Open Chronicles The Tournament of Tides

[Olvir]

Alliria - Harbor

Every Thirty years, like clockwork, Allira the largest city in the whole of the world became just a little bit larger.

The Tournament of Tides was a festival that had existed for almost as long as the city itself. A storied and hallowed tradition; the event was an almost sacred thing to many native Allirians. Seen as necessary by many to ensure the prosperity of the great Trade City. To those who had come after it was a chance to show off ones wealth, skill, or simply get rip-roaring drunk.

For generation the tournament had been held, and each time in the exact same place; Alliria's harbor.

What was ordinarily a space filled with hundreds of ships seeking to trade was instead covered with massive floating platforms. Each moored to one another and across the straits, creating a vast floating tournament ground for the entire event to be held upon. Nearly doubling the size of Alliria itself, and creating enough space for the thousands upon thousands who swarmed upon the city eager to test their skills in a variety of games.

Dozens of different events were held within the tournament. Everything from competitions of Archery to who could tie the better sailors knot. Near everything that one could compete in had some sort of an official event, and that included drinking, fighting, and even seeing who could steal the most coin. Albeit the official competition in pick-pocketing utilized small wooden tokens handed out at random to patrons.

For better or for worse, The Tournament of Tides was a draw to all those around the world who wished to test themselves against the whole of the world. Alliria marking not only the largest single population known, but also the most diverse.

That pull was strong, not only in personal pride, but a national one. It was not uncommon for nations to send representatives of themselves to the events of the Tide, and as Olvir walked through the bustling crowd he noted the insignia's of several Dreadlords. Offering them only a polite nod as he passed them by, a few returning the gesture with a salute as they saw his coat. Though he did not stop to greet any of them, having journeyed here to Alliria not for the acclaim of his country or family, but only for himself.

In his hand, crooked within his fingers, whispered his blade. I have been here before.

The sword spoke in his mind, it's words more frequent now than they had been in the past months. His trip to Tyr, and what he had learned there, apparently having endeared him to the blade. Though Olvir had no idea why, the knowledge he'd found had been less than a slice of a clue, but the sword had seemed well pleased that he now knew even a sliver of it's history. Strangely, often offering up more itself.

"Well, yeah, I carried you with me a few times while passing through." Ollie said out loud, not being worried about appearing as a madman as he continued to press through the massive crowd.

You misunderstand, Weiroon. I have been here before. The blade insisted, only clarifying as it sensed Ollie's annoyance. At this tournament.

It explained, Ollie letting out a whistle. "Did you win?"

He asked, the blades answer coming just as he rounded a corner and finally reached the sign up table for the Melee.

I don't remember. It answered flatly.

(Authors note; this thread is not intended for PVP events, it is more about the environment of the tournament and those who are attending interacting with one another. If you want to run an actual event, do so, but be respectful and courteous to those participating and if anything devolves into petty arguments I will shut that shit down.)

 

[Jason Chronicles]

"Ugh I cannot believe they've asked for a sonnet about this tournament. In a day no less. What do they think, I'm just some magically infused automaton?"

Jason sat on the second story of a brothel's terrace overlooking the tournament grounds, talking to a floating orb.

"Are you?" asked the orb.​

"What? No of course not."

"How do you know?"​

"Because-" Jason paused, then his lips tilted down and a brow canted up, stretching the scars across his cheek, "Actually.... I suppose that's why you're the magical echo of a long dead philosopher poet and I'm just the poor fuck that found your enchanted orb."

"How do I know I'm an orb?"​

"How do- very funny. Look I need you to give me a sonnet."

"What am I, a magically infused automaton?"​

Jason thought about it for a minute. "Yes. Sonnet please."

A sigh. "Very well. I am processing your request.'​

...

.......

..........

"Ahem.

In Alliria's embrace, the tides doth roll,
A city crowned by waves, a coastal gem,
Where azure waters meet the sandy shoal,
And whispers of the sea are sung like hymn.

Beneath the skyline's reach, the tides align,
Their ebb and flow, a rhythm of the soul,
Each rise and fall, a tale of grand design,
In Alliria's heart, their stories unfold."​

Jason drummed his fingers on the tree stump. "Not really your best work, but it will have to do. Can't you give me something short and pithy?"

"Oh, Alliria, where tides and city meet,
In your embrace, the ocean's song is sweet."​

"Now that's more like it. That I can work with." Jason took up his lute and began tuning, humming each bar beneath his breath. Then he paused and looked at the orb. "You think anyone else has an enchanted object they talk to when they're alone?"

"What?" chortled the poet-orb, "Don't be ridiculous."​

 

[Sylvian Artesto]

"This is quite possibly the dumbest thing you've ever talked me into, Sylvian."

The voice behind him was barely audible over the sound of the collective voices that gathered in the Allirian Harbor. Still, the muttered words were enough to make a grin split the man's lips as he walked towards the Tournament, his face hidden by the red cloth wrapped around his head save for his eyes.

"Don't be silly, this is the dumbest thing I've ever talked you into, no contest. Still, you came with me anyways."

It had been years since he'd been to Alliria, even longer since he'd had the pleasure of feeling the salty harbor air against his face. This damned thing on his head deprived him of even that, but it was necessary, at least until he knew for sure who was going to be here.

After all, this tournament was especially popular with Anirians, his former people, and the ones who'd so cruelly stabbed him in the back. He wasn't in a hurry to reveal to anybody that he wasn't as dead as they thought he was.

"Because we go so far back. But this is the last time."

Sylvian Artesto rolled his eyes, turning to face the thin, pale elf following him. Iroth had been the one to pluck him from the cold grip of death almost twenty years ago, had given him a home when he'd been betrayed and left for dead by his own people.

It was difficult, to see the turmoil behind his old friend's eyes. Because the truth was that while Iroth had given him so much, Sylvian continued to take. Now, Vel Farris was burned, the home they'd shared was nothing but ash and ember. This elf, once considered his enemy, had lost everything for an Anirian.

Looking over his shoulder briefly, Sylvian sagged his shoulders.

"You're right. I can't hide much longer, and I can't keep asking you to suffer for my sake." The former Anirian Guard stepped forward and embraced his old friend, who wrapped his slender arms briefly across his back. "Thank you for everything, my friend. After this final favor, I offer my sincerest of goodbyes."

Iroth broke off and bowed his head, wiry silver hairs falling over his shoulders. "I wish you luck, Sylvian. Give me the signal, and it will be done."

Sylvian waved his hand rather dismissively, turning back towards the crowd and tightening the cloth around his face.

"Hopefully it won't come to that. This might be my first party in a while, but I assure you I haven't lost my tongue."

It was the final words he spoke to his second-family before stepping forth into the Tournament of Tides, into a world of Anirians, Dreadlords, Allirians and Knights.

A world he'd not been a part of for over a decade.

 

[Monroe]

She had lost the small group of Knights of the Order that roped her into viewing the wood chopping event, but none of the competitors had the visually stimulating art of the handsome men that participated in the charity festival held not too long ago at the monastery. Of course, it had been her drunken genius for such an affair, and begrudgingly it had put her at the forefront for greetings and invitations despite every squire and every sworn knowing that Syr Cathmore was grumpy when she was sober.

So losing the rowdy group that adopted her was no terrible thing. Alliria always had an air of life that appealed to the dawnling, and made effort to visit when she could. It was easier to be here than return to the sea, of which haunted her dreams. Here in Alliria, there was always an adventure no matter one would do.

Dressed in dark attire, knives strapped to her person, Monroe was happy to meander through the crowds here for the tournament. Here, she was merely a passing thought as eyes fell on her and quickly moved on. Suppose the sever frown on her face did wonders in repelling unwanted introductions.

 

[Skuld Zajac]

Monroe had buggered off somewhere and left the small group of Knights of the Order behind with her.

Rowdy had been the word she used to describe them for the trip. A description they were readily living up to when Friga was out of earshot. And sometimes not. Thankfully Skuld had found a small event to tie up the attention of her daughter before the end of the wood chopping event brought the rowdy group together to find their next source of entertainment.

"Gather round. Oy! Closer! Get close-Close the fucking circle!" She barked across the group. The heads snapped her direction under her stare and she cleared her throat at the scratchy dryness it had now.

"Rules for this trip." Having to repeat these tried and true tenets from a bygone time hadn't been on her list of things to do. But they were simple rules at least that got most everyone through the Templar life with fewer bastards to care for.

"First off. Do not add to the cities population and do not subtract from it. I know numbers are a bit hard for some of you but don't mess with what's already here, alright?" A few snickers told her most understood and those that didn't would ask since they were apparently missing a joke.

"Second, keep yourself from seeing a healer, the inside of a cage, or being the town criers next announcement. If you do find yourself locked up, establish dominance quickly." She rattled off the last bit before any proper Knights of the Order could debate her as she crossed her arms to finish her speech. "Good luck. And godspeed if you don't beat the news home about your stupidty."

Whether it was the audacity of her announcement, or simply disbelief that made them silent, Skuld slipped away and managed to return to the children's area of the event.

Just in time to spy Friga swat another child with a stick that made her grimace in second-hand pain.

 

[Valborast Valchek]

Casks of wine awaited their assessment by judges unknown, each barrel presented by prospective makers and vendors who stood awaiting the fateful moment for the mystery judges to arrive to their stall. The public were tended to for a nominal fee at the entrance of the event, a small stamp upon the hand marking those who had paid the toll in moneys and allowed to sample. The product of private and industrial effort to produce the best of the best for the thirty year event, sparkling glass were arrayed and awaited the pour of grape. To the winner, there would be acclaim, a seal to be placed upon future bottles distributed, and a justification for the increased price. To those that did not attain such an award, perhaps found new customers that found their wares pleasing.

"Are you judging the wine today, sir?" the ruddy faced fellow said, clasping hands together in a blend of nervousness as his eyes darted from presented pour to the sanguine figure of Syr Valborast Valcheck.

A quick whisk of the glass with swift clutchings. A raise of the liquid to nose and deep curt breaths in.

"Yes," Valborast said dryly.

A gulp from the merchant, a quick twist of hands about themselves in nervousness.

A gulp from the knight as he marked his lips with wine with all slowness.

Seconds passed as Valborast formed the most loquacious dressing down that he could muster, eyes closed as he tilted his head. He looked to the merchant for a flash, enjoying the notes of anticipation within the fellow, and then removed the glass from his lips.

He placed the glass down, nudging it with the back of his hand as to gain as much distance between them as one might afford.

"Well?" the merchant said, his feet raising of their own accord in eagerness.

"Hardly the best, imitative, base and lacking," Valborast said with all the poise required to cut deep.

The merchant's face darkened, a rush of conflict within them, outrage winning as they became animated.

"What? You're not supposed to announce your judgement right away, not until the end, there's a ceremony, scores and such, other judges you have to talk to, you have to discuss the merits of the wine!" the merchant said, and then frowned deep as he became flush with anxieties.

"I just did," Valborast said, brushing his hand across his hair, revealing the stamp in deliberate theatrics.

A pause as realisation thundered.

"You're," the merchant spluttered, leaning arm upon the table that held the glass, "you're not one of the judges, are you?"

Valborast gave a small smile and half turned with heel.

"I am not one of those who will stand on a podium after contemplating who to give a ribbon to, this is true, but I have given my judgement all the same in a fraction of the time," Valborast said, and added, "you should be grateful for such efficiency," Valborast said, adding a smooth and curt, "Good day," and made away.

A spluttering that was becoming familiar sounded from the merchant as Syr Valborast made luxurious movement towards to the next vendor, a smirk twitching at the right of his lip which would be smothered before the next glass be presented.

 

[Perrine Urahil]

It had been some years since she had been to Alliria, but a chance ever greater that she could attend the city's greatest displays during the Tournament of Tides. Of course, it was not on the whim of simply traveling all this way from Vel Anir for the sake of her own holiday, but rather undertaking a task entrusted to her by a noble client of the Healer Dreadlord.

But that meeting set in place was two days from now, and Perri had two days to fill before then.

Alliria's constant trade meant that trinkets, supplies, and specific items were a constant change. The last time she had been here was mere months before being admitted to the Academy, and she had bought nothing but art supplies. There were different pigments of colour made from different far reaches of Arethil, and as a little treat to herself, she would wish to acquire more unique supplies in hopes to get her muse flowing between both her current jobs as acting Healer for the Dreadlords and Proctor at the Academy.

"Did you see the vendor down that way, by the corner? He's selling palettes made from crushed seashells for a fortune." She shook her head, turning to look up at the Dreadlord. "A true artist would paint sea shells and sell that for a fortune."

Perrine grinned, chuckling at the customer that browsed the various leatherbound sketchbooks on display. "You know, there is a city famed for it's arts in Vel Anir that would pay the fortune and not use it."

The lady, who notably had pointed tips at her ears, scoffed at Perrine. "Gods, hope you're not one of them."

"Oh, absolutely not!" Perrine let out a good laugh, "I barely get to paint these days, and unfortunately I like to stick with the basics. It does amuse me to hear the newest trends being peddaled to the masses."

 

[Hruugen]

"Ah, no I won't be competing."

"Yes, they are... No, I would never do such a thing."

"No, competition is not my way... I much rather like the look of these shells. Are they sourced locally?"

"I do not drink. My apologies."

"I really have no interest in competing, thank you all the same."

"What is a "sponsorship deal"?"

It had been a most eventful morning for Hruugen as he made his way through the crowded streets of Alliria. The commotion was a wellspring of energy and life, the like of which he had not known since the Festival. When he spoke to those in attendance he was greeted warmly and with much assumption that he was to compete. Perish the thought.
For him the martial disciplines were of harmony between body and mind, the spectacle never appealed to him. Though the rest of the celebration brought him great joy to observe. There was singing and jugglers and artists and crafters. Musicians played from balconies and rooftops. Teams of folk threw petals and colours of cloth at anyone and anything that passed. He had acquired quite a few during the morning. They made him look markedly more colourful than his typical black garb. It helped him feel like he was fitting in.
Of course along his back he wore his weapons, the twin edges blades of his Temple, covered in cloth and wrapped tight. Though concealed only technically, it did not take any skill to understand a weapon is what lay beneath the wrappings.

There was much to see and do but as usual Hruugen mostly engaged in people watching and was delighted when he saw a group of children at play. Being denied such a thing growing up he took solace and peace from the fact that there were others both here and yet to come who could have childhoods free of worry and care, at least for the most part.
When one, a girl-child not yet in her teens, struck another with a stick hard enough to leave a mark and cause the other child to cry out he lurched forward with an instinct to stop her but he decided against it. At least the suddenness part instead he approached the group of children who were under loose enough supervision and wondered what protocol was to be observed, should he be harsh or calm? Address the child or the carer? There was much to consider.

Skuld Zajac

 

[Jason Chronicles]

A flash of golden hair caught his eye in the crowd below.

Jason sat up and leaned over the railing of the terrace.

"Who is that?"

"Jason, I am just a sorcerer's echo," said the orb, chiding, "How would I know?"
​

"I have to know her name."

The orb gave a long suffering sigh, which was weird because it was an orb.

"I have to!"

Jason grabbed his lute, stuffed the orb in a satchel that he flung over his shoulder, then leaped off the terrace, kicked off a support pillar, and landed with a flourish in the street. A few passers by noticed his acrobatics and broke into applause.

"Thank you, thank you," Jason Chronicles bowed, "No time for an encore, excuse me."

He sprinted until he stood a few paces away from the maiden. A small frown furrowed his brow as he held up his lute and plucked a note. Jason closed his eyes and let the music flow. The chords sang, then his voice joined them.

"As I walk Alliria, Alliria fair
I spied a maiden with long golden hair
Her beauty bewitching, dreams of romancing
A name, what be thy name, so entrancing

Is she a Rose, in bloom so fine,
Or Lily white in her grace divine?
Perhaps a Daisy, in fields she blooms,
Or Golden Heather, where wild beauty ilhumes"

As he strummed and sang, he stepped toward her. Around them, the onlookers not too busy to hurry on their way started to form a circle.

Perrine Urahil

 

[Marta Martigan]

Gulls cried overhead, and salt spray hung thick in the air as the large barges that made the Tides' stage rocked easy underfoot. A loud thump smacked hard against the sunbaked wood of the worn table.

Cheers erupted from the crowd that had gathered around. Coins clattered and clinked as bets exchanged hands, and Marta Martigan sat ginning with her arm clamped down to the table in triumph.

"Mad Marta wins!" the impromptu announcer cried out.

Another wave of cheers as the loser of the contest yelped and cursed and sucked air between his teeth.

Marta gave one last squeeze to the bones between her grip, and let them go with a finality. Stood, grabbed up a drink from the nearest onlooker, who gawked in disbelief as ale sloshed from the cup and onto his feet, and Marta downed it with a gulp-gulp-gulp. Pulled it away from her lips with proud push of breath, and wiped the froth from her lips before she shoved the flagon back against the man's chest.

"Whalep," she said through grinned teeth. "Ain't that just," she stopped. Eyes narrowed and lips pursed. She belched a burp, and pound a fist against her chest. Right at the center. Laughed to herself and walked away.

"H-hey," the victim of her drink-by said as he stared down at his empty cup.

The glitter of a coin sailed through the air, and landed there at the bottom of his cup with a clatter and a ring. Marta shot him a wink from over her shoulder and moved on with a roll of her arm.

A different man with proud mustache fell into place beside her. A long stemmed pipe hung from his lips as he puffed at it. "Well, Marta," he said easily as his whiskers bounced with each step. "Not a bad haul for today," he pulled from 'neath his linen tabard a hefty pouch. Gave it a little shake that had the coins inside shack-a-shack against the rough spun cloth. Tossed it her way.

She caught it easy. Smiled as she weighed it in her hands. "Coppers?"

A drag from his pipe. "A few,"

"Heh, you're a suspenseful bastard, you know that, Adelard?"

Something like a smile there beneath the proud spread of the man's whiskers. "Is that sho?" he said before taking another drag from his pipe.

Marta opened the bag. Just wide enough to see the coins there-in glitter and gleam bright with all the promise Allirian currency carried. "Fuck yeah it is," she said. Pulled the strings tight, and tucked the winnings 'neath her own tunic.

"Hear a band of the Valen Knights have made it out,"

A click of teeth. "Those tree huggers don't know a thing about-"

"Monroe among them,"

A look of surprise. Settled to wicked grin. "Meanroe, huh?" she laughed. Nod. "Well shit, Addie, why didn't you say so?"

Adelard took a drag from his pipe. Smirked beneath his mustache.

 

[Vilen Blackhart]

The trinkets on display did not appeal much to Vilen; it was difficult to get excited about beaded bracelets and the like when he knew the girls who wove them, and it was the same old designs at every other vendor. Perils of being a local.

So instead, he was in the habit of tracking down the out-of-towners that stood out from the crowd. Folks with a sparkle in their eye, and the jingle of coins at their hips.

Vilen was about to bump into one such girl, when some young buck with a lute beat him to it. All of a sudden, there was music and singing, and a lot of eyes looking their way.

Now, any self-respecting pickpocket would recognize a free distraction when it walked right up to them. Vilen ought to peel away and pick another target while the crowd was busy re-arranging themselves around the bard. But there was something about that man's verse that riled him up. Ending the line on ilhumes?! That wasn't even a word, he was pretty sure.

There were a lot of other rules the bard was breaking, like getting too chummy with the subject of a song without the proper back-and-forth first. Not that Vilen was going to do much better on that front.

Coming to stand beside the tall lady, Vilen pushed his shoulder forward and waved a hand wide at the man with the lute, a clear gesture not to step any closer. Nevermind what the little thief's other hand was doing.

"Bards like that only sing for coin or for clout," he said, red eyes glaring at the bard in question. "Don't be feeling the need to give him either one, miss."

Perrine Urahil Jason Chronicles

 

[Perrine Urahil]

Song and instrument reached her ears, but Perrine paid no attention until the elven lady tapped her shoulder and pointed.

Her face visibly fell, dreading such attentions being put upon her. "Oh Kress," She groaned, as if she had the ear of the god.

But a gallant being came to her defense, a few loose coppers in her pocket now lightened from her person as her periwinkle eyes flicked between hero and bard. "Honestly, I am flattered, but I just wanted a quiet day." Perrine's smile was sheepish, now fiddling with her coin purse that held the higher valued coins she seemed to like using first, instead of ridding herself of the coppers.

"I am sure a tavern would accommodate your talents, sir, perhaps even coin from a crowd?"

Jason Chronicles Vilen Blackhart

 

[Jason Chronicles]

Somehow, the notes he sang and the chords he plucked still came out silvered and melodic. As if he just *knew* how it should sound.

Behind the blonde woman, a horned stranger shifted. Green eyes, witness to so many happenings on the Allirian streets growing up, caught the adroit movements and positioning of a cutpurse. A red brow arched, followed by an impressed smile. He winked at Vilen Blackhart.

Jason faced quite the conundrum.

On the one hand, an urchin like him couldn’t help but appreciate the thief’s timing. And he did not even dream of crying out for guards, or stop thief - these things just were not done to a fellow traveler of the twisted alleys. This woman was clearly rich and could afford the loss of some coin.

On the other hand… this woman… And those eyes….

The strumming stopped abruptly.

A smattering of applause from the small crowd.

“Oy you Jason Chronicles?”

“Thank you thank you, ‘tis I. Playing at the Gilded Lily when the bells strike eight!”

The small crowd started to disperse.

Jason ignored Vilen’s gesture and approached the blonde woman.

“The only payment I desire is the honor of your name, my lady,” he said, his tone quite serious.

 

[Vilen Blackhart]

The satisfying clink of coin, barely heard above the lapping waves, the shift of fabric that could've been the wind as one woman's pocket got a little lighter, and Vilen's got a little heavier. From the weight of it he could tell it was only a handful of coppers, barely enough to buy a single meal.

Keen eyes saw the bigger prize, a fat purse just asking to be cut. And the bard was giving Vilen another opening... was he hoping for a share afterwards?

Unfortunately, Vilen was both a scoundrel and a knight. His noble nature won out. He forgot about the purse. Instead, he went to intercept the bard, making sure to put his slight self fully between the woman and her admirer.

Vilen was used to being ignored. He was short, after all, and his features hard to place. To make up for this, he had learned how to be obnoxious.

"Oh, you want my name? I'm flattered," Vilen said, hips swaying once and tail swishing lightly. He grabbed onto the other man's hand wirh both of his, shaking it raucously. "It's Vilen Blackhart. 'Fraid I'm not much of a flower, though."

Jason Chronicles Perrine Urahil

 

[Olvir]

Monroe

As he walked Ollie found himself musing on the words of his blade.

Ever since his trip to Tyr the sword had been far more open with him, though that had only had the effect of revealing how little it knew of its own past. It seemed that although sometimes it remembered, the blade had largely forgotten most piece of its life. How or why was something neither of them knew, though the Smith they had found in the black city had spoken of a powerful enchantment that had wracked the blade at one point.

Not that Ollie had really any idea what that meant.

Though his best friend was a Dreadlord and he had more than a few magically inclined acquaintances none of them had exactly been helpful with the sword. Mostly because every time he asked them the damned thing somehow changed itself to appear like it was not magic. A frustrating tactic that he didn't quite understand

There were so many questions which still lay within his mind, and in truth he was starting to doubt he would ever find an answer. It was frustrating, and as he walked Ollie found himself so lost in thought that he did not even notice the approaching Knight.

His eyes half glazed over as his shoulder fully slammed into hers, the momentum sending him spinning as he whirled around and immediately began to apologize. ”Oh, shit!”

The Noble swore quickly before adding.

”I am so sorry.” He continued. ”Wasn't at all watching where I was walking.”

Ollie offered, using his free hand to scratch at the back of his head with a weak smile to the Knight.

 

[Monroe]

The person that had bumped into her didn't so much as knock her, the dawnling knight quick to steady herself on her feet, and turn to scowl at the young man. She noted his accent, Anirian, but with quick assessment knew him to not be part of the famed Dreadlords. He had a sword, of course, but Monroe scrunched her nose as brought her gaze to sear into the Anirian's.

"Best be careful then. Alliria is a lovely place, but it also is unforgiving to those not aware of their surroundings." Strangers, it was easier to simply speak with a sharp tongue than to devastate them with scathing words, of which those in the Order were familiar with if they were to catch her at a bad moment. "The Tournament attracts a whole array of beings from all walks of life." So a momentary kindness could be afforded to the Anirian, especially with no Knights that knew of her could witness her 'pleasantry'.

It was a common tactic in these parts that if someone was to bump into you, you were an item less than you had been moments before. Monroe had seen him a distance away and already knew he was no pickpocket.

Olvir

 

[Perrine Urahil]

Perrine let out a soft snort, entertained by the smaller being coming to her aid. His name was spoken in place of her own, a name not at all the payment sought by the bard. For that, she was thankful for the cheek of Vilen.

The Healer Dreadlord fastened the coin pouch to her wrist, clutching it in hand as her arms moved to cross. "You know, flowers are too easy to inspire song or poem. Perhaps I would like to hear a challenging song, one about..."

Pale eyes drift over the gathering crowd, hoping inspiration would struck her. She saw a young couple taking advantage of the surplus of visitors to Alliria by balancing the smaller woman on one hand, as she was lifted into the air and made to hold a position that looked difficult on anyone else.

She saw an older woman browsing some wares, a falcon perched atop her head as if her companion were a fashionable head piece...

Finally, her lips began to move as her eyes watched a man grunt and grumble as he brought out a crate and emptied it into a wagon. "The work that man over there does. Rotten vegetables, no doubt going to feed pigs." This man would be going to homes and restaurants to collect food scraps, and then take the afwul smell of a wagon back to his home.

Jason Chronicles Vilen Blackhart

 

[Olvir]

Ollie chuckled, letting his hand drop. ”Yeah, a few people have tried to teach me that lesson.”

Unlike most Anirian nobles, Olvir had not grown up at home. After his sister had joined the Anirian Navy and staked her place there, his father had been insistent on ‘not losing another child to the rabble’ and he had been quickly whisked away. First to Dornoch, and then later to Alliria.

Because of that, he knew exactly what Monroe was talking about.

This was the first time he'd attended the Tournament of Tides, but it was most certainly not his first time wandering through Alliria half lost in thought. The first time had nearly seen him robbed, the second time had definitely seen him robbed. It was a half a mark of his privilege that he'd failed to learn the lesson, and half a show of just how much he could get trapped in his own thoughts.

Shaking his head, the Nobles friendly nature kicked into gear.

”Would you let me buy you a drink in apology?” He asked. ”The melee doesn't start for another hour, and half the fun in these tournaments is making new friends.”

He said with a grin.

Monroe

 

[Nacht]

In the Past

It was an odd way that Nacht found his portal key. He was walking around the forest and came upon a wrecked merchant cart, corpse still fresh inside the vehicle, dead beasts of burden right alongside it. They had tried to take a shortcut through the wilds and underestimated the less than friendly denizens of beneath the Eldyr Tree. Such a sight reminded him of his first day testing himself against the wild, where he had failed so miserably.

Gathering what shadow he could from the shade under trees, he created a deer to dig an impromptu grave, then pranced over to the cart and saw a name in his peripheral vision: Alliria. The word was on the many boxes inside, something that piqued the squire's curiosity. I've read about it. Some call Alliria the biggest city in the world, which is awesome. Even so, every map I've ever seen places it ages from The Spine, even by horse drawn carriage. Why would a merchant trying to get there all the way out here?

Just then, a shiny object fell from the pockets of the recently deceased that looked a lot like the things he had read about that helped the user activate portal stones. Suddenly, everything became clear, how the merchant had intended to sell his stock. He gasped, pocketing the item and simultaneously apologizing for grave robbing. After leaving the scene, he took a look at his new treasure and the cogs began to move. “Wow, no other squire I know has one of these,” he mumbled excitedly.

---

Day of the Tournament of Tides

Ah, Alliria. He was definitely not supposed to be here, and knew it too, but Nacht convinced himself that as long as he was careful there probably wasn’t too much trouble available to get into. All throughout the monastery amongst some of the more chatty knights was talk of a rather well-known celebration called the Tournament of Tides that happened once every thirty years. When Nacht took the time to think about that, it meant he would see his next one when he was FORTY SEVEN. If it took so long to occur and only lasted a while, it seemed best to take a chance and start visiting early.

Quickly finding his way through the shockingly empty (for a metropolis) streets and into a store, he would try to find the clerk as quickly as possible. “Where is the Tournament of Tides?” He asked, question returned with a look of incredulity. “You actually don’t kn-…Ah, you’re a tourist.” they said, shaking their head in understanding. “Well, given that the name is the Tournament of Tides, it’s-“ Just then, everything clicked and Nacht rushed out of the store. In Nachtlike poise, he would duck his head back in and say that “It’s by the docks! Thank you!” before dipping out of sight.

Finally after a carriage ride he arrived to the harbor. Upon observation, it quickly became obvious exactly where most of the people in the city had dallied off to. “Hahaha! This is amazing!” He said excitedly, looking all around. Quickly dashing into the heart of the festivities, he would find food and drink galore but also the most popular of the events, the fighting bit. It appeared there was a tournament, one for good ol’ especially confident and also violent adults that seemed to have not begun just yet.

He momentarily debated hopping into the adult part with his shadow magic, but that felt a bit cheap. Besides, it wouldn’t be his full capacity with how bright it was. Instead, a child in the kid section caught his eye and truly made for a sight. Easily the most dominant in the area despite being younger than some of the others around, Nacht couldn’t help but sigh as they slapped around yet another child foolish enough to approach. As of now, they were getting fun from beating down their lessers, it appeared, and that was not a good habit to get into, at least by Nacht's estimation.

Hopping in the (figurative) ring himself and grabbing a stick, he would ignore the disdainful looks around him as he neared Friga. “What say you attack me, warrior princess?!” He exclaimed grandly, pointing the stick with an apt amount of pizzazz. He of course did not plan to fight back, only defend, but there was no reason not to include a bit of theatrics anyway.

Skuld Zajac

 

[Jason Chronicles]

Up down, up down, the thief pumped Jason’s hand. The bard responded with a lopsided grin and, when he finally got his hand back, tousled the shorter fellow’s hair.

“Love to meet a fan, Vilem. Lute signings are at ten bells though. I was actually trying to talk to the beautiful lady there, but I’ll see you at the Lily?”

To the madame whose very presence graced the cobblestones she deigned to tread, he said, “I will sing of rotted vegetables, sewers, the loo. I’ll sing of anything and everything, so long as it please you. All I ask…”

Then he paused and shook his head, getting to a knee.

“Nay, all I beg, is to know thy name, goddess.”

 

[Monroe]

"The melee doesn't start for another hour, and half the fun in these tournaments is making new friends."

Monroe could not stop the scrunching of her face at such a suggestion of making friends, but anyone that knew the Knight Sworn would know she was not one to turn away a drink. Of course, the last time she took a drink with someone on an occasion, she had befriended them somewhat, but she did not need more than two tankards of ale for such a feat.

This young Anirian reminded her of Syr Kerraelas, the young shadow wielding dusker that always put her best foot forward... if she wasn't planning to play some pranks. Was the Anirian a tricky one like Saskia?

Monroe lifted a brow, pretending to size up his offer for a drink at her expense, before shrugging nonchalantly. "Well, if you're offering."

 

[Perrine Urahil]

"Oh!" Perrine took a step back, bumping into the market stall table she had been browsing moments before being interrupted by the bard. Even as he got to one knee, panic came to her features and left the Urahil woman perplexed at such a gesture.

"Are you daft, bard? You don't recognise her? Why that is the daughter of that merchant... you know... um, her name is..." The elven lady beside Perrine scrambled for a name, until it hit her, and she feigned recognising Perrine. "Juniper! Juniper... Rose..." she finished with a grimace.

"Could you not have thought of a less fanciful name?" Perrine asked sheepishly of the woman.

"What? You're so beautiful, it distracted me and he spoke of flowers!"

The Dreadlord turned to regard the kneeling bard with a nervous smile. "I have many names, bard." If one was to count the different titles she held in Vel Anir. "But perhaps you will learn of it when my friend Vilen Blackhart and I come to see you play at the... Lily..." The elven woman failed to come to the Dreadlord's aide, and by calling upon the other hero, perhaps they would prove more successful.

 

[Marta Martigan]

An arm looped about Monroe's neck, with all the grace of a python, bout ready to squeeze its pray.

"Aye, if you're offering," a short haired, wide grinning, Marta asked. "In the spirit of the tournament, of course," she winked at the Anirian.



Adelard stood to the side, and took a puff from his pipe.

---

Monroe Olvir

 

[Sylvian Artesto]

So far, his effort to look inconspicuous had worked better than he imagined. Even as he reached the harbor and immersed himself in the bustling crowd of spectators and competitors alike, few seemed to pay any mind to the strange man wearing a rose-colored cloth over his face.

Why should they? He wasn't like them. Not anymore. There had been a time when he would have had a place amongst these people, when his own accolades could be stacked against their own.

That was a long time ago. That story had long since ended. The Sylvian Artesto who would have reveled in competition like this had died, almost twenty years ago. Today he was but a vagabond, a spirit of the past who only now dared to peek beyond the veil he was supposed to have vanished behind at the end of Anirian blades.

Something caught his attention, through the sea of talking heads around him. There was a commotion as two men clashed swords in the center of a makeshift ring formed by old barroom tables. The metallic clang of steel on steel, the whoop of the crowd with every near miss, even the whistle of blades slicing through the thick, salty air... It all brought a warmth to his gut he'd been absent of to the point of unfamiliarity.

Of course, this performance was rehearsed. It was obvious from the way they were fighting. More than likely this was a sideshow act rather than anything sanctioned by the tournaments. Still, he ached to be there, to feel the rush of blood through his veins as he had in his youth.

A vendor passed behind him, carrying a crate full of bottled mead in his arms and crying out with the voice of a caller to those around who may be parched of tongue and dry of throat. Artesto looked over his shoulder, discreetly raising a finger. "One, please."

Flashing a bright grin, the vendor retrieved a bottle and held it out to Sylvian. "You got it, stranger! New to Alliria? You don't look like you're from 'round here, if you don't mind me saying."

From beneath the cloth on his face, Sylvian wore a wry smile as he took the bottle, dropping a few coins into the vendor's outstretched hand. "Oh, yes. I'm from far away. This is worlds apart from what I'm used to..." The vendor pocketed the money and reached out to pat Sylvian's shoulder, winking to the strange man. "Yeah? It can be scary, such a big place..."

Artesto nodded sagely, reaching up to slowly unwrap the cloth from his head, letting the rose garment fall to his shoulders and revealing his face to the thankfully few onlookers he'd received. "You tell no lies, friend. Feels akin to swimming with sharks, this does." Popping open the bottle, he brings the neck to his mouth and takes a long swig, flicking another coin the Vendor's way. "Have one for yourself. Cheers."

"Hey, thanks! What'd you say your name was, stranger?"

By the time he'd pocketed the extra money and grabbed a drink, Sylvian had turned his back and began to walk away. "I didn't."

It wasn't out of rudeness that he'd so abruptly ended the conversation, but caution. His eyes had found a familiar marking adorning the clothing of a young, bright-haired woman conversing with a scar-faced gentleman. It was a marking he wanted little to do with, but it did confirm to him one thing.

They were here, in some capacity.

 

[Vilen Blackhart]

"Hey now, watch the horns," Vilen complained as he got a good scruffing from the stranger. He ducked low to get out of it, clawed hands smoothing down the strands of hair that had been dislodged. And so Vilen was, if only momentarily, disarmed.

By the time he had recovered, the elven lady was halfway through her lie. That story was dropped quickly, and the younger woman next to the elf instead resorted to calling Vilen a friend.

He couldn't help himself. Vilen snorted out a laugh.

In the city of Alliria, a word like friend didn't mean jack. The hawker in the market, the guard at the gate, the tax collector and the baker were all friends, and given the chance they'd all scrape the fat off your bones for a few more mouthfuls.

"That's right, friend, you wanted a quiet day at the market." Vilen responded with a serrated smile. "The tournament is long and the excitements many. Let's not waste time looking at just the one act." He made a point to turn all the way around, putting his back to the bard. "Onto the next row of shops, then?"