Knights of Anathaeum Well, Hello Boys...

[Monroe]

Welcome to the First Annual Himbo Contest for the Knights of Anathaeum!





A handwritten flier had been hung up on the walls in various places over the
Monastery, its contents simple and intriguing, with a hastily written ‘Speak to Syr Kerraelas to sign up and receive all details!

P.S. This is going to a good cause!
To support Arethil Women’s History Month, all proceeds and donations will be given to the
Obanese Womens’ Association!’


__________________


OOC INFO
The beginning of each round will be started by doonaday, announcing and detailing what will happen in each event for you, the participant, to write. Any questions concerning the events or the contest as a whole, please reach out to Tipsy or doon!

If you do not wish to participate/write a specific event, but wish to still roll, please chat to us and we can sort something out so you’re still in the game!

And please keep each round to ONE post and
with a new round posted every Wednesday 5PM AEDT (GMT+11)


IC INFO
○ No Magic!
Provided is an enchanted cuff that alerts all if magic is being used! This can and will affect your score!

○ Everyone Is A Himbo!
Whether your character is considered a Himbo or not, do not let that deter you from joining! This is a fun loosey goosey thread, meant to promote some ridiculousness so, go off alpha queens!


​

ROUND​	EVENT​
1​	Lumberjack Event​
2​	Hammer Toss​
3​	Loaded Carry Exercise​
4​	Wrestling ​
5​	Tug-o-war​
6​	Costume Segment​
7​	Smolder Off​
8​	Bonus Round​
Prizes​	Concluding Events​

POINT STRUCTURE:

○ The beginning of each round, you must roll a 1d20 and have it stated in your post.

○ The Panel will roll, with the modifier applied to give the final score.

○ Each new round announcement will also have the current scores listed.



​

ROLL​	MODIFIER​
1​	-5​
2, 3​	-4​
4, 5​	-3​
6, 7​	-2​
8. 9​	-1​
10, 11​	0​
12. 13​	+1​
14, 15​	+2​
16, 17​	+3​
18, 19​	+4​
20​	+5​

So get your handsome lads ready to be admired — by Petra and Saskia — and judged — by Monroe — for the ultimate prizes you can win!

Prizes will be posted before the Bonus Round!
​

 

[Petra Darthinian]

The grounds of the Monastery had been a hectic rush of preparation this whole week. It was all hands-on deck to help set up this event for a weekend of ridiculous displays of all things manly and anything they could do for a good show of muscles—and preferably while covered in mud and sweat if they were lucky.

But Muiron kept that last bit to herself as she took in entry forms from the men waiting in line at her steward's table, passing them an enchanted bracelet to wear for the entire competition and a numbered armband unique to them.

She was acting as one of the event secretaries on behalf of the Obanese Women's Foundation, who were generously helping to sponsor this event. Prizes included.

The event had taken over the open training fields of the Astenvale Monestary. Plenty of room to accommodate the rows of pop-up tents that came in every color and size. Merchandise and food vendors vying for the attention of the crowds of people who had traveled all over for this strange new festival. All while roaming troupes of bards regaled the populace with songs, poems, and tales of heroism amongst the brawniest of the Knights.

A crisp spring breeze almost wiped her piles of entry forms from her table, but the group of himbos still waiting to sign up were quick to fall upon her scattered papers and return them to their rightful place. Their eager attentions making Muiron blush and clear her throat before she could address the next man in line who stepped up to pay his fees.

---

Plenty of people were staring curiously at Norvyk as they passed him. He was lounging against the side of one of the main stages that they had placed around the festival to hold events. Petra leaned against him casually, nursing a tankard of ale with a wicked grin that she was too excited to even try and temper. Bless Syr Monroe for her debauchery and follow-through in hosting such a festival in the first place. Because how else could they be enjoying such a view as they were now?
​

The elf laughed, swallowing another cold sip of beer. Her eyes trained on a shirtless and ripped Syr Hyntír posing on a table for a crowd of admirers and wolf whistlers. Petra had to admit, the man cut a burly and ab-burdened figure. The way the sunlight glistened off his biceps. Had the man... actually slathered himself in oil?

"Are you two seeing this!?" She looked to Syr Saskia and Monroe next to her with a snort. They had been mingling around the stage in preparation for the bell to ring and signal the participants to gather for the first event to begin.

In the meantime, the three women Knights had been drinking and chatting about all the man-flesh they were going to be purveying over the festival. Making bets between them on who would sign-up and who would choose to be only an onlooker. It even seemed they had shared opinions about who most they were excited to see in the mud wrestling pit.

But all good himb—er, things come to those who wait.

 

[Lorinna Astarel]

Now this was better than the carriage washing day. Lorinna had a beer in one hand a roasted thigh on the bone in the other and she stood half a head above the rest of the women in the crowd.

She gave a cheer with the rest of the small crowd as Syr Hyntír stepped out.

"Oh...oh."

Her eyes went a little wide at the first flex. Lorinna could go toe to toe with any of their swordsmen, but she didn't have muscle definition like that. Did she even have all those muscles underneath?

 

[Byanka Valkas]

Byanka rarely drank alcohol of any sort. It only made her headaches worse and she liked control of her mind and body thank you very much. She also was not one for brazen displays of strength and power; she was a bit too reserved and self-conscious for that.

So why had she even shown up?

To watch, of course.

Also, the Monastery was completely overrun with people for the festival and she couldn't hope to get a moment of peace so she figured she might as well socialize.

She watched by the stage, mostly untouched tankard of beer in hand, as Syr Hyntir flexed his considerable muscles. A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. Perhaps what amused her even more were the shrieks from wide-eyed, red-face women. It was fitting, really, that for Arethil Women's History Month, loads of men were showing off for crowds of happy women.

 

[Gunner Valenntyne]

The little blonde lady had been right; this did look like good fun!

Gunner had been woefully bored of the whole 'Bounty Hunting' thing he'd picked up after running away from home. Chasing down goobers for money sounded like a good time, but they usually tried to stab him, and they weren't very personable on the ride back to the people who hired him. That, and he wasn't getting paid very much. How was he supposed to eat well and sleep in a warm bed every night on such a restrictive salary?

Sometimes, he missed the Vanguard barracks in Valenntenia. He hated being a soldier, but at least they gave him free room and board!

Somebody in a neighboring village had told him something interesting, though! Apparently, there was some big Monastery around the mountain range where you could stay as long as you liked, so long as you were nice and didn't beat folk up. Well, Valenntyne certainly thought he was friendly! He only ever roughed people up if they were wanted!

Just follow the big tree they'd told him. Helpful, as he was rubbish with directions! That tree was a biggun, and he could see it all the way from the next town over! The mountainous terrain was rough on his poor Ballacea, and the girl was shivering by the time she trotted him to the massive Monastery situated a short trip away from the big tree, still looming in the distance.

No sooner had he found the place than some cute little blonde lady had spotted and greeted him. Gunner tried to ask about getting a room, but instead, she gave him a little sheet of parchment and told him to show up here, some kind of sporting competition, she'd said. Sounded like fun to him!

He'd gotten a shiny bracelet and an armband with the number 37 printed on the side. Now, he wandered about the grounds, waving happily at the people who seemed to be staring at him. Should he be dressed up for this? He'd tried to ask the girl... Saskia, he thought her name was, if there was a dress code, but she'd laughed and shaken her head.

There was one fellow already shirtless, made the loose red shirt barely hanging onto his shoulders feel almost constrictive by comparison! Oh well, for now, he lowered to sit in the grass, crossing his legs as he pulled a chunk of wood out from his shirt and began whittling away at it with a paring knife. Surely, something would happen soon!

 

[Bebin Theros]

It was for a good cause.

At least, that is what Syr Theros had told himself as he had prepared to partake in the... Himbolympics,

It did not hurt any that he was never shy about, friendly competition. And upon seeing Syr Hyntir strike his dynamic poses, Bebin smirked. "Ever the entertainer," the Pursuant grumbled with a laugh. His dark whiskers upturned with a sharp appreciation.

He stood ready. His broad frame framed by thick arms, twisted and crossed about his chest, his own bulk hidden beheind a cream colored shirt, made of linen, practically busting at the seams and showing a bouquet dark curls betwixt the cleft of meat.

 

[Faramund]

It's for a good cause, Faramund reminded himself as he collected his bracelet and armband from the secretaries. A good cause. The very best, no doubt. Smiling at the secretary -he forgot her name-, Faramund wandered away into the bustling crowds surrounding the stage and stalls, his disquiet clear in the way he toyed with his armband.

The damn thing was far too snug for his liking, stretched taut by the curl of one beefy bicep.

What name had the secretary jotted down again? Faramond? Faramend? One of the two.

'Some slick sonuvabitch stole my name!' He told Bebin, appearing from behind the dusker to stare fixatedly at the gathering throngs. 'Nice shirt, by the way! Really shows off your figure!' He smirked, took a second to examine his own. 'Selucan?'

Bebin Theros

 

[Finn Glider]

Finn was a wandered, always had been always would be. It came with the whole vampire hunting deal, or monster in general he supposed. Whatever, he wasn't in it for the monster glory, he was in it for the vast amounts of women he encountered. So, when he heard of this little event, well, a good-looking lad like himself just couldn't resist.

As he approached the booth for his armbands, his lips bit into the juicy apple he had purchased a few stalls down. So juicy, that upon said bite, it dribbled down his chin and down his already bared chest. He winked at the woman helping secure the bands, though she seemed oblivious to his flirts.

Moving on to the arena, he watched as one man began flexing and bragging in the center, and he quirked an eyebrow. He himself was a showman, but Finn was worried the man would split his pants with all that grunting and groaning.

 

[Leofsige Burtone]

Leo was a mix of awe and apprehension.

This was certainly... something. A festival for the good of others? He had signed up without hesitation but now that the excitement was meeting reality. He couldn't help but wonder exactly how this was benefitting anyone. Granted there were certainly a bunch of stalls open for business. That meant goods were coming and going. That was always a good sign no matter where you went truth be told.

A stall with dusty ware seldom brought to fortune bear. A stupid little thing his father had made up when he'd had to find a larger town for pricier goods.

Leo let his eyes wander over the gathered bodies around him. Most seemed to be taking part that didn't have a drink in their hand. And it was too late now to back out without looking like a spoil sport. Uncertain if his shirt should come off now or later, he pulled the half-sleeves back to receive his armbands. The cord closing the front was left undone, and the sleeves of the cream colored shirt were rolled up a little, though not nearly enough it seemed as he fussed with them.

There were people to do healing around here somewhere if something happened. At least he hoped there were, watching the bands be snapped on as he thanked the secretaries with a nod before heading into the arena.

Someone already displaying their abilities as Leo laughed at the sight. If nothing else, it would be a lively day.

 

[Reynald]

It had sounded fun. A bunch of games for a good cause? There wasn't any harm in that, and anyway it would be nice to have a bit of friendly competition. Wouldn't it?

The reality of it was a bit more intimidating. He hadn't been expecting so many burly knights to be so impressive, so shirtless. Though Reynald had his height on his side, he was not quite as muscle bound as some of the others who were busy putting themselves on display. Still he was a sturdy man, and while he did not exactly have abs, his strength was apparent.

Leaving his shirt on - at least for the time being - Reynald rolled up his sleeves to expose his shapely forearms before making his way over to the arena.

 

[Nacht]

The noises of celebration and bawdy songs faded as Nacht had a rather interesting conversation with himself. "What is...a himbo?" he wondered, curious as to if it was perhaps an acronym. Observing the opening ceremonies, he would wait in line to register and watch as Syr Hyntir demonstrated the product of his undoubtedly hard years of training. Oh, and maybe some good genetics as well, but in Arethil it seemed pretty much everyone had those. From what he knew about Hyntir, he tried to define himbo. "People say he's nice and strong, but not the sharpest tool in the shed." Nacht thought. "Ah, so a himbo is a nice, incredibly muscular, less than genius man!" he said, convinced he had figured it out. "Well, i'm two of those things, at least. Not the strong part." he muttered.

Looking out over the rest of the displays, he figured to the people that actually thought they had a chance to win this, it was rather intimidating. Whether it made him sound like a person that lost often or not, hopefully if his participation did not convince anyone of the strength of his body, it convinced them of the strength of his character. He was closer to the line now, but decided his first act would not be jumping on a table after he had been admitted. There was simply no point in taking so seriously an event meant to be fun and entertaining. In fact, that was why he had entered in the first place. Yes, perhaps it was a bit intimidating, but Nacht was never quite the type to be susceptible to "emasculation", or whatever.

Everyone had worked hard on their bodies in order to continue working as a knight or squire, and there was frankly no reason to be jealous of another person's figure and embarrassed by your own. If that was the worst thing that you could think of, you simply hadn't been a knight or squire for long enough and probably grew up in a happy household. Looking all around and breathing in a sigh at the smell of food and the shouts of sellers hawking their wares, he would just pause to take this all in. The event had chosen a particularly funny place to set up, that being the training grounds. The training grounds were usually a place of grueling hardship, so it was undeniably impressive how they had managed to make dusty ground into a place so full of life.

Nacht caught a glimpse through his peripheral vision of Noryvk, Petra's dragon. So she was here? Neat. He hadn't seen many faces he knew thus far. As he considered this, he also guessed who might be participating alongside himself and...evidently, Syr Hyntir. Ooh, perhaps Faramund. Nacht was not one who would say he "swung that way", as it was, but the squire was curious. The man was already statuesque within the confines of his garb, so what would he look like without anything on his top half? NO, no, not the time, he managed to convince himself, breaking away from the image. Nacht cringed a bit as he neared Hyntir's table, where he was posing for his ever growing population of fans, not because he had just noticed that the man was shiny, perhaps covered in oil, but because of the whistling.

After escaping the earsplitting locale he had decided to call "Shiny Buff Guy Land", referring to the group of tables as a whole, Petra caught his attention again, as did the two standing nearby her. Why was she on the stage? Suddenly, it clicked. They were probably judging the whole thing. He momentarily saddened upon seeing that Monroe, decidedly not entirely inebriated from where he was standing, or so he thought, and Saskia talked with the Dragoon. Neither of them had taken a quick liking to him at Dunhold, and that was fine, you can't please everyone after all, but what if that bias affected their commentary. That would be slightly embarrassing if only for the sheer volume of spectators. Still, he couldn't say he was surprised, for that was how meeting him tended to go, he had observed. Roki and Aarno had quickly grown accustomed to his enthusiastic nature and they became fast friends in both situations, but it seemed as though the female knights had not.

Well, whatever. All that was left was to wait for the ceremonies to begin in full.

 

[Aarno]

Despite the tempting nature of the games, all in good fun and for a cause no less, there was no taking part for him. He’d decided that early, much too drawn to the fenceside instead of the field, the prospect of appreciating the myriad of attractions way outweighing the thrill of participation.

And what attractions they were. With the first task drawing nigh the air was abuzz with both excitement and tension, though the latter was equally upon the throng as the individual participants. Busting at the seams. He had to make an effort not to stare, even if it was probably against the spirit of the event not to. Had they sabotaged the shirts or had he just woken up different to this day, somehow coerced by the premise to notice every defined outline of a muscle.

Gorgeous bastards. Positively huffing, he held tighter onto the little bundle of cloth he’d stashed a bag of peanuts and three squares of carrot cake in, all freshly purchased from the stalls for himself and his company. He trailed the decorated fence about the training grounds for a moment, until happening upon where Syr Lóthlindor yet remained, reserving a spot. And next to her, perched on the fence beneath the shadow of a parasol, was a large frog.

Master Penwillow. The man wasn’t a big chat on the best of days and even less so now, already hard at work. With that portable drawing board suspended off the neck, quill recording things both observed and imagined in perfectly coordinated lines. Sneaking in a glance past the master artist’s shoulder, Aarno couldn’t but conclude that whatever was being drawn out was rather—

Embellished? He was quite positive neither Syr Theros’ chest nor Syr Faramund’s biceps were that big. Or were they? Squinting at the distance for good measure, he managed only to find himself painfully unsure.

Tearing his attention away, he flashed a disoriented smile at Farren and brought the bundle in his hand to the fore.

“ Want some cake? “

Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Monroe]

Monroe was glad that beer existed in this world if she had to sit through this thoroughfare of burly men and vivid imagery, even if the same blessed elixir was what started this whole mess of an event in the first place. She simply needed to learn not to take any suggestion seriously when too far gone in her drink.

Especially, the likes of Syr Hyntír. The dawnling rolled her eyes, looking to see the young, blonde dusker to her left. Saskia was grinning widely, clearly enjoying the ridiculous show being put on. "Oh, Petra! You can see his veins popping! And his muscles are quivering!"

"Aren't you a little too young to be watching all of this?" Monroe commented, motioning Kerraelas and Darthinian to follow towards the panel table, taking the seat at the far right.

"No..." Saskia rolled her eyes, grinning slyly. "I have no clue what you are talking about, Syr Cathmore. This is a charity event, which without my help in securing a charity to raise money for, would have been just a festival of the men of the Order showing off what their hard work resulted in." Saskia took the seat to the left, leaving the center seat free for Petra.

"I feel like we are shopping for our next husbands to divor---" But her whisper to Petra was disturbed by an attendant handing her a crisp sheet of parchment.

Fuck. She forgot that in asking for Saskia's help in organising this without a hitch, Monroe would be announcing the events to take place.

With a grimace, she stood up from the chair she had just gotten comfortable sitting on. Maybe she needed another beer, which she asked the attendant to get her, and to keep them coming.

"Can I get your attention." Monroe called out.

"Please..." came a whisper behind her.

"Please." Monroe added, forcing a smile. She hated seeing every face turn her way, and so Monroe kept her eyes on the parchment to block out the sea of faces before her.

---

=== FIRST ROUND ===
lumberjack event


This event will include two categories seen in timbersports.

Underhand Chop
&
Single Buck

Please remember to roll 1d20 and state it at the start of your post!


References for these categories will be posted below.
It is never too late to join this thread!! Happy to have you jump in anytime, as long as you write a post with the events of each round, and the corresponding rolls. Any questions, don't hesitate to reach out to Tipsy or me, doonaday!



​

Timber Sport References

 

[Nacht]

As it turned out, Lumberjacking isn't so hard. Nacht walked up to his station and was immediately confronted by two tools: An ax, and a saw about 8 inches taller than him. Where had they even gotten such an implement? It didn't matter. He first used the saw, believing that it would save time to get this out of the way first. He set the teeth on the wood and began cutting. His pace was fine, but also a bit slow, or so he assumed. Putting more weight forward and therefore onto the saw, it began moving much faster. No, not faster, per se, but more efficiently. Every cut counted for more ground than the last.

When he was finished, the beautiful but unnatural circle of wood fell to the floor with a thud. Looking around, he noticed others nearby who were still going. They were all substantially brawnier than him, so their pace was quicker even though they hadn't figured out the big trick. He had to rush, so he began analyzing how he could cut both sides of the trunk easily. The boy settled upon standing on the wood and simply chopping the regular way. In order to hit both sides, he would do a sort of slow turn. Almost stumbling, he managed to get off a hit on the right side that didn't do much. Going again, he tried to hit the center.

That did the trick, for the area must have been slightly weaker. Another hit, and the wood quivered and shook. Noting his handiwork, he turned and began to work on the other side. Now an expert from his time experimenting on the right side, he chopped down three times on the left side, the axe head biting further and further in. Shockingly, that was all it took. Where there was once only one, he now had two distinct pieces of wood. Hopping off of his place and raising the axe high, he would notice a couple of faces turn his way and realize he had no idea what he was supposed to say.

Well, whatever. He supposed, deciding on just going with whatever thought popped up first. In this case, it was "DONE! I FINISHED!" It was neat, how a sport seemingly fit for the strong could be tooled by those with
intellect, as well. The same forces that let him wield a dagger or swing a sword could be applied to this, which in his mind was interesting.

---

Roll: 20

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Farren wouldn't consider herself a prude by any means, but she had a hard time managing the blush that seemed to have made a permanent home from her flushed neck to her pink cheeks since the moment the festival started. Everywhere she looks there was salacious and rampant displays of manflesh and strength being demonstrated throughout the crowds. It was all she could do to keep herself from being overwhelmed.

Instead, Farren had decided she sorely needed a break and found solace next to a fence that she hoped was sturdy enough to support her weight if she did swoon like the foolish and hopeless romantic that she was.

The shade from Master Penwillow's parasol was a welcome reprieve from the suddenly too hot sun. It had her wishing that she had put her hair back into her normal efficient braid instead of the half-updo she had donned for the special occasion, silver bells and red string tied securing around her topknot.

Unfortunately, she found it hard not to fidget and fuss with the long strands that framed her face or the tight bodice of the blue dress she sported, the color seeming to make her grey eyes reflect a curious light blue.

Her attention was arrested by the arrival of Aarno and his boon of cake. Eldyr Tree bless this man. She thought gratefully, reaching for his offering with a bright answering smile. But the ringing of a clanging bell drowned out her thanks and proclaimed the beginning of the first event.

Bouncing on the balls of her feet with a jovial giggle, Farren latched onto Aarno's hand and began dragging him to the stage where they were hosting the first event, stuffing her mouth with cake as she yelled over the crowd, "Come on!! We've got to go cheer them on!"

Aarno

 

[Faramund]

Rolled a solid and sturdy... 7

Before Faramund was given a chance to speak with his oldest, bestest friend in the whole wide world, the first round was announced. By Syr Monroe, no less. Should be easy, thought the dawnling, ignoring the screaming horde of women to take up an axe and get to it.

Many among the crowd were fanning themselves as the contestants set to work. Faramund couldn't blame them. It was quite a nice day out, and from the colour of the sky, he knew it was going to be a scorcher.

Getting into position, Faramund hefted the axe, got a feel for its weight. As soon as the bell was sounded, he struck, driving a huge chunk from the log and coming damned close to losing his footing in the processing. Poor form, poor form. Do better. Striking again and again until he was satisfied with his progress, Faramund turned to have a go at the other side. He chopped down. Once, twice...

The log came apart with a resounding crack.

Smiling to himself, Faramund laid the axe over one burly shoulder as he turned to wave at the crowd. He recognised a few lovely ladies standing in the front row, and went to speak with them. Of course, it was then he noticed one of the marshals out of the corner of his eye, looking none too pleased with him.

Oh, bollocks to it!

'Excuse me a moment!' Rushing back to his station, Faramund threw the axe aside as he took up a saw. By this point, he was one of the few contestants still going, but that didn't bother him none. Pulling so that the teeth bit clean and true, he began sawing, his brow dappled with sweat. It was more embarrassment than anything.

Honestly, to have his ass handed to him by a scrawny runt of a squire...

'Done!' Faramund announced, placing the saw aside with a sigh.

 

[Hector]

Roll 16

"Really wish I could go without this band," Hector said with a pout his finger carefully worked neath the folds of the magic ward that dug into the flesh of his bicep. Trying to play it loose.

Come the call for the log work, Hector stopped his fussing, took a deep breath, and made ready by grabbing his well worn axe.

He let out a breath as Nacht finished up his round, and he gave the odd youth a warm nod of acknowledgement, watched Syr Breyer hack and grunt like a man possessed, and felt his cheeks flush some and eyes widen.

How had log cutting become so... indecent?

Oh, by the boughs, was that Master Penwillow in the crowd? And Lorinna? He felt his head swim of a sudden, lost in a wash of heat.

Someone had called for his name, a nod as he stepped onto the log that needed splitting. He let his breath in, his breath out, felt the smooth heft of his axe against his skin. The warm oil he'd worked into the wood helped the fibers sit better against his palm.

Come the clang of the starting bell, down went the axe. The first hack, too deep. Rough. He let out a huff as he worked the head out of the split fibers with a jerk. Down, thwack, shift, lift. Down, hack, hitch, lift. The steady rhythm he found made the work quick. Muscles warmed, he moved to the single buck, hands took hold of the tool and the motion came easy. Smooth. Steady.

Stitching ripped down bellow the waist, but the breeze along his thigh was hardly noticed. Till the cookie plunked to the floor and rolled off the stage.

He let out a breath, and laughed as he wiped off a bit of sweat from his brow. Eyes widened when he saw where a few stares pointed, and he hurried to cover up and leave the stage.

 

[Julian Benavide]

Roll: 16

Julian never said no when it came to showing off in front of an adoring crowd. Especially when that crowd was full of screaming women. There were a lot of men who had entered the contest and those watching couldn't seem to decide who to watch. Julian supposed he would just have to be over the top to get their attention. Nothing new there.

He kept his shirt on up until the starting bell, then hooked a thumb in the top of the shirt behind him and pulled it over his head, showing off the muscles in his back that he was famous for (famous was perhaps a bit dramatic but they were still lovely nonetheless). He took up the axe and got to work, making sure he was being dramatic in all of his swings. Two swings to one side and then two swings to the other, back and forth, until the log was cut through. Surprised at how fast he had done the first one, he moved quickly to the next.

Though he knew he was doing spectacular, he also knew he wasn't first (it had been some frail looking squire), but he didn't particularly mind, especially now that he was glistening with sweat. He got to work with the saw, soon finding a rhythm. He adjusted his stance so his feet were wider apart and he bent over the log as he worked.

He was slower at this but finally the cookie fell off, the wood clattering at his feet. A wide grin stretching across his lips, he turned to face the crowd, and lifted his saw in the air above his head. Sweat dripped down his spine, and he made sure his chest was rising and falling heavily, though he was only really hot and not winded.

 

[Gunner Valenntyne]

Roll: 20 (This bodes terribly for my future luck.)

That cutie from earlier wasn't lying when she said that this place would be busy-- In only a couple of minutes it seemed like twice as many guys were walking around than before! Gunner wasn't super clear on the details of this party, but he'd been told there'd be games and competition, and most of these other men looked to be in the right shape for a bit of fun. What had been idle interest now saw Valenntyne grinning ear to ear as he stood back up on his feet and began stretching in preparation

Pretty soon, another lass called them all to attention, this one was really pretty too, if not a little sour-looking. If he wasn't using all of his focus to mentally note the instructions she gave him, he would have gone over to see if maybe he couldn't cheer her up a little bit! Maybe after this first game, he'd find time to tell her a joke or something.

Speaking of the game, cutting wood didn't exactly sound like something he'd consider to be 'fun'. Of course, he'd done it plenty, especially on nights when the cold winds from the ocean were promising frozen toes without a fire. Still, it didn't seem to stop any of the other 'contestants'. There was even a scrawny little guy who was doing pretty well for himself! Well hell, couldn't let himself get shown up, could he?

Pulling his thick arms out of his sleeves, Valenntyne rolled his shirt down around his waist. He'd never chopped wood from on top of a tree before, but it didn't seem like it'd be too hard. With a small 'hup' he jumped up onto the vertical log, an axe slung over his shoulder.

"Figure the trick to this must be the rhythm, right?" Gunner muttered to himself as he held the axe between his knees so he could tie his long brown mane back into a ponytail. As long as he could avoid winding himself, he knew he had the brawn to chew through the wood, easy as pie. Brandishing the axe up high, Gunner picked a song to play in his head, something with a steady beat, and began swinging down at the log underneath him to the rhythm of the tune in his head.

Just as he'd figured, this wasn't so hard! Valenntyne actually found himself humming to the music as he chopped, his shoulders swaying slightly from right to left as he cut halfway into the log on one side with a wide smile on his face, before swinging a leg over and switching to the other side to chop the other half until the log split underneath him. With a well-timed dismount, Gunner stepped off and dropped the axe on the ground, giving a wave to the spectators.

He wasn't entirely certain what they were getting out of watching people cut wood, but hey, he wasn't one to judge!

Next was cutting a disc off of a much larger log, with a saw that looked more like an obnoxiously big sword. He pursed his lips, gripping the saw and giving it a practice lift to get an idea of its weight. Nothing he couldn't handle! Wiping the sweat on his palms on his trousers to improve his grip a bit, Valenntyne wrapped his wide hand around the handle of the saw and began to push back and forwards in a similar rhythm to the one he'd used earlier. This time, though, he moved his whole upper body with the saw, practically thrusting his chest forward and using his mass to push the saw along.

Honestly, he wasn't as confident in this method as he was the previous one, but through either dumb luck or hidden talent, he worked his way through the wood quickly, and a small 'cookie' of wood fell to the ground far sooner than he'd expected.

Excitedly, he threw his hands up and shouted. "Hey! How about that!" Maybe he shoulda been a lumberjack! Woulda saved him the trouble of running from home, assuming he could talk his family into the idea. Which, admittedly, he doubted. "Does that mean I make the cut?"

With his hands on his hips he stood, proud of his awful joke.

 

[Osuin]

A himbo contest. Osuin no a clue what that was. Nor did he know whom had left this invitation tucked beneath his door, but they really wanted him to attend. The letter was rather persuasive, and encouraged Osuin to look further into the event. The hearts were a strange touch, and though it clearly advertised a 'Himbo contest' there wasn't anything of the sort. It was an athletics contest for the most part, aside from a costume judging, with no further explanation for the name on the page.

It sounded like it could be Cortosi. Osuins best guess was that maybe it was some sort of foreign tradition. Either way, it was a series of competitions he ought to excel at, and he had been personally invited by someone. It was motivation enough for him to seek it out and sign himself up.

* * *

Roll: 17

He was up now, clad in a tunic with the sleeves ripped off, which left his heavily muscled arms bare and unrestricted in movement. It seemed a fitting precaution to swinging an axe repeatedly. While he'd chopped plenty of firewood, he'd never made the chore into a race before. Osuin lined up a few slow and careful practice swings in preparation.

Swing hard, and strike true. It was not a sword, but it was a weapon he could direct with might. So long as he could keep the blade of his axe striking where it should, he ought to make competitive time. Once he felt prepared, Osuin stepped up and awaited the starting bell before leaping up onto the log with his axe held ready. As soon as he was on it, his axe came swinging down hard with one chop after another. His thick arms brought the axe down at alternating angles to cleave a wedge into the log, and before too long he had cleared though enough to switch sides. With a quick series of steps he was in position to swing at the other side of the log, his muscled arms flexing and swinging as he struck at the log with might. The blade of his axe bit into the wood with loud chops until he swung cleanly through.

His axe fell to the ground as he panted from exertion, but Osuin wasted no time in moving to the single buck. He took up the saw and positioned it over the log, his tunic now damp with sweat that caused it to hand and cling to his body. He held his position still until he heard the bell – and then burst into a flurry of motion. The saw raked back and forth as Osuin dragged it over the edge of the log, reaching lower and lower as it moved back and forth. By now, his muscles ached and his pace did slow, but the Knight pushed on. Osuin clenched his teeth and held his breath as the saw tore through the last bit of wood.

The slice of wood tumbled to the ground, as did the saw, and shortly after Osuin joined then both as he panted for breath, his barreled chest heaving as he recovered from the exertion.

“Good....time?” He asked between breaths.

 

[Bebin Theros]

Roll: 19

Plump flesh pressed against the edge of bladed tool. The pad of his thumb, ran clear across the swell of the head. Came free from the fine sharpness, with a thin line of red there across his prints. He smirked as a ruby bead of blood welled there. Kissed it away.

The tool was well tended, despite being a loaner. He would have to commend the knight or squire in charge of the equipment.

Swing low the axe to have it notch against the lumber with a hard knock, and Syr Theros closed his eyes a moment. Then filled his lungs with a deep and full breath. He swole up like a ripe fruit. His shirt popped, then shred, and blew off at the seems as his well fed thickness peaked. His eyes came open, with a focus possessed. Breath pushed out in one huff, almost steam, as his arms worked out the wedge, and brought down the axe.

Once, shift and turn, twice, shift and turn, thrice. The log cracked clean.

On to the next one with a grin mad with pleasure as his hands took hold of the handle and he worked, worked, worked the toothed band back and forth with full plunge and draw of the tool's length till the cookie came cut. And plunked to the floor with a clap.

Satisfied. He smirked as clapped his hands clean, and crossed his arms about the bare field of his chest. Pythons twisted about dark curls.

 

[Monroe]

Monroe left Saskia to read out the final scores of the First Round, having been taken aside to inspect the equipment for the next event.

Saskia grinned at everyone, waiting on Petra to double check her calculations, because heavens knew Saskia wasn't the brightest with her numbers, before addressing the contestants.

"Great start to the first round! The current standings are..."

Gunner​	17 | 7​
Nacht​	16 | 7​
Breyer​	6 | 2​
Faramund​	6 | 5​
Hector​	10 | 20​
Julian​	7 | 20​
Osuin​	6 | 21​
Bebin​	7 | 22​

​

She did her best to keep the smile on her face, knowing full well that herself and Petra gave out better scores, but Monroe proved to be a tough critic.

"Please, make your way to the training grounds for the hammer toss event!"

​

---

=== SECOND ROUND ===
hammer toss event


This event will include one activity.


Please remember to roll 1d20 using the dice bot on the discord server
and state it at the start of your post!


References for these categories will be posted below.
It is never too late to join this thread!! Happy to have you jump in anytime, as long as you write a post with the events of each round, and the corresponding rolls. Any questions, don't hesitate to reach out to Tipsy or me, doonaday!


Here is a how to understanding of this event! ​

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Petra had never really been a "clipboard girlie", but here she was, pristine clipboard in hand, and a pen in the other. Finding herself nibbling on the end of it as she watched the men, transfixed with each new swing of their axes. The sun glinting off the edges like the darting silver scales of fish in a pond, dazzling her in their dance.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Was that her heart or the splitting wood? Either way, the sound beat a steady staccato to the rhythm that her blood pumped. Eyes like gold coins sparked under half-lids, the gaze assessing and appreciative. She even found herself catching a stare at Syr Theros's cleftorous chest, clearing her throat at Syr Osuin's rope-like biceps, and the way the sweat clung curls to Faramund's face, his charming smile on full display.

Speaking of sweat and its sheen.

Bless the sun for choosing this weekend to shine in all her glory. Her thought had her dragon snorting indignantly off to the side of the stage, where he continued to lounge and watch the display with an indifferent and bored air.

With each contestant that went, the Dawnling found her smile grew treacherous, split between coy fangs and mirthful giggles at their antics. Make no doubts though, her notes were diligent and her eye ever watchful for form, performance, and all things that made for a himbo ambassador.

Finally, when the last of them went, she leaned in to speak with her fellow judges, comparing notes and silently passing coins back and forth to each other based on private bets they had made in good fun.

Taking a deep breath to clear the heady appreciation of the masculine form that clouded her mind, she passed off her scores to one of the event secretaries who ran the missive to the Scores Tent that would keep a running tally board for all contestants and events, so that all throughout the festival could follow the progression. Contestants were also welcome to collect their scorecards and their performance comments at the very end.

Her scores read as followed:

NAME	ROLL	MODIFIER	PANEL ROLL	TOTAL
NACHT	20	+5	15	20
BREYER	6	-2	5	4
FARAMUND	7	-2	11	9
HECTOR	16	+3	16	19
JULIAN	16	+3	4	7
GUNNER	20	+5	15	20
OSUIN	17	+3	7	10
BEBIN	19	+4	20	24

---

=== ROUND ONE FINAL SCORES ===
​

NAME	FINAL TOTAL	CURRENT STANDING
NACHT	43	4TH
BREYER	12	8TH
FARAMUND	20	7TH
HECTOR	49	2ND
JULIAN	34	6TH
GUNNER	44	3RD
OSUIN	37	5TH
BEBIN	53	1ST

Congratulations to our current leaders: Bebin, Hector, and Gunner!!! Keep ON Himboing!
​

Monroe Saskia Kerraelas Lorinna Astarel Byanka Valkas Gunner Valenntyne Bebin Theros Faramund Finn Glider Leofsige Burtone Reynald Nacht Aarno Farren Lóthlindor Breyer Julian Benavide Osuin

 

[Finn Glider]

Finn had gotten just a little bit distracted that first round. How could he not, there were so many women ogling the men, such a thing didn't happen in normal settings. He had to capitalize on it! Thus he chatted with every girl that even so much as looked at the vampire hunter, because that was what was important. He tilted his head to the judging table as scores were announced, and he folded his arms against his bare chest. He should participate, more women were bound to notice him if he did, right? RIGHT?

So, with the sun beating down on his tanned back, sweat sliding down every crease and crevice of his shoulders, the confident man strode his way to the next round, strutting up confidently, winking at the crowd as he prepared himself.

He slid the fingerless glove onto his hand, testing the handle and wire with a flex that rippled up his arms. Mostly for show, obviously. He waited for his turn respectively, though it seemed he would be up in short enough order.

ROLL: 16

He swaggered to the circle, making sure no dust or debris would inhibit him, biting his lip as he looked off to where he'd like his throw to go. He wound up once, then twice before letting momentum swing his body full circle, the hammer swinging high and dangerous. He couldn't help the grunts of exertion that left his lips as he spun. He released, and the hammer soared into the air, landing with a dull thud across the field. Finn flexed his arms, yelling with the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. Sweat dripped off his brow, and down his muscled arms as he walked from the field, his muscles still trembling from the force of it all.

 

[Byanka Valkas]

Good God, Byanka had never seen such... attractive men before. Muscles and sweat and grins and... she had to sit down, hiding her flushed face in her mug of beer.

And just like that, the first event was over. Her eyes scanned the scores and the numbers barely broke through the haze in her mind. She only knew Bebin was in first (and rightfully so). She took the break in between events to try and slow her racing her heart, to no avail, however, as the competing himbos continued to show off.

She sorely wished someone (not a himbo) would come up and talk to her, to distract her, because she was certain she was embarrassing herself. At least she wasn't making nearly as big a fool of herself as some of the other women. They did not hold back from screaming, swooning, and giggling, acting nearly as possessed as the himbos themselves.

Despite herself, her eyes scanned all the contestants, picking who she wanted to win. She knew of all of them but she didn't know any of them very well (except maybe for Julian but then she was sure every woman knew Julian).