Open Chronicles The Tournament of Tides

[Valborast Valchek]

Four glasses supped upon, three unfavourable reviews delivered that were charitable only in how brief they were, with a fourth germinating inside Valborast's wits as the glass was replaced onto merchant counter. Before Valborast could enjoy the sound of his own voice, two palms of heavy hands burdened his shoulders yet did not clasp in seizing, his eyes to the merchant as the pair behind him made suggestion.

"Syr," a voice well versed in channelling the raw frustrations of others into well mannered clarity of potential force, "your attentions and reviews are needed elsewhere."

Another voice gave a simple low murmur of agreeance to the necessary coercion.

Valborast looked to the merchant as if he was responsible somehow for the interruption. Began to draw in breath to give withering final opinion to the fellow.

"Syr," the first voice said, quieter and more authoritative for such, "your words are elsewhere needed. Enough scenes been made. Understanding is required."

Lips pursed. A single word disguising his offense with a veneer of dispassionate aloofness was uttered.

"Fine," Valborast said, and shrugged...his shoulders becoming as solid as shadow, the hands slipping through his frame into vaporous black, leaving hands to recoil from such magics, Valborast himself making purposeful strides away as if completely unfettered by such an interdiction, silent and statuesque.

The two trailed a healthy distance behind until Valborast had made himself scarce of the wine tasting area, both to ensure his exit and with glances towards the numerous merchants that their casket hammers did not need to be involved. The one that had not spoken in the removal process made to add a further comment, but such an addition was arrested by the more tactful, who went onto deliver a small talk on the finer points of being a bouncer. The word 'de-escalation' and words 'saving face' were used now, withering remarks would come much later.

It wasn't until a few corners were passed did Valborast's face contort into irritation as his hands made quick movement to withdraw a bone pipe, making selection of tobacco from silver tin, as well as which axe to grind, swift and prompt.

"Not even half cut," Valborast muttered, as if finding himself remiss.

Fingers packed the tobacco in gentle jabs. A flame given cause to burn what he stacked for himself from the same finger that packed it so.

Quick inhalations, the smoke replacing the flavours of wine that failed to meet his standards.

"Means I have to," he said, as he gripped teeth to pipe, looking down to his wrist so imprinted by black ink print of entrance to the event as if were evidence of a social crime, and removed it with a gesture of magic. He gripped the pipe from teeth to hand, now clean of the possibility of someone asking him who won at the end of the event, and continued his thought with a baleful exhalation of smoke, "make nice with colleagues."

He let out a sound that was similar to the emanations the merchants had made from his indulgences, yet quieter and more restrained, but firmly felt all the same.

More puffs of smoke as he composed himself, arranging politeness and congeniality into the spaces of social graces where all things sardonic did live, but finding it an uncomfortable fit, and with many contingencies to replace those benevolences with malcontents swiftly.

He made way to find those of his Order, and those not, to see what attentions and reviews could be further bestowed. After all, he thought with a hint of satisfaction, his world view shifting to favour what saved face and internal narrative best, his words were elsewhere needed.

 

[Olvir]

A wide grin spread on Olvir's face.

House Weiroon was not known for any particular talent. They were, in fact, the only Great House who had come about by the sheer force of luck. Much of their wealth, status, and fame came simply from their familial magic, the ability to bend the very fates themselves.

Many had called his family talent less, and those without the magic even more so.

Ollie had no such magic, never had, and in truth never wanted it. He was not the strongest of his siblings, nor the smartest. He was good with a sword, and reasonably well educated, but his true gift lay in one thing and one thing alone; making friends.

"That I am." The Noble said with a wave, motioning for Monroe to follow along with him. His eyes already set on one of the brewer stands that had been set up not too far away. Their offering something called an 'Imperial Stout', the brew apparently aged in bourbon barrels. Something Ollie was more than eager to try.

As they walked over and Ollie raised his hand in a gesture towards the barman, two fingers sticking up, he turned to his new companion. "Are you here to compete?"

He asked with genuine curiosity.

"Or just taking a look?" Both were common enough, The Tournament of Tides was as much a spectator spectacular as it was a place to prove yourself.

 

[Monroe]

It seemed her interaction with the Anirian did not go unnoticed.

As she moved to follow, coming to a stop seemed to be the second mistake of being in Alliria. Before she could even answer, an arm wrapped around her shoulders, and the familiar tones of Marta Martigan graced her ears.

Monroe's expression soured, but knew better than to shrug off Mad Marta.

"Spectator." She continued on with her answer, as if another person had not attached themselves to her side, no doubt enjoying herself. "Unless a worthy competition strikes my fancy."

Monroe now nudged Marta with her elbow. "Excuse my sister-knight. Marta, this is..." Another furrow of her brows, as it became clear she did not even know the Anirian's name, nor did she bother to introduce herself. "A new friend." Hoping the grimace didn't alarm the young man, it was not a usual thing for the Knight Sworn to admit to having friends. Not many wish to be in her company for long to even be considered.

But there were some within the Order that found her usual grumpiness to be endearing.

Marta Martigan Olvir

 

[Jason Chronicles]

Juniper Rose, he mouthed, rolling the words around on his tongue with a slight frown.

"Yes, you should both come. You should all come. But that's many hours away and the day is young. Vilen is right. You've an interest in the street shops then?"

He idly tuned his lute as he spoke, looking between the three new companions.

"But you've come for the tournament? I think the first bouts start soon."

 

[Perrine Urahil]

Perrine now found herself with two accompanying guides on her shop.

She gave them each a smile, thinking it was now much too late to excuse herself from the situation... or perhaps she was too nice to tell them both to clear off.

"Well, yes, I cannot hurt to see the tournament... but I also do have a few things I would like to purchase before I am to leave in a few days." Today being possibly the only day she could be out and having this free time to spend. "Really, I am fine to continue on my own!"

Vilen Blackhart Jason Chronicles

 

[Olvir]

A wide grin spread of the Anirian’s face. ”Ollie.”

He offered his name, catching Marta's and hoping to receive Monroe's in turn. His ears catching the term ‘sister-knight’ as the former was introduced. For a second he wondered if they were Templar, though that seemed somewhat unlikely to him. Ollie knew a few of the Orders around Alliria, and most wore their tabards almost too proudly.

That left a few other choices or organizations, but truthfully he'd never been the best study when it came to such things.

”And there's no excuse necessary.” The noble continued. ”I'm happy to use my father's coin to pay for any amount of drink.”

It was an ongoing mission to spend as much of the Weiroons ill-gotten gains as physically possible. Olvir was not one for extravagance, but he did enjoy generosity. He was of a Great House, and although Aisling had steered the ship to clearer waters, most of their coin had been earned in the mire. It was only just that he would return it there.

As he spoke, the three of them reached the little beer garden. A woman dressed in a strange dwarf designed dress, all angles and no curves, swept up to their side. Placing down three massive tankards of ale on a high top table without any of them ever saying a word. Her finger flipping a little card which denoted what was owed before anyone could speak. Her steps whisking her away with ruthless efficiency seconds later.

 

[Marta Martigan]

A grumble came from Marta's throat. Not the first time some feathering twink pretended she were stage dressing.

Luckily, Meanroe assuaged the situation. Bucket of mud that she pretended to be, Marta had come to know the Syr to be a real pearl.

"Charmed," Marta gave in response to the exchange of names and greetings. Dry and humorless, despite the sharp grin.

Adelard took another drag from his pipe as the younger lot figured things out. "Welp, best leave you to it," he said before he moved along, getting lost in the crowds.


At their table in the beer garden, Marta stared down at the card. Disgust and amusement clear on her face. Scooped it closer with the press of two fingers.

"Ain't that just," she said, laughed, pushed the card away and scooped up her drink with a firm clasp. "So, Monroe," she started. Gave her sister knight a nudge with her elbow. "You heard young and noble Ollie," she winked. Raised her tankard up with a little splash of the amber drink. "Any amount," she eyed the sword wearer, grinned the wider.


Monroe Olvir

 

[Monroe]

"Monroe, it is nice to make your acquaintance Ollie." There was no way of telling if her grumpiness now was her usual, or if it was the fact Marta was one of the few people that could end up rousing Monroe to having a little fun. Fun she was not in the mood for until their drinks arrived.

"Not bad." She commented after a tentative sip before snorting at Marta.

"Well, if you're here to make friends, your father's coin will surely make you a fast favourite to the Knights of Anathaeum." Monroe among them, but she would not divulge that secret so easily. "If you're not careful, Mad Marta may even give you a run for your money with how many drinks she will have." But Monroe, too, was good with her liquor unless wine was involved. If she came all this way to see the Tournament, then she was glad to not be without a drink in hand.

"Did he pay for that? Your sword?" She asked, jutting her chin towards him and wherever the blade was kept on his person.

Olvir Marta Martigan

 

[Olvir]

Ah, the Knights of Anathaeum! He should have seen it before. The young noble smiled, wishing for a moment he'd paid more attention in his studies with Professor Thremir. He'd done his best to instruct him about all the Knightly Orders and what they stood for, but at seventeen, wealthy, and without true supervision Ollie had been far more interested in other aspects of life in Alliria.

”Diplomacy through gold has always worked well for my family.” He said with a chuckle. ”If emptying my father's coffers is the price of new friends, well, it'll be money well spent, eh?”

Ollie said with a chuckle, taking a deep drought of his own ale. ”Besides, I get the inkling I'd rather be drinking with someone named ‘Mad Marta’ than fighting with them.”

The Noble offered Monroe's companion a grin. His gaze only glancing down to his blade as the Knight brought it up.

His voice betraying no taken insult at Monroe's suggestion he'd not earned his blade.

”This?” He said nudging the blade. ”Not my father, no, but maybe one of my dear ancestors. I found it in our family's vault. Covered in dust and lacking for a purpose.”

Despite the reputation of Vel Anir, House Weiroons was decidedly not a martial paragon. His family was not known for its warriors, nor it's soldiers. They were merchants, and damned good ones, but fighting was not within their wheel house.

It was still something of a mystery how the sword had ended up in the Weiroons vaults at all.

Monroe | Marta Martigan

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

Waters surrounding, pell mell around armoured folk from peoples that jostled and cheered their arrivals, gleaming defences and egos on parade. Indeed, Ostrum thought, the appointed time to peacock about was firmly in effect, preening his moustache and sense of worth within such a myriad of fighters, fawners, fools and potential friends. And indeed, opponents.

To provide contest upon the waves that did bear them within such a crowd of people drawn from all corners was such an infrequent event that he himself did relish much in this moment. The sounds of jubilation, the sensation that great struggles and tales of glory and ignominy were soon to be scribed by deed and daring courage, the very sensation that bards would lionise the mighty from their witnessing of fighting arts was reason to have good cheer, good hopes, and goodly manners. The contests themselves glimpses into the modern world of combat, where the fogs of war were all dissipated in favour of honest viewing of arena fiercely fought upon to the entertainment and edification of countless citizens of a realm worth defending.

Such a charitable view of the world was firmly within Ostrum's possession this day as he moved at tourist pace, his own sword, long and with scabbard that matched the ornamentation of his armour, saddled by belts that held it tight and compact to hip. A gauntleted hand that rested fashionably upon the pommel as he made sure not to stir any passer by for being so armed.

Cheerful of facial feature, yet marked by the weathering notions of warfare and dutiful conduct to excellent combats past and to future come, Ostrum with easy stride found himself looking upon a youthful chap who did bandy their courage as openly as any other. One by the name of Nacht, who's name was unknown, but spirit of fighting and encouragement was recognised plain as daybeam on shimmering steel.

He chuckled, honest and well meaning, no derision or mockeries, but honest mirth at seeing such swings, weaves, dodges and playful parries. The Enshrined Blade did stand, spine straight, fine geometries of his regalia of knighthood making him appear almost as noble and fine a thing as his graduation from errant to knight true and proper. His fingers draped beyond the pommel in relaxed hangings, his palm acting with all relaxed posture upon the weapon.

A tone of voice, dignified, well spoken and mannered correctly to the gentry, did begin it's intonations, rich, well meaning, and clearly delivered despite the bustling sounds of the passer by that did bandy their words, deeds and wares.

"Hail, valiant one. I see you encourage those younger to give fierce mettle, such is right and good, especially today of all days. If I may make bold with my commentary, your footwork is not common born, there's been much instruction in your measure and boldness in your pivots, I do wager. Indeed, I do wager somekin knightly had hand in such manners correctly driven, even in such mirthful play of conflict I do see it well within you. I am one Sir Brandish, and I would know thy name and title, and perhaps the nature of instruction that carries you so well, that is if it pleases you to give such details so freely this most auspicious day."

A quiet smile lurked under moustache, weathered hands relaxed, and posture inviting all civilities as he awaited response courteously.

Nacht

 

[Nacht]

Nacht realized he was being watched as soon as Ostrum approached, stiffening up straighter a tad. It was not as though he exactly knew his observer in any significant way, but his time with the knights had fostered such an instinctive reaction. Presenting oneself as the best possible candidate was not too much of a priority for the boy, but such gestures seemed to help when it came to being trusted and given responsibility. He turned as naturally as possible, planting the end of the stick-sword he wielded on the ground. The man that greeted him was quite a sight indeed, ornately dressed and impeccably ‘stached.

The kind words he was then given were slightly shocking, so he momentarily struggled to comprehend everything. "Th-Thanks, I guess." He says, a bit sheepish. Such praise was indeed a tad odd, but still very kind. Even more curious, though, was the man's level of insight as to his abilities. He was not exactly in total agreement that his training wasn't overseen by commoners like himself that joined the cause far before he, but the rest was mostly right. There was a lot of practice he put himself through to keep up given how randomly timed his joining was, and that extra effort led to progress, thankfully.

The boy was also rather happy he had been mentioned in the same sentence as the word "knightly", so there was that to process. "It's nice to meet you, Syr Brandish. I'm Nacht, a squire. My mentors, the Sworn, even now teach me more about combat and life in general." He paused for a second, as though thinking something through. "Those two things tend to intersect, I've actually noticed. It's part of why I'm trying to teach swordsmanship now." Such words caused a slightly nervous expression to shadow his face "I don't want to sound arrogant or like I know more of the world than anyone else, so please take my words with a grain of sand."

"Swordsmanship is an art more for the weak than the strong. It's about technique, and punishes those who use their strength unwisely. Treating a sword like a club and only going about things one way leads to trouble more often than not. At least, i think so." Nacht finished, remembering the first day of training he ever had, in which he used more strength than strategy and ended up with his sparring partners sword-tip dancing between his eyes. He grinned at the memory, his grip on the stick relaxing a tad. "Do you plan to participate in the tournament, friend?" he questioned, tossing the proverbial ball back to his new acquaintance.

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Vilen Blackhart]

All of a sudden, Vilen found himself annoyed. The end of his tail flicked erratically. Here he was trying to do the right thing for once, but that smile the lady gave him... well, he'd worked with enough nice ladies in his time to know what it meant.

"Really, I am fine to continue on my own!"

"Yeah, you look like the sort," Vilen closed his eyes briefly, nodding along to the lady's insistence. Even through the sea-rot that always permeated Alliria, she smelled like formaldehyde and magic. Too dangerous for an ordinary tourist. Maybe he ought to get lost, while he was ahead. "Don't got to tell me twice. I'll be on my way, then."

Starting to walk away, Vilen raised a hand to signal goodbye. When he was a few strides down the boardwalk, he spun back round to face the lady and the bard. Two glints of copper clattered between his fingers, catching the sunlight. "Oh, I forgot to say-- thanks for the donation, miss! All of today's proceeds are going towards the Falwood refugees!"

Turning tail, Vilen picked up his pace again, aiming to get lost in the crowd.

Perrine Urahil Jason Chronicles

 

[Sylvian Artesto]

Maybe this had been somewhat of a mistake.

Sylvian nursed his drink, leaning back against one of the many unremarkable and unmarked buildings that littered the port, his eyes wandering across the hustle and bustle of the tournament with conflict playing between his ears. He'd thought that maybe this place would offer him some insight, some answers into what had changed since he'd been gone.

All it was really doing was making him want for that which he could no longer have. These people weren't his, nor was this place meant for him. All that he was truly accomplishing with his presence was an obnoxiously loud plea for trouble. Then, fighting in a place like this, he'd end up dead, and that would mean the last twenty years were for absolutely nothing.

Well shit. Maybe he oughtta listened to that sharp-eared friend of his. They always said elves had wisdom beyond their years, and they lived... fuck, how long?

Still, if anything good had come of this little trip, it was the revelation that he wasn't particularly recognizable to the common Anirian. That meant what came next would be a hell of a lot easier, even if it made him worry about just how awfully he'd aged. The whole of Epressa had taken its time whipping his ass, and now Father Time wanted to get his licks in too?

The damned luck he had.

Downing the last of his drink, he tossed the bottle aside carelessly and headed back from whence he'd come. Maybe today had been a bust, but he'd had worse busts. This one hadn't ended in the deaths of people he cared about, just a bit of melancholy, which was far from anything new to him.

Maybe next time, he wouldn't have to be invisible.

~~~

 

[Marta Martigan]

An easy smile crept across Marta's face, like butter across a hot pan. A bit of froth from the last pull of her drink still clung to her lip. She wiped it away, and gave a couple of nods. "Sense in that," she said "Coin caries a long ways," a huff of a laugh.

Smiling and youthful as the lad was. Marta never cared much for giving things easy. A few drinks, sure, she'd take those. Have a few laughs and make a few regrets. Nothing to all that. Still, she eyed the youth, then his sword. A quirk of her brow.

"And you aim to give it a purpose?" she asked, with a swirl of her drink.

Olvir Monroe

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

Ostrum posture remained still, hearing all from the young squire with all proper attention and decorum. His face lost a fraction of good cheer in his smile at the mention that the art of the sword was for the weak, but shifted his attitude to understand the meaning behind the sentiment. He neither nodded nor shook his head at the notion, instead remaining as polite as possible to the young knight to one day perhaps be.

To question he responded after a few heartbeats as he considered what to reveal.

"Nay, I shall not be competing, as much as I yearn for such by nature and nurture. My Order deemed that it was not necessary that I fulfil my duty so publicly. For all I know, another of my kin are readying even now to represent us Enshrined. Such would not surprise me."

He turned his boot, his body turning, yet head remaining fixed, as to give some relaxed nature to the proceeding, instead of a square on address. He made small step as he talked.

"There is some merit in what you mean. Adaptability, finesse, rejection of brute strength. There is always another with more brawn behind their blows, but the mechanics of clashing steel, the pivots of the feet in striding combat, these things well drilled and applied can provide much for the availing. A suggestion however, young Squire, taken in the spirit of future harmony, as it is intended I hope. Be wary of calling the art of the sword more for the weak than the strong. Some might view that as a nestled insult."

Ostrum gave the squire a stern look for a flash, as if emulating the gaze that might have been brought against him...and then broke from such caricature with a smile and a closing of the eyes, as if banishing such visages of hostilities.

"But not I. I am beyond such sensitivities."

Nacht

 

[Nacht]

Sir Brandish was rather hard to read and polite enough that expressing opinions was a little intimidating. There were people in the Order with a similar sort of effect, such as Selene and also Syr Valchek, and even Syr Faramund in a slightly more grumpy kind of way. Nacht stood slightly stiffer as the Enshrined offered no reaction to his words, the boy a bit nervous he had somehow angered his new acquaintance.

Luckily, though, that appeared to not be the case, as they spoke after a second offering answer to his query on their participation. “Oh, I see. I was planning not to participate either, but I am not quite sure now. The atmosphere around here is quite conducive to trying new things,” he explained, stretching a bit. The knight wasn’t quite telling all, he suspected, but that was fine. There was no need for him to know anything worthy of being hidden and the boy knew he himself was being a tad vague. As much as he could garner from the word “Enshrined” he guessed Syr Brandish could gather from “Sworn”.

At the Enshrined’s next movement, Nacht relaxed. He looked a tad bit embarrassed as well, though. Has he caught on to my nervousness? No, there was no time to worry. Instead, he focused on listening well and blocking out other sounds, looking a small bit sheepish at Brandish’s implication of an insult and his momentarily harsh look. “I’m glad for your tolerance. As for my designation that it is for the weak, I do not mean that anyone who uses the sword is weak at all. In the case of the strong, a well wielded weapon adds to their power. In the case of those not already powerful, the effect is just that much more meaningful. I…uh, have personal experience in the latter scenario.” He finished speaking, well aware that he was rambling or maybe even oversharing.

“On another topic, this is my first time in Alliria. I usually live in the Valen Wilds with the rest of my order, but talk of this event got me curious. Do you hail from the reach or was it a portal trip for ya as well?” Nacht questioned, leaning on his stick for a bit while shaking out his legs, for standing so long had taken it’s toll.

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Monroe]

Monroe, too, was interested in the plans in mind for such a sword.

She was not one that preferred to wield one, but she at least knew what a decent sword looked like. "Wish my family's vault carried nice blades." All that was left for her to inherit was plenty of coin, kept here in a well protected bank of Alliria, and a ghost town by the sea. "Even if there was, I would have surely lost it in a bet."

Monroe looked at Marta, a sly smile quirking at her lips. "Probably be to you in all honesty."

Olvir Marta Martigan

 

[Olvir]

”I aim to try.” Ollie said with a shrug, though he knew he was far from gaining any sort of legend.

Though the tournaments back home had gone well, he was hardly a blade master. It was true he'd been making leaps and strides ever since his return from Tyr, but he was still far and away from being a master.

”Don’t feel too bad.” He said with a chuckle. ”Sometimes I think the damned thing is more trouble than it's worth.”

As he said the words, he felt a suddenly spoke of pain lance through his mind. A noticeable wince carrying through his form. Is that so?

The blade asked, echoing in his thoughts as he shook his head and let out a quiet ‘ow’ that he hoped neither of his companions noticed as he took a swig of his drink.

His throat clearing quickly. ”What about you Marta, here to compete, or just to drink?”

Ollie asked, hoping to quickly skate past the previous subject.


Marta Martigan | Monroe

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

"You must be of Anathaeum's ranks then," Sir Brandish deduced, he said such in respectful recognition and remembrance of intelligence gathered and shared.

"I haven't been to home knightly in some time, but a portal guided me from where I was in the realm to where I stand before you," Ostrum stated matter of factly, both the whereabouts of his home and his previous location obscured by omission, before proceeding in pleasant compliment, "One of my Order is stationed at your base of operations, one Syr Arlo Talworth. He speaks highly of your facilities and faculties. He wrote a rather flattering poem about the scenic verdantacities of the grounds availing, and the feats of arcane skills that are woven well and wisely. It is always reassuring notion to know that others committed to honour martialled are meeting the land's demands. Our shared responsibilities to the realm grow each day it seems. And to see members of the Order of Anathaeum here, well, this does all well to see I'm sure."

He nodded as if sealing the assessment with the motion. He regarded the notion to compete and placed his words slow and careful.

"I know not if you are ready, it is not for me to keep the gate. But audaciousness and boldness reveals much to oneself poorly realised by imagination alone. The competition so arranged will be safe as it might be, and as fair as it ought to be in such challenges to rise to. Single reliant combat be my own Order's specialty. I think any Squire would enrich themselves by fighting worthy opponents. It sets the mind well to what will be asked of them when duties grow. But, there is much to learn by merely observing those of such far drawn cosmopolitan wields. Such is what I intend to do."

Nacht

 

[Nacht]

“Yes, indeed. I’ll have to ask one of the senior knights about the Enshrined when I get back to the Monastery, if your group works so closely with us. Seems like a pretty glaring gap in my education, it does.” Nacht said, looking thoughtful. Well, a squire wasn’t exactly entitled to all of the information in the world, so maybe there was a reason for this deficiency. “See, this is what’s cool about this place. I might have never met you or anybody else farther out.” He said cheerily, looking around and then realizing something important he hadn’t quite registered beforehand: He knew of the Knights, which meant he might end up talking to one of them by chance later.

“Oh, but, if you see any other knights, please don’t tell them I’m here. My visit is far too…impromptu to join them and create another face to worry about, considering my rank.” He explained sheepishly, taking out his key and displaying the merchant seal on it.
“To be honest, my ticket here was once another’s, a merchant that underestimated the danger of the blight. I plan to turn it in by day’s end and accept whatever punishment, but curiosity, as shameful as it is, got the better of me.”

Leaving that to simmer, the boy would consider his acquaintance’s words and grin. “Hey, about your other point, you’re not wrong. I guess this is going to be a once or twice in a lifetime thing, so making up little scenarios and guessing what will happen isn’t going to get anything done.” He said, nodding in agreement. Suddenly, an idea crossed his mind and Nacht snapped his fingers, smile still present. “I’ve decided. Should the opportunity arise, I will participate in the tournament and use all at my disposal to win. In terms of my swordsmanship, I’d appreciate your feedback if there is any you might have after the competition.” he finished, hand moving to brush the hilt of one of the daggers at his side. The weight of them had become comfortable after so long, for some reason.

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Marta Martigan]

Marta pushed a little laugh through her breath as she eyed Monroe. "Still no luck in your gambling, eh, Monroe?" she teased. "Must mean you've got yourself a love," she winked before Ollie went on.

Her eyes turned to regard the young man, hands nursing her drink. She took a sip as he mentioned the trouble.

Quirked a brow.

Felt her hairs stand. Her skin turn to goose flesh.

Odd. She thought. No skilled Magicker herself, but she was not without her sensitivities. In this, at least.

She took a deep draught. Wiped her lip clean, and smiled, sharp like. "Depends, really," she offered. Tilt her head toward the lad. "On what one counts as competing," she drained her cup to that. Clacked down the empty tankard, and pushed it towards the middle of the table. "Ain't much for the melees m'self," she gave a laugh. Eyed the crowd around them. "Much as I've a talent for the violence," she laughed. "Too structured," she reasoned, her eyes came back to Ollie. "Why, you aiming to test that blade of yours?" the way she cocked her brow was almost challenge all its own.

Friendly. Maybe even too friendly. But that was Marta's way.

Olvir Monroe

 

[Monroe]

Monroe frowned, and deeply, at Marta's jest and wink. Love. Why would that hinder her chances with winning bets? She was careful in betting for herself, knowing how to pick her battles... but Marta had always poked Monroe's need to win when she happened to be several drinks deep in.

Love.

The Knight finished her drink, keeping up with her sister-knight. The talk of competing in the Tournament allowed her to merely listen, but her honeyed gaze soon felt onto Olvir, an amused smile quirking the corners of her lips. "Well, I think it would be a waste not to come all this way and not compete. Even I am participating in an event." Monroe shrugged. "Made it to the second to last round for Archery." And she hadn't informed any of the Knights that had made the trek to Alliria of such a feat.

"It's a fine family blade. I am sure you will gather a crowd just with the sword alone."

Olvir Marta Martigan

 

[Olvir]

"Fair enough. There is a bit of a faff with it all." Ollie acknowledged, remembering all the forms he had to sign in order to actually get into the Melee. The tournament of Tides was open to all, but that didn't mean they weren't assholes about entering it.

His lips pressing to a line as Marta returned the conversation to his blade. Another long swig taken of his ale as he finally found the bottom of the mug.

"Family isn't much for battle." Ollie explained, twisting the tale to be about House Weiroon rather than the blade he now had. "We're known as merchant and tradesmen."

A shrug rolled over his shoulder. "Except my sister, anyway, and I always liked the... thought I guess, of breaking that mould."

He chewed over his own words for a moment, and then smiled again.

"Second to last here might as well be first in a dozen other places!" Ollie commended Monroe. "Hell, if I make that rung in the Melee I'll consider this all a rather smashing success."

Briefly Ollie looked down, wondering if he should risk another drink. "Maybe I'll place a bet on you myself."

He told Monroe. "Probably less of a waste than putting it on myself."

Olvir chuckled.

 

[Marta Martigan]

Martigan listened to their words. A waste not to compete. She huffed some. Maybe she was right about that. "Well, suppose'n I can throw in to the pugilist competitions" she said with a half laugh, stroked her chin with one hand as she bared her teeth. "Or the oil wrestling," thumped the table with her fist. "Never did mind getting greasy and tangled up," laughed. "Or the feeling of bones against these knuckles," she narrowed her eye and smirked as she rolled one finger after the other into a half clenched fist.

The dwarf waitress came by and dropped off another set of tankards three, another bill there with it.

Marta grinned all the wider and snatched hers up quick. The warm haze of a buzz just starting to build up her cheeks. "Aye, Ollie has the right of it, Roe," she agreed. and wrapped an arm around her Sister knight's shoulder, raised her cup up, just a smidge. "This many competitors, ain't no small thing to make it so far," she gave her sister a bit of a shake, and then tossed back a gulp of ale.

With a pull of the drink, she gasped happy with the

She turned her gaze onto the rich boy. Smirked as her grip loosened on Monroe, jut her chin at him. "What was that?" she grinned. "Can't go making a story for that blade doubting yourself so much," her off hand slipped down into her coin purse. Pulled a gold. "How bout we all bet on each other? hmm?" she smiled wide. "Might draw a little luck our way with such a ritual," she winked to the rich boy. Slapped the coin down, and nudged Monroe.

Olvir Monroe

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

“Yes, indeed. I’ll have to ask one of the senior knights about the Enshrined when I get back to the Monastery, if your group works so closely with us. Seems like a pretty glaring gap in my education, it does.” Nacht said, looking thoughtful. Well, a squire wasn’t exactly entitled to all of the information in the world, so maybe there was a reason for this deficiency. “See, this is what’s cool about this place. I might have never met you or anybody else farther out.” He said cheerily, looking around and then realizing something important he hadn’t quite registered beforehand: He knew of the Knights, which meant he might end up talking to one of them by chance later.

“Oh, but, if you see any other knights, please don’t tell them I’m here. My visit is far too…impromptu to join them and create another face to worry about, considering my rank.” He explained sheepishly, taking out his key and displaying the merchant seal on it.
“To be honest, my ticket here was once another’s, a merchant that underestimated the danger of the blight. I plan to turn it in by day’s end and accept whatever punishment, but curiosity, as shameful as it is, got the better of me.”

Leaving that to simmer, the boy would consider his acquaintance’s words and grin. “Hey, about your other point, you’re not wrong. I guess this is going to be a once or twice in a lifetime thing, so making up little scenarios and guessing what will happen isn’t going to get anything done.” He said, nodding in agreement. Suddenly, an idea crossed his mind and Nacht snapped his fingers, smile still present. “I’ve decided. Should the opportunity arise, I will participate in the tournament and use all at my disposal to win. In terms of my swordsmanship, I’d appreciate your feedback if there is any you might have after the competition.” he finished, hand moving to brush the hilt of one of the daggers at his side. The weight of them had become comfortable after so long, for some reason.

Ostrum Brandish

Ostrum did nod at the request to provide feedback. The art of the sword to one prospective to become a knight proper was essential in his estimation. And if he might assist in that process, he did think so be it, it was his part to play in relations between the two organisations. Between the two members of the martial forces in the realm.

He wanted to correct the squire in thinking that they did work closely, but upon scrutiny of his own pessimisms, perhaps the statement had some truth. After all, one of their number Enshrined had been assigned to exist with those of Anathaeum for a time. If that was not close, what could merit such description? It not was for him, he realised, to crumble such bridges still in the formation between their organisations.

After all, he did think, they had the greater number, and greater ken of magics.

But he refused to yield his pride to thinking them superior. They served different ends, with different method and philosophy, different capacity to doing right for the realm. More local were these of the Anathaeum in their concerns, to the land and peoples did they strive. Whereas his own Order, did place champion at the disposal of noble lords and availing military to turn the tide of desperate circumstances.

"The form of contrition to your circumstance here may be beholden to your end result; strive to attain glories and wisdom of the blade in competition, all else is secondary to duties of circumspection. Strive on I say. Do well, fight well, and worry not. I am not inclined to propagate a squire's business to earnestly improve as a demerit to any knight. Title does not heft the cutting edge of the sword - the fighting spirit trained by advantages afforded by discipline does. I shall look upon your contest with interest and critical eye. Let me not tarry you further. I will do my utmost to deliver what critique may come from your braveries once all is heft and done."

Ostrum gave salute, one delivered between availing warriors to their future concerns of combats.

"Do yourself what justice there is in this world," Ostrum did say, giving nod, much less knight to squire and more seasoned warrior to availing contestant, and made turn to leave.

Nacht