Public The Tourney of Basteaux - Opening Day

[The Soothsayer]

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OPENING DAY

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Dawn comes slow over Basteaux.

A warm light spills across the stone walls and broken earth beyond, catching first on the rising smoke of a thousand cookfires. Where once the land bore scars of siege and ash, it now stirs with life. The roads begin to fill before the sun has fully risen, from the north - along the long road that winds toward the Eisenford, columns of riders descend in steady procession. Black and gold banners furled against the morning wind, armor dulled by travel but unmistakable in bearing.

They do not hurry.
They do not need to.
Their arrival is measured, deliberate… seen.

From the west, the forests give way to smaller companies, lords of Merélais, some with retinues proud and intact, others reduced to little more than household guards and stubborn pride. Their colors are faded. Their cloaks worn. But they ride still, and they ride beneath their own banners. And from every other road, every broken path and wandering track of Eroba, they come. Merchants with creaking wagons laden with wine, steel, and silks. Sellswords walking in loose bands, laughter loud and eyes sharp. Pilgrims, drifters, hedge knights, and nameless men seeking coin, favor, or a chance to be remembered. By midmorning, the fields beyond Basteaux are no longer fields, becoming a city of canvas and rope. There is excitement, yes. But it is not clean, it is edged with something else. It becomes apparent that many banners fly that were, not long ago, raised in war. Too many men here have faced one another across fields not meant for sport.

Glances linger too long.
Old grudges walk beside new ambitions.
And beneath every cheer, every hammer strike, every call of greeting, there is tension.

The Grand Lists stand at the heart of it all, freshly raised timber, banners hung in careful symmetry, the long tilt stretching like a scar across the earth. Already, men test the barriers, hammer stakes deeper, argue over placements. Horses snort and stamp in the cold air, their breath rising like steam. To the east, near the slow-moving river, the Imperial Stand rises above the rest, made of wood and gold and cloth, built not just to observe, but to be seen observing. Workers climb its scaffolding even now, fastening the last banners bearing the eagle of Ostrien. Guards stand already at its base, this was where the Emperor and his Empress would witness the games.

Below it, the Noble Pavilions bloom in color, deep blues, reds, blacks, and golds; each tent a quiet declaration of presence. Servants move quickly between them. Messengers ride in and out. Conversations begin in low tones that never quite rise above politeness… but carry weight all the same. To the west, the Melee Fields are left open and raw—trampled ground marked only loosely, as if the chaos to come cannot be contained by lines alone. And southward, toward the road that leads back to Basteaux, the Market Rows and Free Camps swell into life. Blacksmiths hammer iron into shape before it cools, gamblers set their tables before the crowds even gather, and ale flows early, already voices rise in song, argument, and laughter.

And as the people of Eroba gather beneath the shadow of Basteaux.

The world watches to see who will rise…
…and who will fall.

The Tourney begins.

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[Fist of Ostrien]

Ser Johann von Richter
Knight of the Empire
[Open to Interaction]
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They did not arrive with haste.

House Von Richter arrived to be seen, pressing on from the eastern road where the imperial banners had already begun to gather in quiet dominance. A column of riders emerged through the morning mist, black and gold against the warm morning light. At their head rode a knight clad in darkened steel, polished not to gleam, but to reflect only what stood before him. A mantle of deep crimson fell from his shoulders, edged in gold thread, its weight shifting with the rhythm of his horse, behind him came his retinue, with each rider holding formation without word or signal, their lances upright, their banners steady in the windless morning. No laughter came from them. No idle speech. Only the quiet rhythm of hooves against earth. They passed first through the outer swell of Free Camps, where the noise of the world pressed in. Screams, taunts, and the like were uttered by the yoke, none were returned. Eyes followed them, some with curiosity, others with something colder. The knight did not turn his head.

As they approached the Grand Lists, the column slowed.

Merélaisan colors, worn but defiant, dotted the pavilions. Foreign banners, some unknown, others unwelcome, fluttered in cautious proximity. And above it all, rising not far from the lists themselves, stood the Imperial Stand, the seat of the Emperor himself. The knight's gaze lingered there for only a moment before shifting downward, toward the gathered field where glory would be won and lost beneath watching eyes.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"Here."

A single word.

The retinue broke formation without disorder, moving to claim a place among the Noble Pavilions, servants moved quickly to raise their banner as the knight slowed his horse and pointed to the location of their home for the next few days. The knight dismounted only once their standard stood firm. Boots met the earth of Louressen with a dull weight, the mud still soft beneath it from weeks of war and recent construction alike. For a moment, he said nothing, simply taking in the scene before him, the lists, the pavilions, the crowds beginning to swell.

This was no battlefield.

But it was not peace. At last, he removed his helm. dark hair, pulled tight. and a face marked not by experience.

"Send word," he said to one of his men. "We have arrived."

A pause.

"And we will be seen."

 

[Amelia Wulfhart]

Before dawn's first light had begun to peek through the trees, the camp along the road was being broken down by servants. The procession was only an hour or so from the tournament grounds, gold banners bearing the sigil of the black wolf upon them did not flutter in the windless light of dawn. Amelia had risen already, quietly centering herself for what was to be a long day. She had donned the black and gold dress Marguerite had selected for her and fully dressed before the sounds of the servants pulling down the pavilions began. Her body moved, tensed, like the lithe body of a predator bound to prevent it from pouncing on helpless prey. Raven-black hair was not styled, but clean, allowed to lay how it naturally lay.

Marguerite floated into the tent as the servants began to pack it away, the first light of dawn piercing through the evergreens, the darkness of night giving way to the light of day. She was followed by Elspeth, their childhood friend. Her gaze took Amelia in, "You look lovely today," Marguerite exclaimed, helping Amelia to her feet and guiding her to spin so she could show off the entire outfit. "Truly, Ami." Elspeth echoed kindly. "I had thought you would want to wear your armor as we approach the tournament grounds though." Her sister said with a subtle pout in her expression.

Amelia shrugged her shoulders, "Father forbade me from entering the lists. Why wear it if I am not going to compete." Though she did not express it noticeably for others, her sister could read her like an open book, and could feel the disappointment rolling off her like a wave.

"I could have sworn I left father's letter from last night for you to read." Marguerite said, looking around the tent as the servants had already begun taking what little Amelia traveled with and packing it away. "It must have gotten misplaced." the blonde said nonchalantly, "Anyways, other than some simple instructions on what to tell the Imperial family should they ask, he reconsidered your entering the lists." Marguerite smiled, shooting a glance to Elspeth as Amelia's back was turned. "He changed his mind. You had better get dressed."

Amelia's brow furrowed, eyes searching Marguerite carefully. Amelia could sense intent from a warrior on a field, but Marguerite had the practiced grace of a politician. Her sister had long known how to lie without any tells Amelia could pick up on. "Truly?" She asked, eyes going to Elspeth to search for the reaction of the less polished, less experienced deceiver. Elspeth made no indication one way or another.

"Yes truly, get changed. We are going to be late." Marguerite commanded gently, turning like a pirouette and exiting the tent, sending in Amelia's squire with a wave of her hand. As the pair left earshot, Elspeth leaned forward, "Thank Theos your father reconsidered, it was killing her to miss out." she whispered quietly. "My father did no such thing. But he isn't here to stop us either."

Not long after, the procession entered the Tournament grounds. At its head was the banner with the sable wolf's head, erased upon a field of or. Following the banner was a small troop of soldiers, nothing ostentatious, but a handful of guards on steel grey mounts. Then Marguerite, Elspeth, and Amelia rode, with Marguerite in the center and just slightly ahead of the other two, her black dress draped across the shoulder of the pure white mare she rode. Elspeth rode upon a chestnut brown gelding also wearing a dark colored dress with blue rather than gold. Then Amelia, her black destrier pawing at the ground, his breath misting as it blew through his lupine-shaped chamfron. Black caparison hung around his body, embroidered with gold wolf outlines on his shoulders. He wore darkened steel barding on his chest, neck, and flanks. Atop him, Amelia wore her tournament armor, darkened steel plate to match her steed with a black surcoat trimmed in gold. The outline of the wolf's head was made in gold. A black cloak hung around her shoulders, simple, yet elegant in its plainness. A grey mantle made of wolf fur sat upon her shoulders. Her sword was sheathed at her side, as was her dagger. On her back, two wings spread out behind her, black pinions with gold bracing. Her helmet, the appearance of a snarling lupine creature with no crest or ornamentation, sat upon her saddle horn.

"Set up our tents here." Marguerite said, pointing to a space that was not the center, but not the far back of the camp either. She turned slightly, smiling to her sister. "Try not to look so dour, dear sister, you'll scare off all the knights." Marguerite turned to the camp being constructed nearby, head held high. "Morning good sir, I am Marguerite of the House Wulfhart, my sister Amelia." Marguerite gestured to the black armored woman beside her. "Will we see you in the lists?"

Fist of Ostrien

 

[Lilianna von Osthaus]

Empress of Reich of Ostrien, Inquisitor of the Sacred Hands of the Sanctus (Quaesitors)
"High Osterman" | <"Poleaskan"> | ["Aeterna"] | ~ Thoughts ~ ​

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Objective: Attend on the Tourney.
Location: En route to Basteaux
Equipment: Outfit (no crown)

Karl von Osthaus | Fist of Ostrien | Amelia Wulfhart | Open​

Ever since I had come to live at the imperial court and our engagement with Karl had been made official, much of my life had become devoted to learning, thanks to Theos. I no longer had to study only the matters of the Inquisition, but also the customary expectations of the nobility, and they sought to prepare me as well for what it would mean to one day become Empress.

I do not know whether it was a blessing or not, but I was given a year for this, for according to the Curian faith, this was the time one had to wait between a formal engagement and a wedding. The Church would likely have made an exception, for Karl was the chosen of Theos and the protector of the faith, yet he did not ask for such a thing, and neither did I hasten it, no matter how difficult it was to endure the wait until we could finally become man and wife in Theos' eyes.

I had never been raised to become a ruler; a County was nothing compared to an Empire, and so I did everything I could to become the very best I could be. Not for myself, but because by the blessing and grace of Theos, I had to serve the Holy Osterman Empire… or rather now, the Reich of Ostrien, the Empire and its people. And not least of all, I had to support the Emperor - my husband - to help him bear his burdens more easily.

For Karl had always been tense and somber ever since I had known him. He had never been able to turn to anyone, nor to share the weight of ruling without fearing betrayal; after all, even his own great-uncle, Otto von Annenfeld, had betrayed him while we were on crusade.

I had never betrayed him. I listened, I tried to bring a smile to his lips, to lift his spirits and support him. Even when we had only been betrothed, just as I had done before in the city of Aaven, I spent as much time as I could visiting temples, hospitals, and orphanages, helping those who lived there.

With donations, with food, with outgrown clothes, toys no longer needed or simply by listening to them, so that I might later speak of these things to the Emperor.

And of course, I prayed to Edom and to Theos every single day, that they might aid my husband and the Empire. I feared the wedding… or rather what came after, when that crown would be placed upon my head the crown I had never wanted. From that moment onward, the full weight of the Reich would rest upon my shoulders as well… but at least Karl would no longer have to bear it alone.

I did not change or at least, I tried not to. As far as my rank allowed, I continued to wear modest garments, and even at court I often covered my hair, as I always had.

I was afraid… afraid, because it had also become my duty to bear an heir for the Reich and for the Emperor.

And yet, it was precisely this that I had once fled from in my first marriage, for I had wished to serve the Empire as a knight, not from a childbed. But for Karl, I would do this at any time, and in truth, it was not only the Empire and perhaps he who expected this of me, but also the Primarchal Demesne and the Inquisition.

Thus, since our wedding, I had also prayed for the blessing of a child, that Edom might grant it to me as soon as possible… and that the child would not inherit the blessing of Theos, but would instead be born a simple human.

As custom dictated, we travelled by carriage toward the knightly tournament, of which we would be the hosts. It was already spring, and my thoughts wandered in many directions as we journeyed. Along the way, whenever I could, I tried to cheer Karl and speak with him.

We were heading toward the place where we had first seen one another during the siege, though he had not noticed me then, for I had been dressed merely as a simple nurse, tending to the soldiers. It was after that siege that he became Emperor, and I an Inquisitor. And yet… it was there that our lives had become entwined, thanks to Theos, even if we had not known it at the time.

"Had we been allowed to compete, I would have withdrawn, just to let you win." I smiled at him softly.

I had improved greatly in swordsmanship; we had often trained together, and with this I also alluded to the fact that I had been assigned as his bodyguard by the Inquisition, to protect him from magical threats. It was our shared secret.

As we drew ever closer to Basteaux, my anxiety returned, as it always did when I had to appear at a formal event now as Empress. Silently, I offered a prayer to Edom, asking for strength. It felt as though everything I had learned had simply vanished.

"Please… help me. I fear I will fail the customs and bring shame upon the Empire and upon you as well…" I lowered my gaze, a faint blush rising to my cheeks. "I admire you so much… how naturally you do all that is expected of a ruler… I… I am always afraid I will do something wrong." I breathed it, barely audibly, feeling flustered.

 

[Giancarlo Demici]

Tags: Fist of Ostrien, Amelia Wulfhart, Lilianna von Osthaus

OPEN TO INTERACTION

Under A Violet Moon

The air was thick and cold, laced with lingering hate in the wake of the terrible violence the place had once suffered. War was never a pretty thing, and the aftermath was arguably even worse. The commonfolk always caught the brunt of it, often being the first to starve, bleed, and die for their lords. It wasn't exactly the place one would ideally choose for a time of merriment, yet here they were, the same lords that had only recently torn the land asunder.

Through the palpable hate and dense fog of complicated politics, the distant sound of voices danced through the air, their jovial tune cutting through the tension as if they were a blade cutting through butter. Soon, golden and blue banners could be seen, marking the song's point of origin. Men in gleaming armor, followed by wagons and servants hauling whatever the wagons could not carry. Despite their varying stations in life, each and every member of the party sang all the same, their voices bringing a bit of true joy to the once war-torn region. At the head of their column was a man in gilded armor, his face carrying the unmistakable smirk of Giancarlo Demici. His voice was the loudest of all, guiding the others in their mutual merriment and music. He didn't normally wear his armor on the road, but he represented House Demici, and he would ensure that the entire camp knew that he had arrived.

The song continued through the pavilions and tents, almost as if they didn't even notice the others present. Finally, upon reaching an empty bit of ground, Giancarlo's hand rose, causing a uniform ceasing of the song. An index finger flicked forward, prompting on of the his companions to ride up next to him.

"Nicolo, this seems suitable enough for our needs, wouldn't you agree?"

"Indeed, my lord."

A cheeky grin shot across Giancarlo's mouth.

"Well then, break out the wine, food, and tents. In that order."

Planting his hand on Nicolo's shoulder, Giancarlo leaned in from his horse, his smile only widening further as he let out a laugh.

"Tomorrow is never promised, so let us drink and dance till the morning."

 

[Vulpesen]

House Torrevaso was by no means an unknown name where Vulpesen had come from. Among those in the Vitae Court, those who bore the name had often served as the right hand of Lord Varos, carrying his will through world on countless missions through countless ages. But here, among the mortal realms of men, Vulpesen was a nobody. Papers carefully forged for him to obscure and fabricate a history for him. He was not the only nameless person in this place, but he was perhaps, the one with the most to hide. He also had so much to learn. The tourny fields of Basteaux were a melting pot of sorts from all levels of life hawkers selling wares, soldiers seeking glory, and nobles seeking honor. All of them were united by one single cause: Martial Revelry.

His own name blended into the others on the grand list and Vulpesen found himself a single space amidst the city of tents. A small canvas sufficed for his resting place and he sat himself on a small stool outside. His eyes, normally a bright golden, were a ring of brown and green as he observed the crowds. This was one of his first forays into the human realm and he knew that a single missed word could be disastrous. Far better to watch and learn the customs before he stuck his tail in his mouth. Afterall, he could hide his claws, that tail, his eyes, and all other markers of who he was under a glamour of magic. His personal skills, however, would be on full display the second he opened his mouth.

 

[Falauna Thorne]

They did not arrive in procession. There was no banner raised to announce her presence, no herald to call her name, no column of riders to part the road before her passage. By the time Falauna reached the outer swell of Basteaux, the morning had already given way to movement and noise, the world pressing inward from every direction at once, as if the city itself had woken before she ever set foot near it.

She came on foot, the last stretch of road giving way beneath her boots in a quiet, steady rhythm that neither hurried nor lagged, simply carrying her forward with the same consistency that shaped everything she did. The press of people thickened as she drew closer to the gathering grounds, voices rising and overlapping in a language she did not understand, sharp consonants and flowing phrases blending into a single indistinct current. It did not matter. She did not need the words to understand the tone. Tension required no translation.

Her gaze moved without turning her head, taking in what she passed with the same measured attention she applied to wounds and weather. Banners came first, their colors and shapes marking allegiances in ways that needed no shared tongue. Some were pristine, carefully displayed, meant to be seen and recognized. Others were worn, their edges frayed, their presence carried more by stubbornness than pride. Too many of them stood too close together, and the air between them held the memory of old conflicts that had not been fully laid to rest.

Men noticed one another. They remembered. It lingered in the way shoulders squared just slightly as others passed, in the way conversations dipped rather than stopped, in the way hands hovered near where weapons would rest if worn openly.

Falauna continued forward.

The Grand Lists rose ahead, timber and order imposed upon land that had not yet settled from what it had endured. Workers moved across the structure with practiced urgency, securing beams, adjusting ropes, and reinforcing joints as though precision alone might hold together what had only recently been broken. Beyond them, the Imperial Stand stood elevated and deliberate, positioned not merely to witness the spectacle but to remind everyone present of the authority watching from above.

Her eyes lingered there only a moment before moving on.

Below, the Noble Pavilions spread outward in a display of color and design, each one a quiet declaration of presence and influence. Servants moved with purpose between them, carrying messages, supplies, and expectations. Riders cut through the camps with urgency, their pace sharper than the slower rhythm of those preparing for the day. Further still, the fields gave way to disorder, the melee grounds unrefined and waiting, and beyond them the market rows, already alive with sound and motion.

She did not turn toward the nobles.

Instead, she angled southward, toward the edges where structure gave way to necessity. The Free Camps stretched across uneven ground, canvas pulled taut in lines that were more practical than orderly. Fires burned low, some tended with care, others left to smolder unattended. The scent of iron, sweat, and woodsmoke hung thick in the air, undercut by something sharper, blood not yet fully washed from cloth or earth.

That drew her.

Not urgency. Not alarm. Recognition.

Falauna slowed as she reached the edge of one such cluster, her eyes settling on a man seated on an overturned crate, his arm bound poorly in linen already darkening through. The knot had been tied tight, but not well. It would hold for now, but not for long.

She did not speak.

Instead, she stepped forward, her presence announced only by the soft shift of leather and the faint sound of her satchel as she moved. When the man looked up, she met his gaze without expression, lifting one hand in a small, deliberate motion to wait. It was not a command, but it carried expectation all the same.

Kneeling before him, she set her satchel at her side and began to work. The old bandage was unwound with careful precision, her movements steady and unhurried despite the noise and motion surrounding them. Beneath it, the wound revealed itself, ragged, not clean, the kind left by something that had not been meant for a tournament field. Her expression did not change. She had seen worse, and worse still would come.

Cloth replaced cloth. Pressure reapplied. A cleaner wrap, tighter where it needed to be, looser where it would restrict. Her fingers moved with practiced certainty, adjusting, securing, finishing with a knot that would hold through the day's demands.

Only when she was done did she lean back slightly, her gaze flicking once over the work, confirming what she already knew.

It would suffice.

Around her, the noise of Basteaux continued to rise. Banners lifted. Voices carried. The world gathered to watch men rise and fall beneath the eyes of kings and crowds.

Falauna remained where she was for a moment longer, quiet and composed, before reaching for her satchel once more. There would be others. There were always others.

@open

 

[Elisabeth von Annenfeld]

Duchess of Annenfeld, Queen of Crows, Royal assassin of the House von Osterman
"High Osterman" | <"Old Merovingan or Langue d'Meréles"> | ["Aeterna"] | ~ Thoughts ~ ​

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Objective: Attend on the Tourney.
Location: Basteaux
Equipment: Attire, 2x short sword, 10x throwing dagger[/url]

Otto von Annenfeld (direct) | Otto von Brecht (direct) | Giancarlo Demici | Amelia Wulfhart | Vulpesen | Falauna Thorne | Open​

Work and duty; for the young woman, the entire tournament and celebration were defined by these. There was no real enjoyment in it, though, considering how much Elisabeth loved her work, in her case, it could almost be called that. She had arrived at the location long before anyone else, back when the grounds were still being constructed. In secret. No one knew she was there, and even if she had revealed herself at times, none could have guessed that she was a noblewoman, the Emperor's own cousin.

Lis had come to oversee the construction and to watch for any potential spies or assassins. One could never be cautious enough when it came to the protection of the imperial family. And she knew her duty well. No one had needed to ask, she had already set out ahead of time. Now, however, it was not only the Emperor and his wife she had to protect. The greater concern was her father. Lord Otto von Annenfeld had decided to participate in both events of the tournament.

The woman was worried. It would not be surprising if spies or assassins appeared from Cešhemia, or even from the former court of Merélais, to attempt to kill him, to kill them. And what could be easier than disguising such an act as an accident during a joust or a melee? And then there was something else. She knew that this very event would mark the official announcement of her engagement to Otto von Brecht.

She found a certain amusement in the fact that her future husband bore the same name as her father. Half in jest, she had remarked that at least she would never have to worry about forgetting his name. For her, this was duty. Nothing more. Such arrangements were made in the interest of the Reich and the family. She knew well enough how most noble marriages worked, unions without love, often with great differences in age. Not everyone was as fortunate as her cousin and his wife, who had married for love.

Nor did she truly expect her own marriage to become something like her parents', where affection had grown after the union. Her heart belonged to her work, and there was little room within it for anything else. In the end, she simply dismissed the thought. The future would decide such matters. Once the date of the event had been set, she departed, only to return a few days later, this time officially, with her own retinue, under her true name and rank. She took her place within the Nobles' Pavilion, in the tent prepared for her. Even then, she remained watchful as more and more people arrived.

That was when her real task began. On the day the two Ottos arrived, the young woman rode out to meet them. When she spotted them in the distance, she raised her hand in greeting before approaching. She acknowledged them both with a nod. The imperial procession was already nearby. Soon, everything would become far more complicated, just the way Lis preferred.

"Sir Otto!" she greeted her betrothed with a nod, then inclined her head more deeply toward her father. "My Lord, father. I trust your journey was without trouble. Your accommodations are already prepared."

After that, she turned her horse and moved to ride beside her father.

"I saw your entry in both events. Please, be careful. I would rather not see you get yourself killed in the lists. Though I imagine mother has already told you as much." Her voice lowered, meant only for him. "It is the Cešhi spies and assassins that concern me the most. I have seen no sign of them yet, but what is delayed rarely fails to arrive." She glanced at him as she spoke. Her expression revealed nothing. A noblewoman. A spy. An assassin. She could play her role flawlessly. But that did not mean she did not worry for him, deep within.

 

[Coenred Raedwald]

Prince of Vandemar
House Raedwald
Kingdom of Albion
[OPEN]

The journey to Basteaux was without disruption, thank the gods, thought Coenred, as his party of wagons and mounted retainers trundled through ever muddier roads and rockier trackways. It was as mindless as it was refreshing, a rare chance to see beyond the Isles for the first time in two years.
In truth, the Prince was uncertain about leaving his father's side, but he had offered little resistance to his mother's appeals, knowing that to quarrel with the King was one thing, and entirely futile to challenge his Queen. Adwin, King of Albion and Coenred's much-admired father, had unified his lands, battered the invading Heathen army, and won a string of victories that had not only baffled the scholars but quelled any real notion that he was unfit to rule this new nation.
Despite Albion's fractured and often reluctant acceptance of unification, its path to prosperity seemed assured, if only for the short term. No doubt, Coenred thought, as the muddy tracks gave way to paved highways, new threats would rise, and call Adwin and the men of Albion to arms once more.
He did intend to fight in the tourney at Basteaux, that was not in doubt. His presence alone would serve as a reminder to the quarrelling dynasties of the continent that Albion's strength remained, for now, unrivalled by any who had sought to deny it. Not only that, but his wife, Gisele, was of the Von Brecht dynasty, and so it was of even greater import that he be seen.
Albion's allegiances had not been bought in that union. Its independence from the feuds of the continent was recognised in every court. Yet on a personal footing, Coenred knew his line would stand as some distant extension of Von Brecht patronage, whatever the Witan might claim.
As Coenred's column crested the last rise, the full breadth of Basteaux revealed itself below, no longer a distant gathering but a living thing, like some writhing beast from the sagas of old, tendrils of tents and paths extending into the distance. His gaze was drawn first, instinctively, to the Imperial Stand, rising above the rest in deliberate command, its banners hanging with authority over the field. He stifled a smile to himself, his face battered now by a breeze that carried the smells and sounds of this clash of humanity. Smithies, butchers, fletchers, all plying their craft, burghers hawking their wares, the crowd screaming and cheering as events took place across the multitude of space.
So this was to be its shape, he thought. Not merely a tourney, but a stage upon which power would be measured as much as prowess. Beneath it, the Grand Lists cut across the earth like a fresh wound, men already at work along its length, hammering, testing, arguing in low voices that carried further than they intended. Around them spread the pavilions of the great houses, colours rich and ordered, though not all with equal strength. Some stood full and proud, their retinues intact and banners unblemished. Others were thinner, their colours faded, their presence maintained more by will than by means. Coenred marked them without turning his head, as his father had taught him. Strength. Weakness. Memory.
At a word from him, quiet and unadorned, his column began to peel away toward a measured place among the noble lines, not at the fore, but not set back. There, his men moved at once, raising poles, driving stakes, and setting canvas with practised efficiency as Albion's standard was brought forward to claim its ground.
Yet it was not the nobles alone that held his attention. Beyond the ordered lines, the camps sprawled outward into something far less certain, a sea of canvas and smoke where the sounds of labour, laughter, and argument tangled together. Here and there, he saw men who bore wounds not yet healed, bindings darkened through, faces set in quiet recognition of those they had once faced across bloodied ground. Too many banners flew in too close a company. Too many men remembered too clearly.
This was no peace, however it was dressed.
As the hooves of his retinue slowed and the ordered shape of his own encampment began to take form behind him, Coenred let his gaze pass once more across the field, from the Imperial Stand to the scattered camps beyond. Albion had come to be seen, yes. But so too had every other power that had survived the war. And all of them, whether they admitted it or not, had come to measure one another anew.

 

[Amir al-Majid]

"Wake up you fool!"

Someone's impatient grip jostled Amir awake, sending bolts of agony lancing through his skull. He rolled away from the hand, cradling his thundering head between his fingers. He loosed a miserable wail and burrowed himself deeper within the hide blanket.

"By Injeel's breath, what have you done?" the voice demanded. "You've killed yourself! You've gone and killed yourself!"

Even had the voice not been familiar, Khaveed's nagging insistence would have given his identity away. Amir's colleague in the chancery, a fellow envoy of the Sultanate to the courts of Merélais. He had listened to that chiding cadence in Iskandaria, tolerated it across the Inner Sea, drowned it out over the Tanast Mountains, and even in here - in the heart of Basteux - it haunted him.

Glumly brushing the blanket aside, Amir dropped his feet to the floor and at last opened his eyes. The château's guest quarters looked stark and hard in the stale light of morning. The edges of objects stung his eyes and mere the scent of breakfast that wafted through the opened chamber door sent his stomach churning. The rank taste of old wine coated his tongue and his hair smelt vaguely of vineweed smoke.

"Amir, damn your eyes, look at me."

He complied. Even with his wits dulled as they were, he could see Khaveed's drawn features looked a bit more pinched than usual today. The dull green eyes were wide with alarm. The sharp black beard seemed to twitch nervously. Amir sighed and fumbled for a nearby goblet of ale.

"What did you do last night?" Khaveed asked.

Even as he pulled a healthy drought from the ale, murky sense imagery drifted through Amir's mind. Vague, disconnected sights and sounds from the previous night that failed to align cohesively into memory. The scent of lilacs, sweat and heat, the feeling of grass on his bare back, the delicate trill of female laughter. He groaned again, finding the entire exercise tedious.

"I...I don't know, Khaveed." he managed. "I've only just awoken and I-"

Khaveed bent forward and took hold of Amir's bare shoulders before giving him a violent shake. Amir felt as though he might retch.

"Your name, Amir!" he cried. "It's on the Grand List!"

Amir bolted upright from the bed, seemingly unconcerned with his own nakedness. Memories whirled round his head with renewed urgency, desperately trying to make sense of a nonsensical situation.

"Amir! Who were you with last night?"

"I was with Lady Toulon." Amir confessed. "What does that have to do with anyt-"

Khaveed's face reddened. He turned and thrust his head into the hallway that lay beyond the chamber door, looked furtively in either direction and retreated back into the bedchamber, shutting the door behind him. When he next spoke, his voice had sharpened to a sibilant hiss.

"Amorous fool! Have you no good sense at all?!"

"Well I, we..." Amir began.

"What do you think the Comte de Toulon would do were he to discover that the diplomatic envoys beneath his own roof were cavorting around with his wife?" Khaveed demanded. "Must I remind you - yet again - that we serve at the pleasure of his Eminence, the Sultan! This is no grand tour to sew your wild oats! We are here to secure trade rights with the government of Merélais."

"Now, Amir al-Majid, you will tell me what happened last night or by the Rightly-Guided Prophet, I'll allow the Sultan's royal dogs to make a pitiful feast of your little-"

"Alright, alright, Khaveed." Amir said. He paced the room deep in thought. "After dinner last night I asked Lady Toulon if she would accompany me on a tour of the vineyards by moonlight. With the comte having left to attend to matters at the tourney, she agreed. As we made our way through the fields, she revealed that her handmaiden had brought along a bottle of the finished products. Several in fact."

"Before long we were all quite...jubilant. We chased one another through the stalks and before long I caught Lady Toulon and her handmaiden, Renne. In a fit of laughter, I tackled them to the ground where we..."

He met Khaveed's disapproving stare.

"...ruminated."

"And afterwards?" Khaveed asked.

"Afterwards..." Amir concentrated, trying to dredge up the memory as though it were wedged deep in clay. "...I professed my love. Asked her to run away with me."

"There's no end to your idiocy!"

"B-but she refused." Amir continued, as the memories came flooding back. "Claimed that while I was an amusing enough distraction, she could never love 'a man of letters'. She had to be protected by someone strong. Chivalrous. Some like the Comte de Toulon!"

"And so...?"

Amir sank back to the bed, pitched his elbows atop his knees and let his head sink to his chest in defeat.

"And so I had Renne head to the tournament grounds, to add my name to the Grand List." Amir said at last.

"You are truly a donkey-within-a-donkey, al-Wajid." Khaveed said.

"Wait, what time is it? Perhaps if we hurry we can-"

"You cannot remove your name now, you fool." the prior panic in Khaveed's voice had given way to a heartless resolve. "You server at his majesty's pleasure. To strike your name from the lists now that it's been seen would dishonor all of Masyrpt."

The taller envoy stepped forward and seemed to grow larger still. Naked as he was, Amir felt abruptly colder in Khaveed's shadow than the climate should allow. The green eyes that stared back at him grew brilliant.

"Oh no, Amir. You'll fight - and die if that's what it takes - to preserve the honor of the Sultanate. You've no other choice."

 

[Fist of Ostrien]

Ser Johann von Richter
Knight of the Empire
Amelia Wulfhart | Open​

​

Johann did not look at her immediately.

The banner of Von Richter had only just been raised, its weight settling into the morning stillness like a verdict. The last of the pavilion cords were being drawn taut when the voice reached him, carried cleanly across the narrow space between camps. Ser Johann von Richter adjusted the gauntlet at his wrist, drawing the leather tight beneath the plate. A small, habitual motion. One done not from necessity, but from discipline. Then, and only then, did he lift his gaze.

His eyes passed first over Marguerite.

Measured. Polite.

"Guten Tag"

Then they settled on Amelia. There, they lingered. Not with admiration, not with surprise, but recognition. Not of the woman, but of what she was.

Armored. Ready. Restrained.

The kind that should not have been told no.

Johann stepped forward a single pace from his men, the weight of his presence quieting what little movement remained behind him. Mud shifted beneath his boots, still soft from the churn of war and recent construction alike. His helm hung at his side, held loosely, as if it were an afterthought. When he spoke, his voice was even and low, controlled, and without ornament.

"Ser Johann von Richter."

A pause, titles were not offered, not here. His gaze flicked once more to Amelia's armor, the wolf emblazoned in gold, the wings upon her back, the warhorse beneath her shifting with restrained violence. Then back to Marguerite.

"If the lists hold," he said, "then yes."

There was no flourish to it. No boast. No courtesy beyond what was required. Only certainty, his eyes returned to Amelia once more, more direct now.

"You ride as one intending to compete."

Not a question.

A statement.

A test.

A beat.

His hand settled lightly on the pommel of his sword.

"We will be in the lists," he finished, his tone unchanged. Another pause, then, quieter... almost an afterthought, though it was anything but, "And we will be watching."

Only then did he incline his head, just enough to acknowledge them, but not enough to yield anything more.

The kind of respect given between predators.

And nothing else.

 

[Amelia Wulfhart]

Amelia looked down from her horse at the older man addressing her, cold and impassive as she took the measure of him quietly. Her posture was like that of a predator, bunched musculature coiled and bound, ready to be unleashed, her expression neutral. She was not nervous or anxious, not eager or restless, just prepared for the moment. "I will compete." Amelia said just loudly enough to be heard, giving the man the same nod he offered, mimicking him, though she did not fully understand why.

"So severe," Marguerite said, with a smile, turning to Elspeth and whispering something unheard. "Amelia, do try to be polite. We are representing father and his new title." she waved to Elspeth and one of the guards nonchalantly, "Let's go find a seat in the stands and let Ami and the boys brood at each other." She said playfully, nudging her steed to take her away towards the stands, leaving the servants to see to the pavilions being erected while Amelia sat upon Herakon, the pure black destrier pawing the ground and snorting.

She waited for the tent to be put up and then nodded her head to the rack of lances, "Bring those with you," she said to her squire, Tomas, who had dismounted beside her. "Yes, my lady." The teen said with a nod, turning quickly and getting a hand from one of the servants to carry the rack to the lists behind Amelia. She rode forward, weaving through the field to see what banners had already arrived. Most she did not recognize, but a few, the hollow sunburst of the von Brechts, the Iron fist of von Annenfeld, a Demici crimson cross, stood out. Major families with long histories that had been at the center of politics and nations for many years, long before her father rose to power in the Imperial Fiefs.

Marguerite and Elspeth settled into a seat lower on the stands than the higher houses, but deliberately one a bit lower than her status as envoy to one of the Imperial Prince-Electors might indicate. The two women sat comfortably, their escort taking a seat behind them trying to take up as little room as possible and avoid drawing attention. "I saw a lot of great houses' colors in the lists. It should be an interesting tournament. I am curious to see how she does outside the local tourneys, with real challengers."

"I find them kinda boring. What's the appeal of seeing them beat each other with sticks." Elspeth murmured quietly.

"It is seconds of thrill, broken up by hours of quiet tension." Marguerite whispered with some small amusement. "We should pick knights to give favors too. Perhaps young von Brecht, I saw his banner. Or that young one with the blue and gold colors."

"Oh, I should have given mine to Ami!"

Fist of Ostrien | Amir al-Majid | Lilianna von Osthaus

 

[Amir al-Majid]

Amir cupped his hands into the barrel, allowed them to fill with rainwater and then splashed it across his face. The water carried with it the chill of the dawn air but the young noble hardly noticed. He had found himself in the grips of an ill humor, a cold sweat riddling the entirety of his body. The day since his horrifying realization had been one spent in worry and anxiety. Years had passed since his service in the Sultan's cavalry, since he had last swung a sword in violence. What hope could he nurture here?

"The honor of Masyrpt." he muttered disdainfully, bitterly recalling Khaveed's words. "What possible honor's to be found in being beaten into the mud by some provincial brat stinking of horse piss?"

Despite the early hour, the grounds were already growing lively. Knights, nobles, squires, vendors, and townspeople bustled and jostled for seats and drink. Amir himself stood near the center of the competitor's pavilions, a long row of brightly colored canvas tents that the combatants used to prepare and rest in. Most bore the sigils or banners of the occupants houses, presumably having been constructed especially for the day's events. Even in the morning's half-light, they added a dazzling festivity to the scene.

As impromptu as his participation in the tournament had been, Amir was forced to rely upon the Comte de Toulon's charity. While grateful not to be relegated to prepare in some dung-riden pasture, his accommodations were modest when compared to its neighbors. The single-poled tent was a drab, pea-green affair, devoid of any decorative bunting or festive garlands. He found the interior equally spartan, consisting of little more than a thin cot, a scarred table, and a dingy armor stand.

The entire thing would look more at home in a hunting camp than at a grand tourney.

"Amir!" Khaveed called out. Amir turned to see the envoy approaching, a larger man in tow. As they neared, he could see the unfamiliar figure was young, no more than a boy really, and yet despite this youth was tremendous in size. He wore a look of bored dullness on his ruddy features that suggested a life fit for little more than farmwork.

'Or watching nobles choke to death on their own blood.' he reflected. The boy wore the violet livery of the Comte de Toulon.

"This is Torin." Khaveed said when they stood before him. "One of the Comte's men. He has agreed to squire for you today."

"You have my thanks, Torin." Amir said, clapping the boy on one brawny arm. "Keep me armed and armored and I'll do the rest."

Torin offered a dull blink.

"I-I think I need a drink of wine." al-Majid said. But already Khaveed had taken hold of one of Amir's arms and was eagerly steering him toward's the entrance of the tent.

"Later Amir." he said, "First you must dress."

 

[Sultan Al-Masri]

As the strands of light first broke through his tent, the Pearl Merchant was busy preparing his set of armor before the matches started later on today. He wasn't used to wearing all of this armored chainmail and plate. At sea, all this suit would mean a slow death in the water as your own armor dragged you down to the sea floor. On land, however, it was the only thing to prevent you from getting skewered. And Sultan wasn't about to die from a melee event gone wrong.

Finished checking his rented suit of armor was fully complete and that he hadn't been swindled by the local armorer, something else made itself known. Coming from the bird cage beside his bed, it seemed someone was awake, as its loud peeps could probably be heard even outside the tent. "Ah, Sakhib... I was wondering when you would finally wake." The sailor casually walked over the stand, raising his arm out for the little finch to hop up his arm, finding its favorite nest in his hat. "Let's see how our lady is doing and then we can get you some big fat juicy worms." The happy unseen chirps made the old sailor smile. "Yeah, thats what I thought you would say."

As Sultan pushed the curtain apart seperating his tent from the outside world. It seemed like the tourtmant ground was in full swing, with various pages and orderilies running around for their masters, courtiles walking around and enjoying the day while idely gossiping and blacksmiths and merchants shouting out their products from various booths. It certainly was a Tourney Day.

The tent beside his lay silent, its occpant still resting inside. Now that wouldn't do now would it. "Lady Amra?! Sleeping in is an undesireable vice for a noble lady such as yourself. Come out and greet the day with me!" He hesiated to actually go inside. Seeing a lady in her undergarments wasn't something one can escape slander from. If she let him in however... Well that he wouldn't stop.

Amra bint Nasir al-Zahra

 

[Leopold von Aulitz]

Location: Annenfeld - Louressen
Tags: [OPEN]

​

​

Two days ago...

"Wann sind wir zuletzt so weit nach Westen vorgedrungen, mein Herr?"

"Hmm...Vor über einem Jahr, glaube ich. Vor dem Krieg. Vor welchem auch immer, nehme ich an ..." The Count's voice drew somber, recalling a bygone era that seemed further away than simply a year ago. When he was a loyal subject of Osterreich; a bannerman to the Emperor of all Ostermen. But now, although he breathed the same air today that he thence breathed so proudly, today it was "foreign" air upon foreign soil. His horse trotted upon the same worn roads he had trod many times before, in the western heartlands of Annenfeld. Back then, he was among countrymen as he rode through the townships and villages scattered about. Yet now, the air was altogether different.

Not all of the peasant-folk in the past recognized the coat of arms emblazoned upon his banner; the red lion reared back upon a field of yellow, emblazoned in red. He was but a bannerman of a bannerman to the Emperor - recognizable to the people of Pomergratia perhaps, but not universally throughout the Reich. But after the war for succession that was meant to overthrow the yoke of an oppressive Emperor and grant freedom to the different Ostermen states of the east, the Red Lion of Austerlitz was made infamous across the land. During the Battle of Karcresh, Leopold led a host of a thousand horsemen - men of Austerlitz all - and charged to a man into the rear of the Ostermen siege.

Combined with the efforts of all the different rebel lords, Ceshemia won the day.

It was through those actions that Leopold won the favor of Martin I to grant legitimacy to his bastards and secure his line. But it was also through those actions, that even a year after the battle, widows and bereft mothers spat at the hoofs of his horse as he rode through the towns of eastern Ostrien. Thousands died at Karcresh, on both sides. But mothers rarely cared about the deaths of other sons across the river. They only wept over their own bereft wombs; the empty chairs at the table, and the untouched beddings within their hovels...

Even still, the two nations that emerged from the war were now at peace, with meant that Leopold could ride in peace along the roads of the Reich, even though he was now a foreigner...

'Traitor...' he often thought of himself. His blood bled Ostermen red, and although he remained loyal to his liege lord; not a day went by where he did not reflect upon those days. A part of him died when the war began, and the pain of his personal loss remained evergreen as they made their way through the Reich.

Eventually, the vitriol died off the further west they rode, making the ordeal of resupply altogether easier. It was why they rode more casually now, at the edge of Louressen - bags wagons full of what they needed for the impending tournament. For his part, Leopold was adorned in a simple, mustard-yellow riding tunic and brown riding trousers - the legs of which tucked neatly within his boots, and his hands were covered in well made riding gloves. A bastard sword was sheathed at his hip, the pommel of which rising up to his chest as the horse bobbed lazily underneath him. A gust of wind rippled through his shoulder-length blonde hair, as if the memory of his homeland was caressing his cheek like a long-lost lover.

Silence settled between the two-score party - a retinue of sorts accompanying the Count to the tourney. All within his household knew that The War was a sensitive subject to their liege, and rarely wished to disturb him when his thoughts turned melancholy at its mention. But that did not deter young Siegfried...

"Das ist das erste Turnier, auf dem ich seit Dragodova war." The young boy, who looked every bit the image of his father from the days of his youth, rode up next to Leopold and glanced up. The only difference between father and son was the deep blue eyes of Siegfried versus the hazel green eyes of Leopold. Siegfried gave a warm smile to his father, nudging him slightly as if to prod his father from his self-imposed stupor. "Du solltest mich antreten lassen! Ich habe trainiert."

At first, Siegfried's words were distant as Leo focused on the events of the past year, but he was soon brought back to reality at his son's insistence. A faint smirk flashed across his lips as his head shook sideways slowly. "Du kennst meine Antwort bereits." The Count's voice was low, yet possessed of warmth from the smile on his lips despite the firmness of his words. What was it? Perhaps the roguish smile on Seigfried's face, or maybe the subtly arched eyebrow.

"Das Turnier ist für Ritter, und du bist bloß ein Knappe. Eines Tages wird deine Zeit kommen – doch heute ist nicht dieser Tag."

"Natürlich, denn das Turnier ist morgen." Siegfried's smile grew impish, drawing both a raised eyebrow from his father and stifled laughter from select members of the retinue. Leopold held his silence as he just stared at his son, long enough for both Siegfried to roll his eyes and shrug, and for Leo to smile and shake his head once more.

"Möge Gott deinen Feinden beistehen, wenn du ein Ritter bist.."

​

 

[Giancarlo Demici]

Tags: Fist of Ostrien, Amelia Wulfhart, Lilianna von Osthaus, Vulpesen, Falauna Thorne, Elisabeth von Annenfeld, Coenred Raedwald, Amir al-Majid, Sultan Al-Masri

Interacting with: Leopold von Aulitz

Under A Violet Moon

The servants followed Giancarlo's instructions to the letter, beginning their establishment of the camp by unpacking food and drink. Several rounds were consumed by all in the party before the first tent stake was even driven into the ground, loosening the group up for the night's festivities. As they eventually set to work with setting up the rest of the camp, Giancarlo's eyes scanned the myriad of tents and pavilions, tallying who had bothered to show their faces to the tournament. Where others might have seen a rival, Giancarlo saw opportunity. Business lurked around every corner of canvas, if one had the mind to seek it out. And seek it out he would... in due time.

Among the numerous banners and flags, one in particular caught his eye. A red lion on a field of yellow cast its shadow in the distance, prompting him to smack Nicolo's shoulder and promptly causing the man to spill wine on his tunic.

"That banner... I can't place it, but it seems... familiar."

Nicolo wiped the wine from his tunic before shifting his attention to the red lion in the distance.

"I believe it is that of Leopold von Aulitz."

There it was.

"Ah, I see..."

Giancarlo chewed the inside of his cheek as he continued inspecting the banner. He had not been present at the battle of Karcresh, but considering his nephew's involvement, there had been a need to gather what information he could. The act of any member of the family affected them all, and therefore such actions had to be accounted for. Investments had to be shifted, damage had to be controlled... and all of it cost money.

"Well, I suppose I should make myself known, then!"

Another smack to the shoulder sent the rest of Nicolo's wine flying as Giancarlo began his saunter toward the camp of Leopold von Aulitz. His hand reached out, quickly swiping a bottle of wine before leaving his party, his body swaying as if a silent song danced through the air around him as he approached the stranger's camp.

 

[Theodoric de Mereling]

Spots of sunlight gleamed betwixt the interknit canopy of the western woodlands, dappling an enchanting luminescence across vibrant greenery and the well-trampled road that cleaved through it all. Spring had arrived in the land in full force, proliferating fresh growth; the scars of recent history were all but buried beneath the thriving ferns and shrubbery. Though for all of nature's efforts to reclaim the wild, Mankind would not be stifled. The hard-packed earth of the path laid marked by wagon-ruts and hoofprints in their hundreds stamped over just the past day alone, the bushes and saplings at the roadside cut away to give clearance for the wagon convoys and tsunami-flow of travelers summoned by the announced occasion being held just beyond its verge. Along that road, a young lad atop a galloping courser hurled up the track toward a leisurely approaching procession.

"Ah, there is the lad at last." The mustachioed knight whom rode beside the Viscount at the core of the entourage nodded his his head toward the youth, the rushing messenger's urgency twisting the older man's lips into a smirk. "You would think all the hounds in Louressen were at his heels!"

"For all he knows, they could be. You forget sometimes, André; most of the youths serving our coterie remember the black eagles over Coeur-de-Merélais less than fondly. We'll need keep an ear out that they don't share choice words with the wrong people whilst we're here. Come, boy- you procured the list?" The man André spoke to parried the grey-hair's mocking sentiment with a finger to the temple. He looked away to address the youth in question as they drew up alongside, accepting the sheets of parchment thrust his way before the exhausted messenger broke off to join the back of the train.

Amber eyes scanned over the chart of the coming competitions, the noble's fair countenance beginning to sport a smile of its own. The man, Theodoric, saw his own name scribed in the final rosters for both the opening joust and the subsequent melee pairings- just as he had hoped, a fine opportunity to make first impressions on foreign worthies.

"What has you so entertained, Monsieur Vicomte? That you are paired to a man emblazoned as a cabbage?" André inquired with a curious brow, leaning across in the saddle to observe the listings and devise the source of his master's humor.

"Amusing, but no- by some stroke, I've ended up among a handful of competitors whom risk one less round than the rest, all the closer to grasping the victor's laurels. How unusually fortunate; I'd jest that my uncle's played a trick on us, but I wager he would have put his own name into that lucky pot given the chance." Theodoric gave an easy chuckle, but mused nonetheless at the odd turn. "And look here," he passed the rosters over to his man, "That Masyrpti envoy has somehow found himself in both events. I don't envy him, poor devil. The lists hardly seem his forté from what I've heard of the man, slated against an Osterman she-wolf no less. Hah- I wonder how a thrashing will colour his opinions on our kingdoms."

"We will be able to read all about it after the fact, in the most colorful language he can imagine I am sure. Now, straighten up princeling. The trees are thinning ahead and we're nearly at the field, we want the masses to get the right idea of you." The knight André snarked, folding the contests' rosters under arm to take the reigns, riding forward to set the pace for the host's arrival.

-

Amidst the treeline, a fresh column of mounts and hangers-on disgorged from the mouth of that long road back to Merélais. Men-at-arms proudly strut their destriers, a brightly-coloured banner flown overhead; the golden lion upon a gules field that was the adopted arms of Vicomte Theodoric de Par'leau, the son of the recently-minted Count Maximilian of that same region. Proudly liveried retainers marched at the fore and flank, bearing the heraldic badge of their noble employer. And there, at the heart of the parade, was he- a knight in brilliantly white-enameled armor, a fair head taller than the men nearest him. Brilliantly golden locks bounced with the gait of his mount, framing a face of strong features and a similarly-hued gaze. His company trot into the lanes that divided up the tourney grounds, making their way for the sites of the Noble Pavilions and putting on quite a show as many earlier arrivals already had.

Sighting the planted heraldry of his Demici relatives through the flock of badges, Theodoric pointed out the site to his entourage and directed they find a suitable tract nearby enough that the two camps might mingle together in the imminent festivities. As for himself, the bright-eyed Vicomte descended from the saddle and struck off on his lonesome into the crowds, pursuing a glimpsed glint of gilded plate weaving across the grounds.

 

[Amra bint Nasir al-Zahra]

The flap of her tent opened behind him before the last of his words had fully settled into the morning air.

"Then you are fortunate, Sultan," Amra said smoothly, "that I have no intention of aiding vice today."

She stepped from the narrow lane between the tents with the composed grace that seemed to belong to her no matter the ground beneath her feet, whether mosaic marble or trampled tournament grass. She was already dressed for the day, not in heavy finery but in practical elegance suited to the spectacle around them. Layers of soft cream and deep saffron were belted neatly at the waist, the fabrics rich without ostentation, her veil pinned back enough to leave her face uncovered in the private comfort of their camp. Fine bracelets glimmered faintly at one wrist when they caught the sun.

In one hand, she carried a brass tray. Upon it rested a polished pot of tea, two small cups, and a dish of dates and sugared almonds clearly claimed from some vendor before the camp had fully stirred.

Her dark eyes flicked from him to the armor laid ready inside his tent, then back again with measured amusement.

"You shout for a noble lady to greet the day while standing half-dressed in borrowed steel." She arched a brow. "Bold behavior from a man concerned with slander."

Without waiting for an invitation, she crossed the remaining distance and set the tray atop a nearby crate between their tents. Steam curled upward, carrying the scent of mint and spice.

"I woke before dawn," she continued, pouring with the steady hand of one long practiced in small civilities. "The blacksmiths began hammering before sunrise, two pages quarreled outside my canvas over whose lord was the greater swordsman, and someone's horse has opinions on everything."

She offered him one of the cups.

"So I chose to salvage the morning before the rest of the world ruined it."

Only then did her gaze settle fully on the armor once more, traveling over chain and plate with thoughtful scrutiny.

"Tell me truthfully," she said, handing him the tea, "can you still move in all of that, or must I fetch a crane to place you on your horse?"

Sultan Al-Masri

 

[Sultan Al-Masri]

No matter how Lady Amra dressed or how she wore her jewelry, she always took Sultan's breath away. And the other men around did too, if he had a guess. In the distance, he heard the sudden yelp of a workman having dropped a piece of lumber on his foot after losing his senses at the sight of this exotic delight. And surprisingly, she had a brain connected to that beauty, which he admired all the more.

The Pearl Merchant could help but shake his head and chuckle as he bowed in greeting to her. "You cut me to the quick as always, My Lady." In his usual long red vest covering a cotton shirt and pants, he sat down with her at their makeshift table. He and Amra were close... professionally close despite all the rumors his crew spread.

When the Lady had introduced, he had bitten on the opportunity to have a noblewoman in his corner to introduce him and his product to markets and courts he could only dream of entering. And the Merchant gave her the ability to keep her hands clean if anything... untoward needed to be done, as well as helping plan out her return to be the head of a reformed House al-Zahra. Benefits aside, he had met no one else who made him smile quite like she did. His first love would always be the sea, but if he were to have a mistress, it would be her in a heartbeat.

Taking one of the almonds and offering it to Sakhib, Sultan met her comments with a wry smile. "Yes, well, I think we all can do with a little slander in our lives now and then. Makes it more interesting." Sakhid quickly broke the almond's hard shell with his beak while Sultan tried to make sure the bird didn't choke on its meal. "And no, I wouldn't know how to ride on one of the War Beasts, and even if I did, I don't know how I would last against those who have been riding since birth. Plus, I would rather fall from my feet rather than from the back of a horse. No, no, I just signed up for the Melee as a flight of fancy. With all the talented fighters in it, I'll be lucky to get past the first round. Still, it will be nice to face a new opponent instead of just those on my crew. Keeps me sharp."

Taking a sip of his tea, Amra could see his charming viper-like smile behind his cup. "But if this is you wanting my company, my Lady, I would happily drop out for you just to escort you to the jousting grounds and back. I've heard this is the first Joust they've had in the region for some time. It will be quite the show."

Amra bint Nasir al-Zahra

 

[Leopold von Aulitz]

Location: Tournament Grounds, Basteaux
Tags: Giancarlo Demici | Theodoric de Mereling

​

​

Soon enough, the company of Austerlitz arrived at the Basteaux grounds and made their way to the barricaded quarter housing the tents of the noble attendees and competitors. Gaining entry was a matter of short order, for at the sight of the Red Lion, the guards merely moved aside as they grumbled silently to themselves.

By evenfall, a clutch of pavilions bearing the sigil of von Aulitz arose near the west edge of the encampment, encircling a series of cookfires as the household servants began preparing the evening meal. For his part, Leopold let out a sigh of relief as he unbuttoned his collar and set himself down onto a canvas, foldable chair by the cookfire nearest his tent. For the previous week, Leo had spent every night on the road with his retinue, and unlike most noblemen he was not averse to mingling and conversing with them. As a Count, his household was respectable yet modest - not so small as a Baron but not so august as a Duke or Margrave, much less a Prince.

He knew most of his servants by name, and on occasions where he found himself traveling with them, made it a point to grant some of his time to make idle conversation in repose. He enjoyed the stars above his head while feeling the radiance of a cookfire, and it did not hurt the situation that a rather pretty servant-girl was tending the stewpot hovering over the fire. As a younger man, Leo had acquired the reputation of something of a charmer of women - as evidenced by the birth of his two bastards. There was a discussion to be had about the rightness of that reputation to be sure - for he loved their mother, and they were married in the eyes of god until his father had the union annulled.

But the reputation was borne nonetheless, which caused the more pious of the village peasantry to judge him harshly at first. Yet when he arose to lordship upon his father's passing, he had earned their respect through the years - both harsh and abundant. Even still, the reputation morphed into that of curiosity. The occasional, adventurous (or perhaps naive) young woman would glance in his direction and blush with a faint smile, as though they had a chance of their fantasy becoming a reality. The truth was much further from whatever idly fancies there were.

Details notwithstanding, Leopold wore a stain on his armor for a number of years due to his annulled marriage, explained away as 'yet another case of a young man sowing his wild oats'. It was likely a key reason he had remained single these many years. Frederike von Brecht was one such woman; one Leopold had grown to admire, yet viewed as a touch above his station. She was regal and striking as any true Osterman woman would be, yet equally as pious and honorable on her own merit. He was unsure for her part; yet on his account, he felt there was something between them. Yet, marriage was rarely an effectuation of love - and here he was, single and stealing glances at the shapely serving woman who shot him spare glances in between stirring and tending the fire...

Leopold's musings were interrupted by the sound of one of his guardsmen greeting a stranger. Given the relative safety of the encircled Pavilion Quarter, his men at arms were not at the same heightened state of alert as they were when trekking the countryside, yet they still remained alert nonetheless.

The guard in question wore a studded riding jerkin and simple trousers with a tabard bearing von Aulitz' sigil in the front. At the sight of the swooning Giancarlo Demici, the guard did not specifically recognize him, yet still had the sense and intuition to discern he was likely a nobleman of some sort. Not perceiving an immediate threat, the guard stood fully upright and rested his dominant hand over the hilt of the sword within his waist-strapped scabbard, but otherwise adopted a relaxed posture. His voice greeted the stranger loudly, yet not in an unfriendly manner: "Wie kann ich Ihnen helfen, mein Herr?"

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