighting circle. The Duel of Spellswords. The crowds were roaring and the banners were flapping. Somewhere nearby, a bard was singing about "valor" and "glory" and Marek had never wanted to punt someone into the sea more in his life.

He blinked, head pounding like a blacksmith was hammering away on his skull. He didn’t remember signing up for this. Which meant one of two things: either someone signed him up as a joke, or last night’s shitty ale had been very persuasive.

Probably both.

"Just a friendly duel," someone shouted cheerfully from the stands. Marek turned slowly toward the voice, eyes bloodshot and accusatory.

He looked left. Then right. He took a step back. Super casual and subtle, or so he thought. Another step. He spun on his heel and made it a full three strides toward the nearest exit and freedom until he looked up and saw him.

The Allirian commander. (Afanas )

Oversized hat and probably at least ten feet tall, a ghoul that looked like he ate Mareks for breakfast.

“Gods piss in my soup,” Marek whispered.

He turned back toward the arena with the slow, tragic dignity of a man walking into his own funeral. His hand found the hilt of his curved blade and drew it with a theatrical flourish that projected to the crowd that he knew what he was doing.

Recovering with a lurch and a grin that said yes, I’m here to win the day, Marek squinted into the light, lifted his chin, and muttered through gritted teeth, “Alright then. Let’s get this over with before I puke on my own boots.”

The crowd roared again. Marek winced.

 

[Samantha Black]

The Marigold House
Southport District of Alliria

"Lieutenant Samantha Black," said the Dreadlord to the hostess over a finely carved and polished front desk.

"We received your reservations last month," said the hostess, a young, tawny faun with braids in her mane and polish on her hooves, "full suite, two beds?"

Sam gave a sharp nod.

"May we bring your luggage inside for you?"

"No need," she patted one of two travel bags under her arm, "we travel light."

"What is the Anirian Militia without its efficiency, hm?" said the faun, "Here is your room key, one for each of you. Here you are dear," she held out the key for Anja to take and the younger woman just stared at her with wide, frosted eyes. Sam batted a brow at her sister and plucked the second key from the faun's hand.

"Well," the faun gently cleared her throat, "Meals are at 7, noon, and 6, fully covered by your stay."

"Fastest route to the festival?"

"I recommend hailing a passenger cart. They come through this area quite often to pick up travelers. They'll get you there in a jiff."

"Thank you," they could have walked but by the looks of things, Anja would have struggled to keep up. "Come," she nodded to the girl to follow, "we'll leave our things and head out. Are you hungry?"

Anja lingered behind her, eyes still glued to the faun as if the thing had four heads instead of one, "Perhaps a little..."

"Best street food in the reach here," Sam thought back to her previous visits years prior with a smirk, "we'll find something you like."

 

[Lorelei Darke]

A heavy, terse sigh filled the void of the carriage not already filled by the sound of festive gaiety.

"I'm not going to get any work done this month, am I."

It wasn't a question to be answered. Not even a redundant question. More a statement of disdain she simply hadn't been able to lock behind her teeth. Jaw set, Lorelei briefly watched out the window of the carriage as they slowly pushed through growing crowds. There'd be no easy or quick transit down to the warehouses at the docks. Not during the Tournament ... at least not during the day.

She'd have to go back to her night owl hours and simply deal with Fane's bellyaching.

Speaking of which, her gaze briefly shifted to the man and the developing expression on his face.

"No," she intoned, "whatever it is, the answer is no."

Blackburn Fane

 

[Xeraphine Yldore]

"I hope it isn't something concerning the security," he added, with the weary air of a man who has said this sentence many times and fully expects to say it many more. "I already made sure to double the number of guards for the occasion."

The nun couldn't help but smile slightly, but affected gentle surprise well enough, fluttering her eye.

"Security concern? Oh, no, not at all, my lord. We simply wished to offer this." She raised the finely carved casket in her hand, imitating a pair of dragons breathing fire, their conflagrations meeting in the middle to form a wavy steel lock. "I am Sister Lilette of Ragash, at your service. On behalf of the Blazewill Monastery, we desire to offer this small token of our gratitude to the Merchant Council, for their tireless work and substantial contribution to our great city."

With a reverential dip of her head, she humbly offered the casket to Afanas.

"And there is a gift for you as well, Lord Commander."

Afanas

 

[Afanas]

The nun couldn't help but smile slightly, but affected gentle surprise well enough, fluttering her eye.

"Security concern? Oh, no, not at all, my lord. We simply wished to offer this." She raised the finely carved casket in her hand, imitating a pair of dragons breathing fire, their conflagrations meeting in the middle to form a wavy steel lock. "I am Sister Lilette of Ragash, at your service. On behalf of the Blazewill Monastery, we desire to offer this small token of our gratitude to the Merchant Council, for their tireless work and substantial contribution to our great city."

With a reverential dip of her head, she humbly offered the casket to Afanas.

"And there is a gift for you as well, Lord Commander."

Afanas

Afanas reached out, his huge, ivory-pale hands grasping the box, fingers curling delicately around its lower corners with the careful precision of someone who has, on previous occasions, been handed boxes that turned out to contain things like venomous serpents, explosive runes, or, on one particularly memorable occasion, a very angry hamster that had been enchanted to scream prophecies of doom.

He looked at Xeraphina. Then at the box. Then at Xeraphina again, in the manner of a man conducting a very small and very personal triangle of suspicion.

The box itself was beautiful, in the way that poisoned apples are beautiful, or that the bioluminescent lure of a deep-sea predator is beautiful. The twin dragons were exquisitely rendered. Their flames met in the middle with the sort of artistic precision that suggested someone had spent a great deal of time and money on this casket, which, in Afanas's experience, meant that whatever was inside it was either extremely valuable or extremely dangerous. Possibly both. Probably both.

He gestured for one of the guards to come over, a man of middling height dressed from head to toe in darksteel armor, the sort of armor that said I am paid to be here and to do what I'm told, and I have made peace with both of those facts.

Afanas handed him the box. Gently. Very gently. The kind of gentle that communicates, without words, that the contents might be inclined to do something regrettable if jostled.

"Take it to my office, underground," he said, his voice carrying the flat certainty of someone issuing orders that he fully expected to be obeyed, "but do not open it. Have a mage look it over. No, two mages, if necessary. I want to know what's in the box before it's opened."

The man nodded wordlessly, guards learned early that wordlessness was a virtue, particularly when their superiors were discussing mysterious boxes with probable contents, then walked away briskly. Not running, because running suggested panic, but walking with the sort of purposeful velocity that suggested he would very much like to be elsewhere.

Afanas watched him leave. He wasn't about to deliver a stranger's gift to the council. The whole situation felt... fishy.

Once the guard was very well out of sight, he leaned over to look Xeraphina in the eyes, or, more accurately, in the general vicinity of her eyes, given their tendency to wander, his exceedingly tall frame casting a looming shadow over her. It was the sort of shadow that seemed to have opinions about things, and those opinions were largely critical.

"I've been to Ragash before, Sister Lilette," he said, and there was something in the way he pronounced the name that suggested he was holding it at arm's length, like a fish of uncertain provenance. "If that is your real name, of course."

His thin nostrils flared. It wasn't a sniff, exactly. More of an assessment. The kind of assessment that said I am evaluating you on multiple levels, some of which you are probably not aware of, and so far the results are not encouraging.

"You have neither the accent nor the complexion of one born and raised in Ragash. And the motifs on the box...they don't look to have been wrought by Kalitian hands."

This was true. Ragash was the sort of place that left marks on people, not always visible ones, but present nonetheless. It was in the way they pronounced certain vowels, in the particular weathering of skin that came from living in a climate that couldn't quite decide if it wanted to be horrifically dry or dryly horrific and settled on both. This woman had none of that. She had the complexion of someone who had spent considerably more time in northern libraries than in Ragashian sun.

"Which lends me to believe," Afanas continued, in the tone of a man building toward a conclusion he had actually reached several minutes ago, "that you may be attempting to deceive me."

He paused, letting the word deceive hang in the air for a moment. It was a useful word. It had weight to it. Gravitas. The kind of gravitas that made people reconsider their life choices.

"Perhaps I should let you know," he added, and now his voice had dropped to something quieter, which paradoxically made it considerably more concerning, "that I'm a man allergic to deceit. A man prone to reacting..." He searched for the right word, found it, and decided to use it anyway despite its inadequacies. "...unwholesomely, when lied to."

Somewhere in the distance, someone won something at a carnival game and cheered. The sound seemed to come from very far away, as if the immediate vicinity had decided that it wanted no part of whatever was happening here.

 

[Xeraphine Yldore]

"Me? Deceive you? Perish the thought." There was something approaching wry amusement in the nun's tone. With Afanas looming over her, she appeared to keep her nerve admirably, not slinking from him, but standing as if merely under the shade of a tree. Her hand reached up to her neck and unclasped a necklace, from which she fished out a key. The key was wrought in the same steel as the lock, near matching a forked tongue in its design, intricate with miniature writing. "And I would certainly not dare to trigger such a physiological reaction from you. Once you feel confident to open our small token, you will need this. I understand security is paramount in the Council. As it should be."

Soon, another soldier would take the key. All the while, the nun's gaze hovered around Afanas' face.

"I understand your concern. Of course, I have only ever been a guest to those lands. We surrender our surnames in Blazewill, and name one another after our achievements. I managed to bring the wisdom of Astra to those lands, in my younger years. Hence the name."

Afanas

 

[Samantha Black]

THE FESTIVAL
Somewhere in the vicinity of Marek and, presumably, Afanas and Xeraphine Yldore

If there was one thing about life that Samantha Black had discovered over the years, it was to taste the local fare whenever the opportunity presented itself. Having drawn in merchants and sellers from far and wide across Arethil, the Tournament did not disappoint on the matter of variety when it came to food. And while in her youth the Academy had not dispensed with large enough allowances on Initiate missions to partake in sybarite pursuits, Sam now had the purse of an Anirian Knight Lieutenant and the additional healthy stipend she received as an active-duty Dreadlord.

They were here for a month and no expense would be spared to enjoy themselves while they were.

"How..." Anja had taken a great deal of time to pick out a vendor to try something from. Oban had its own style of cuisine, and as a noble she had not wanted for nourishment even if a great deal else had been left wanting.

However being noble meant... Sam watched with a slow upward trending curve of a brow as her younger sister struggled to take a bite of a skewer of spiced vegetables and chicken... that she'd not likely ever had to eat using anything other than silver-plated utensils off elegantly painted porcelain plates. The novelty of finger foods did not seem to be going well for her.

Sam smirked, "By not caring if you make an absolute mess of yourself, that's how-" and to demonstrate, she took a big bite out of the turkey leg in her grip, leaving a dribble of juices down her chin. "Mm-" yeah, that was good. She'd be needing another one of these. And some local ale - they had the best variety of summer gold ales around.

Anja kept trying, awkwardly, and managed the tiniest nibble from a piece of chicken, nearly dropping the entire skewer in the process.

"C'mon," Sam nodded toward the area where Spellswords were currently in contest, "let's take a look at the gallery, eh?" and the pair of them meandered over to occupy a space opening up at the perimeter fence just as Marek stepped out, sword in hand, to a rise of rauckus cheers from the crowd.

 

[Afanas]

Xeraphine Yldore
Samantha Black

Afanas continued to look at Xeraphina, unblinking.

This was not, it should be noted, a deliberate attempt at intimidation. Afanas simply didn't need to blink. His eyes lubricated themselves automatically, a feature that had proven surprisingly useful over the years, mostly for staring contests, but occasionally for moments like this, when maintaining an expression of profound skepticism for an extended period was socially advantageous.

Finally, he straightened up, though his expression remained the sort of skeptical that suggested it had put down roots and was considering building a small house.

Why, he wondered, was this girl so keen on gifting something to the Merchant Council? Not like any of them would care. They were all drowning in money. The lot of them could have filled swimming pools with gold coins and still had enough left over to pave their gardens. Gifting them anything was equivalent to spilling a cup of water into the ocean and thinking you'd done something profound.

Unless, of course, the gift wasn't really a gift at all. Unless it was a message. Or a statement. Or, worst of all, an opening move.

"Very well," he said, in the tone of a man who has decided that if this is going to be a chess game, he might as well let his opponent think she's winning for now. "I care little for whatever conspiratorial activities might be pickling in your head, my lady, as long as they do not destabilize the city nor threaten its broader populace."

He let that settle for a moment.

"My allegiance is to the city first and council second."

This was, technically, a warning. It was also, technically, an invitation. It said: I know you're up to something. I don't yet know what. But if it turns out to be the sort of something that hurts ordinary people, we will have a very different conversation, and it will involve considerably less talking and considerably more flaying, alive, if you are particularly unlucky.

He gestured.

"Walk with me."

He moved slowly, yet elegantly, like some oversized panther that had been taught deportment but had never quite forgotten that it was, fundamentally, a predator. The crowd parted around him with the unconscious efficiency of people who have learned, possibly through ancestral memory, that getting in the way of something that large and that purposeful was not conducive to long-term survival.

He brushed past two women, one in what was unmistakably a military uniform, the other younger, paler, with the slightly bewildered expression of someone who had recently discovered that the world contained considerably more things than she had previously been led to believe.

"Pardon me, ladies," he murmured, with the reflexive courtesy of a man who had learned that politeness cost nothing and occasionally prevented incidents.

Then he halted near the fence, positioning himself so that his gaze could survey the courtyard where the fighting was to take place. Below, the ground had been freshly raked. Soon it would be considerably less fresh, and considerably more decorated with the sort of stains that tournament organizers preferred not to discuss in polite company.

 

[Xeraphine Yldore]

The humble nun followed Afanas in his wake, two forms wrapped in stark black, one taller than the other, cutting an inky line through the colourful masses like two black letters having bewildered themselves into a prismatic illumation.

An invitation to walk with the Lord Commander was, of course, a great honour. Even a sister of piety would be remiss to decline such an invitation.

But more so than that, it was an untold opportunity.

Sliding past the two women after Afanas, she gave them a little apologetic nod, though the cold smile on her face seemed at odds with her courteous gesture. Soon, her lips pursed into a more neutral contemplation, weighing her own words before speaking to him as they approached the fence and the battleground. Her gloved hands landed daintily on the fence, drumming her fingers on it as if it could lend some rhythm to her approach.

"I thank you for this high honour. But if you will allow me a bit of a . . . philosophical exercise. In part, I carry the name of that city as a jest among my sisterhood, since their scholars have left an indelibable stamp on me. I now enjoy a good hypothesis. So if you will indulge me, here is one for you."

Her finger raised, noting the sawdust on it from this freshly cut fence, and spoke as if her query held no more value than that speck of particles on her fingertip.

"I couldn't help but note your priorities. The city first; the council second. Of course, we all know they are highly honourable and have, for the most part, only the city's best interest in mind. But say, in theory, other passions and interests could take charge of the council, could they not? Interests well at odds with the welfare of the city -- where then would your duties lie?"

Afanas

 

[Sir Dwendare Castlegrip]

Spoiler: Music

Fanfare. Drums, horns and all the other paraphernelia of chilvalric sports thumped and blared. The crowds cheered and roared. Ah, yes -- the arena was singing its siren's song to him.

Clanking, rattling armour preceded him, each joint-link and layered plate bringing out a tinny tune of their own, as Sir Dwendare Castlegrip stepped into the arena. The crowd went wild. As they should. For here was a champion indeed, blue plume whipping in the wind in tandem with all the flowing banners, houndskull visor jutting ahead like a steel nose sniffing glory. He allowed himself a little flaire in summoning his tome, beckoning it with one, creaking gauntlet. One of his squires jogged out before him, bowing referentially, holding aloft a grimore inset with a fat ruby. Muffled words issued from his helmet and arcane tendrils of energy latched around the book, causing the squire to jump in fright, much to the amusement of the crowd. It flicked through pages until it landed on a particular one in the middle, still hovering before him like an arcane guardian.

"Sword," Sir Dwendare issued, and another squire scrambled forth, almost tripping over his own scarlet hose. He quickly handed him a sword shining so bright in the sun it seemed like a dislodged piece of that very disk in his hand, bright burnished gold for a crossguard glinting in competition with its polished and keen steel.

Then, after all this, his eyes fell on Marek. Another hour, another nobody. He would sweep this one off like purged dust from a shelf.

The herald stepped forward, aloft on a stand with the most important audience members. His voice boomed out, reading from a scroll:

"And now, before you comes Sir Dwendare Castlegrip, owner of Trenvore Estate and associated land holdings, first champion at the Lazular Tourney, grand champion of the Stone Arena of Belgrath (year 370), lieutenant of the 3rd regiment during the Siege of Alliria, accomplished full year graduate of Elbion College, statuatory officer in the City Watch . . ."

The herald kept looking down his scroll, as though seeing far more titles. Not bothering with the rest -- causing a creaking head-tilt of confusion from the knight's helmet -- he went on to name the other duellist.

"And in the other end, we have -- Marek." The herald looked almost as flummoxed at the lack of description as the previous overflow of it. In a spur of inspiration, he added from his own repertoire: "Marek the Indefatigable!"

"Now remember, good folk, whosoever wins these duels may hold their opponent and their used gear for ransom. Sometimes mercy may buy them back; sometimes gold is needed!"

Below the helmet, a superior smirk bloomed from Sir Dwendare's face. This Marek might not have much to add to his pile of appropriated equipment, but it might be a decent warm-up for the real battles ahead.

Marek

 

[Marek]

Marek had been only half-present when the fanfare began. Drums thundered. Horns blared. He blinked slowly as Sir Dwendare Castlegrip emerged in full, gleaming armor, plume snapping, banners rippling. For a few unfocused moments, Marek’s mind drifted somewhere unhelpful.

He’s got to be overheating in there, Marek thought distantly. That’s not armor, that’s an oven.

The introduction went on. And on.

Titles stacked like bricks. Estates. Regiments. Sieges. Colleges. Marek’s eyes glazed over, his attention sliding off the words entirely. He shifted his weight, rolled his neck once, then glanced out at the stands instead.

…that’s a lot of people.

He scratched at the back of his head, suddenly aware of just how many eyes were on him, how loud the crowd was, how bright the sun felt against his face.

“-Marek the Indefatigable!”

Marek blinked.

“…Indefa-what?” he muttered under his breath, brow furrowing. Did he just call me fat?

The confusion lingered for a second, then slid away as easily as everything else did when Marek stepped into the arena proper. His grip tightened around the curved blade in his right hand. The world narrowed. Noise dulled. His gaze sharpened as it returned to the armored behemoth across from him.

Big armor. Long reach. Center control.

Marek stayed well outside blade range, light on his feet as he began to circle, steps easy, almost lazy, but never careless. Each movement flowed into the next with a practiced grace that contrasted sharply with his earlier distraction.

“Look,” he called out, voice carrying easily, casual as if they were sharing a drink instead of sand and steel. “Sir… Cattlegrip? Casserole? Whatever. You’ve already got a mountain of accolades.”

He tilted his head, still moving, still measuring.

“Isn’t it about time you retired? Took a little time off? Maybe enjoyed the land holdings?”

His eyes flicked to the hovering tome.

From his left hand, Marek released a probing charge of sparks. Nothing dramatic. Just a quick, crackling pulse of arcane energy, snapping through the air toward the book and its ruby like a curious finger tap against glass.

All the while, his blade remained steady in his right hand, ready, his footing precise as he kept circling, watching closely for what the tome, and its master, would do next.

Sir Dwendare Castlegrip

 

[Samantha Black]

The bump and jostle of the growing crowd was expected, especially at the fence as the horns blared, heralding the next round. People pushed and nudged for a chance to gain a good view. Sam carried no weapons and her coin purse hidden beneath several layers of uniform and light leather armor. She would not even have paid any attention to the nudge of Afanas' passing had the man not been one of the tallest she'd seen in a month. He stood as high as her Captain's younger brother and she wondered, briefly, if the two knew one another.

Weren't a lot of (presumably) human men around with that sort of vertical advantage.

A pointed brow lofted at him, bright blues trailing after his figure with noticeable intrigue, "Pardoned." At least he'd been polite about it. The nun she nodded to before turning her attention back to her sister who was full-on, wide-eyed staring at Afanas and had dropped her skewer in the process.

Sam briefly looked about for it, finding a pair of young children skittering off, cackling like they'd nicked a priceless trinket. With a sigh, she shook her head and nudged Anja with her elbow, "Don't stare, it's rude."

"How can you not?" Anja said aloud, zero volume control or self awareness, "He could be the city clock tower."

Sam bit back a snort of laughter, schooling her expression into prickly amusement, "That's... just watch the match. Here, you want a bite?" Held out her half-eaten turkey leg to the girl who promptly shied away from it as if Sam were brandishing its severed head instead.

The Dreadlord turned her attention back to the arena where the herald presently announced an endless litany of titles for the defending champion and then... Marek.

The Indefatigable.

Didn't bother biting back that snort.

"This will either be quick or interesting... do you still have my kerchief?"

Anja, having gone back to staring at Afanas, tucked a pale hand into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out said kerchief, holding it out to Sam who took it to wipe at her face.

 

[Sir Dwendare Castlegrip]

"Impudent dog. I shall teach you a thorough lesson for your insouciance. Then you might learn how to address your betters!"

All intimidating promises, to be sure. Sadly, it lost some of its effects being cried through his helmet, barely audible outside his own armour, surrounded by the roar of crowds and music.

Sir Dwendare swatted off the energy lanced at his tome; his deflecting shield of purple-crackling arcana followed by a disdainful flick of his gauntlet.

He would end this quickly. Close the gap with elemental ferocity, softening Marek up, then strike him down before he knew what was happening. A simple tactic, but often effective in surprising the opposition. Steel fingers curled above the tome, closely attended by a string of invocations, and the same energy crackled and spat from the runic pages, coaslescing in his hand.

The crowd gasped when a sudden bolt of lightning speared for Marek, blinding many an unwary eye in the flash. The moment after, the knight's sword raised in his hand, charging forth, speed uncanny in the heavy platemail, quickly closing the distance, whether the arc of lightning had connected or not.

Marek

 

[Marek]

Marek squinted as the knight bellowed something else from inside that metal oven. Insoui-what?

“What?” he shouted back reflexively. “Incense? No, I don’t want to buy any incense!”

His attention slid instead to the hovering tome, to the way the runes flared and guttered, to how Sir Dwendare’s hand curled and pulled the power rather than shaping it.

Ah.

There it is.

Marek had tossed out a bait, and his opponent ate it right up.

Marek let his shoulders loosen and raised his blade. The lightning came like a spear hurled from the sun.

He braced.

The bolt struck steel instead of flesh, and for a breathless instant, the blade became a screaming channel, blinding force ripping down its length and into him. The surge was violent, nothing like the familiar crackle of his own stormborn sparks. This was heavier. Hotter. A far more powerful version of anything he was capable of today. It slammed through his grip, burned along his fingers, crawled up his forearm, and into his chest like fire trying to find a way out.

Marek gritted his teeth and held on.

Pain flared white. His muscles locked for a heartbeat. Sparks erupted from his left hand in wild, uncontrolled bursts as his body struggled to contain the excess. The blade howled, humming so loud it set his teeth on edge, swollen with a charge far beyond his own making.

“-that’s a lot,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Then he moved. Marek exploded forward in a blur, boots tearing through sand as he pivoted hard around the knight’s right flank. Not straight in and whirling out of the way. He slipped past the forward momentum of the charge, close enough to smell hot metal and burned air, close enough to feel the heat pouring off the armor. Swift enough to use his agility against the cumbersome knight.

His overcharged blade came down in a savage arc, aimed not at plate but at the seam beneath the right pauldron, where steel gave way to groove. The narrow gap at the armpit, where cuirass met rerebrace. Where armor had to bend.

Sir Dwendare Castlegrip

 

[Afanas]

Samantha Black
Xeraphine Yldore

Afanas squinted.

This was not because his eyes hurt, nor because he was experiencing a sudden onset of visual impairment. Afanas's eyes worked perfectly well, better than perfectly, in fact, given that they could perceive things most eyes had no business perceiving. No, the squint was purely a facial decision, the kind of expression you make when the person in front of you has just said something that doesn't add up, and you are trying to work out which particular number is amiss.

The woman who claimed herself to be nothing more than a humble nun kept posing questions of political interest.

This struck Afanas as odd. In his experience, which was considerable, and had involved meeting quite a lot of clergymen, and women, over the decades and often against his wishes: pious men and women of religious orders tended to concern themselves with matters of the soul, the afterlife, and occasionally the correct ways in which one should physically discipline unruly children. They did not, as a rule, quiz military commanders about hypothetical scenarios involving governmental collapse.

Unless, of course, they weren't really nuns at all.

"You speak as if the council is irreplaceable," Afanas said,
"They are flesh and bone, like the rest of us. They are failable."

He let that word hang. Failable. It was a good word. It suggested error. Mortality. The sort of impermanence that rich men in comfortable chairs preferred not to think about.

"Councils of old have been disbanded, suspended, even temporarily abolished when the matters of Alliria's continued existence superseded fickle politicking."

He tilted his head. It was a small motion, but it carried weight.

"Should the council seek to undo the prosperity built on the backs of its subjects, then the council will be replaced. If not by my hand, then by the hands of angry citizenry."

Somewhere below, steel rang against steel as the duel continued. The crowd roared. Afanas paid it no mind.

"The council is, after all, nothing without its subjects."

This was, if one thought about it, a fairly revolutionary statement to be making in public. But Afanas had never been much for half-truths. Either a thing was true or it wasn't, and if powerful people didn't like hearing true things said aloud, that was rather more their problem than his.

His pointy, bat-like ears twitched, and the earrings hanging off their lobes made a delicate metallic jingling, the sound of tiny bells disagreeing about which direction to swing.



"—He could be the city clock tower."

Afanas half-turned to look at Anja, which is to say, he rotated his head in a fashion that made him look less like a human being and considerably more like a very large owl that had taken offense at something. The motion was smooth, unhurried, and profoundly unsettling to anyone who had been expecting a normal neck to behave in normal ways.

"I heard that," he said, mildly.

 

[Sir Dwendare Castlegrip]

Spoiler: Music

There were certain advantages to having lots and lots of money.

For one, one could afford proper castle-forged plate, all enchantment-laced, runic-inscribed and moontouched with the proper Falwoodian spells, etcera. Secondarily, one could also afford lots and lots of time in the training ground, with nothing else to do for a knight banneret in peace times but to swat down staged attack angles by zealous squires.

Even with the limited vision of his visor, Dwendare correctly identified the pivot de porte, naturally, where one used mobility to jump past an opponent's guard. Too late for himself to turn and block with his own blade. He didn't bother. A knight should know their own armour like the back of their hand -- and this knight knew where it held strong, and where it was weaker.

Promptly, he bent his free arm like holding a shield and balled his gauntlet into an iron fist, catching his enemy's charged blade against his plated arm, shoulder and the back of his hand, where it was thickest. Steel first sang; then screeched, as the length of the blade slid down past his side, both natural sparks and magical ones flying off from their impact. The arcane charge of the blade traveled across the whole length and breadth of his armour, affording a dazzling light display for the 'uuh'ing' and 'ahh'ing' crowd, as runes ignited on his plate like a myriad of golden eyes.

In the same motion as he had blocked the attack, Sir Dwendare hefted his hilt by two hands -- the dull snap of this metallic clasp always satisfying to his ears -- ground the tip of his pointed steel boot to arrest his own momentum, turned on his heel and swung it in a sweeping arc for a vicious riposte, some of the mingled energy still sputtering from its edge.

One should never parry or block without a counterattack in mind.

Marek

 

[Marek]

Marek had expected resistance. He had not expected nothing.

The impact should have bitten. Should have torn. Instead it rang, hard, resonant, his supercharged blade screaming as the knight’s armor drank the blow and spat it sideways in a riot of igniting runes. The force traveled through steel and sigil alike, dazzling and brutal, and Marek felt it in his bones.

“-shit,” he breathed, more startled than afraid.

But surprise wasn’t ignorance. That much power didn’t vanish. It was taken. Absorbed. Distributed. The armor had done its job, but at a cost, as was always the case with magic. You didn’t tank that kind of storm without something wearing thin.

The knight’s riposte came exactly as doctrine promised. Marek didn’t try to outrun it. He used it.

As the swing committed, hips turning, weight planted, arc widening, Marek rode the last whisper of contact between his blade and the armor, turned the recoil into a step, and vaulted. Not up and away, but over, clearing the path of the blade by a razor’s margin as it scythed through the space he’d just occupied. For a blink, he was weightless above steel and plume, boots skimming hot air.

His burned right hand screamed in protest as he shifted his grip, fingers blistered and numb from the backlash, but he ignored it. There would be no pretty follow-up. No flourish.

It was time to fight dirty.

He came down behind the knight’s shoulder. Marek struck behind the knight’s knee in an attempt to buckle it and drove his other leg into the hip, trying to wrench the man’s center of gravity out from under him and topple him while the knight was still finishing the swing.

“Hey, Custarddrip!” Marek shouted as he did it, breathless and grinning through the pain. “I heard your mother has entertained so many men that your family crest oughta be a question mark!”

No follow-up. No second strike. Just banking on the man getting riled enough to swiftly turn and twist into the topple. It was a savage attempt to put several hundred pounds of very expensive knight on the ground and keep him there long enough to prove that even indestructible things could be made to fall.

Sir Dwendare Castlegrip

 

[Samantha Black]

An interesting match, then.

Sam hung on the fence, elbows propped against the top rail and watched with a keen, critical eye. The same eye she used for training new recruits within the Knights ... and even the older, more experienced ones. Learning never ceased.

The curiosity today was an honored Knight, decked to the nines with all manner of expensive craft and steel, pitted against what was quickly turning out to be a young, hot-blooded upstart with a lot of gumption, something to prove, and little to his name but some wit, quick thinking, and the willingness to lose.

Personally, Sam favored the latter. She'd seen his kind before - grew up with them, really. Most Initiates worth their salt at the Academy had a lot in common with him and she liked his moxie.

Meanwhile, Anja had yet to engage with the match. Instead the younger woman was fixated on the talking clock-tower of a man standing only a few yards and bodies away. When his head turned to look at her, her eyes bugged. She patted at her sister's arm.

"What's up, Ane?" Sam asked absently, her eyes glued to the fight, teeth taking another bite of the turkey leg.

"Look," Anja replied.

"Hn?" Sam glanced at her, chewing.

"Look," Anja pointed at Afanas and tilted her head with emphasis.

Sam looked and her brows larked as she found the man looking right at them, "Damnit Ane, I told you not to stare. You're bothering him."

"Have you ever seen a head twist like that?" Anja did not appear to be minding her sister's words, but narrowing her eyes as she looked at Afanas, her own head tilting more as if to mimic the oddness she was witnessing.

"Not of their own accord - would you stop."