Duel Tourney at Basteaux | Coenred Raedwald vs Leopold von Aulitz

[Fist of Ostrien]

The Prince of Vandemar vs The Lion of Austerlitz
Coenred Raedwald vs Leopold von Aulitz​

The second evening broke over Basteaux not with stillness, but with movement.

What had been a sea of tents, banners, and restless anticipation on the first day, now stirred into full life beneath a clear and rising sun. The Tourney grounds, sprawled beyond the city's outer walls, swelled with color and purpose as nobles, knights, merchants, and common folk alike were drawn toward a single point... the Grand Lists.

At first it was a trickle.

A pair of squires rushing past with polished helms cradled in their arms. A cluster of lesser knights fastening gauntlets as they walked. A family weaving through the lanes of pavilions, the father urging haste while the children strained to glimpse the field beyond. Then the trickle became a current, crowds pressed forward in growing numbers, the murmur of voices rising into a steady roar as people funneled toward the great wooden stands that encircled the jousting field. Boots struck packed earth in hurried rhythm. Silk brushed against chainmail. Laughter, wagers, and shouted predictions mingled freely in the air. Vendors abandoned idle waiting and seized the moment, hawking wine, roasted meats, and ribbons bearing the colors of favored houses. All of it flowed toward the Lists.

The field itself stood pristine amidst the backdrop of chaos. The tilt barrier ran like a dividing spine down its center, freshly set and unmarred, at either end, the gates remained closed, guarding the approach where knights would soon thunder forth. The sand had been turned and leveled, awaiting the first violent passage of hooves. Above it all rose the Grand Stands, tiered and filled with a tide of spectators finding their place. Cloth-of-arms draped the railings: wolves, suns, ravens, lions, each banner snapping in the morning wind. Yet even this was not the heart of the spectacle, that honor belonged to the Imperial Stand. Set at the centerline of the Lists, elevated above all others, it had been transformed into a seat of power befitting the rulers of the Holy Osterman Empire, otherwise known as the REICH OF OSTRIEN. Silken canopies in black and gold were drawn taut overhead, their edges embroidered with imperial sigils that gleamed in the light. Banners bearing the double-headed eagle hung in perfect symmetry, framing the space where sovereignty itself would sit.

Imperial attendants moved with precision and urgency. Cushioned seats were inspected and adjusted. Goblets of polished silver were set upon carved tables. A retinue of guards in immaculate armor took their positions with rigid discipline, halberds grounded in unison as they secured the perimeter. Chamberlains murmured to one another, ensuring that every detail, every fold of cloth, every placement of standard was met with perfection for soon all eyes would turn there.

Soon, the Emperor and Empress would take their place above the Lists, and the Tourney of Basteaux would truly begin.

A trumpet rang out.

It cut through the noise and stilled the field. From the edge of the Lists, beneath a banner marked with the sigil of the Tourney, an announcer stepped forward, his voice carrying with practiced authority across the gathered multitude.

"Hear now, lords and ladies of the Empire! Hear now, goodfolk of Basteaux and beyond!"

A hush fell, broken only by the distant flutter of banners.

"We gather beneath the gaze of His Imperial Majesty and Her Radiant Grace to witness the sixth contest of this most noble Tourney!"

He turned, extending an arm toward the far gate.

"Entering the Lists, our final joust of the day! His Royal Highness, the Prince of Vandemar, Heir to Albion, Crown Prince Coenred of the House Raedwald!"

A brief pause, tension tightening like a drawn bowstring.

Then, with equal gravity, his voice rang again across the field.

"And his opponent, His Lordship, the Lion of Austerlitz, the Hammer of Pomegratia, Count Leopold von Aulitz!"

The gates stood ready.

The field waited.

"Challengers, please approach the field."

 

[The Soothsayer]

The Imperial Joust of Basteaux

Rules of the Lists as observed under the gaze of the Crown
The joust at Basteaux is a test not merely of strength, but of seat, timing, nerve, and presence. Each pairing rides three passes, with honor, spectacle, and precision weighed together in determining the victor.

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Before the First Pass

Each rider enters the Lists with certain advantages or hindrances shaped by reputation, preparation, and circumstance:

• Those who win the favor of the crowd—or receive tokens from noble hands—may ride with heightened confidence +1 to dice rolls for the thread.
• A swelling crowd may carry a knight forward… or leave them overshadowed +1 to dice rolls for the thread.

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The Passes of the Lists

• Riders begin at opposite ends of the field
• At the signal, they lower lances and charge
• Each pass is resolved with a single roll (1d20 + modifiers) using the onsite dice roller for posts / not Discord's Dice Maiden.
• The result reflects both the rider's control and the quality of their strike

Your post should bring that result to life—describe the charge, the clash, the aftermath.

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Judgement of Each Pass

Rather than simple success or failure, each charge falls into one of five outcomes:

• Disaster (1–4)
  A failed charge—loss of seat, missed strike, or broken rhythm
• Weak Showing (5–10)
  Poor contact, glancing blow, or compromised balance
• True Strike (11–15)
  A clean and controlled hit—worthy of acknowledgment
• Dominant Pass (16–19)
  A forceful and impressive strike—lance breaks, opponent shaken
• Masterful Impact (20)
  A near-perfect charge—devastating contact, possible unhorsing, the crowd in uproar

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How Victory is Determined

Each pass earns standing in the eyes of the judges:

• Disaster → No standing gained
• Weak Showing → Minor credit
• True Strike → Solid credit
• Dominant Pass → Strong credit
• Masterful Impact → Highest distinction

At the end of three passes:

• The rider with the greater overall standing is declared victor
• If neither yields, a final sudden pass decides the match

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On Honor, Spectacle, and the Crowd

While the Lists decide the outcome, the crowd decides legacy.

A knight who rides boldly, even in defeat, may earn:

• Favor from nobles
• Recognition among peers
• Future advantage in the Lists

Likewise, a victory without presence may be remembered… but not celebrated.

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Final Note

The joust is not a game of numbers—it is a performance of nobility under pressure.

Write accordingly.

 

[Coenred Raedwald]

These Erobans had strange customs. That was Coenred's overriding sensation as he began to don his armour, aided by a team of squires and adjutants. Each one the son of a noble house of Albion, each one the future of their land, the heir to some landed family that could decide the fate of the country in their own right one day. To have been appointed into the heir's service was a great honour, bestowed by the King himself as a favour of thanks or of guarantee. Keeping those who would benefit from the King's demise or weakening as close as they can to the inner circle might just keep their murderous ambitions at bay. It was a risky game but Coenred knew about risky games, none so risky as the day's combat.

The armour itself was of a kind suited to the contest rather than the field, lighter in burden yet no less deliberate in its assembly. A quilted gambeson was drawn close about him first, laced and settled by practised hands, before the mail shirt followed, its familiar weight resting across his shoulders like an old obligation. Over it came a simple helm, unadorned save for a modest crest, and a shield prepared in the colours of Albion, clean and unmistakable. There was little flourish in it, nothing that spoke of excess, only of purpose. Beyond the pavilion, his horse stood waiting, a broad-chested mount chosen as much for its steadiness as its strength, its tack already set and its breath slow in the cool of the morning. Coenred cast but a brief glance toward it as the final straps were drawn tight, knowing that before long the two would move as one, bound to the charge and whatever judgement the day might bring.

The squire that handed him his helmet was rosy-cheeked, a slight grin on his face as he went about his work. Coenred gave a bemused chuckle.

"Are you quite yourself, Aberthan? You seem half pleased I might be riding to an early grave?"

The squire's demeanour changed as quickly as it could, urgently fixing the last straps of the armour into place whilst muttering his excuses.

"Not at all, your Highness. I'm excited to see you fight, if I may beg your pardon," he blurted out, half scraping and bowing in the process. Coenred placed his gloved hand on Aberthan's shoulder and reassured the boy, no more than fifteen years of age no doubt, that he was in relaxed company, despite the trappings and strictures of courtly life, even in a court as newly established as Albion.

"I am glad you do not wish to see me beaten, is all," Coenred offered, taking the bridle of his mount and beginning to test every inch of his armour for mobility. The team of squires had already moved their long lances from the encampment to the main tournament square earlier that morning, watching guard lest any unscrupulous type think to interfere or fall foul of sabotage from a dubious person seeking favour with his opponent.

His ride was the sixth of the tournament, and the sensation of knowing he would perform in front of the Emperor's party was a strange one. He had little love for the courts of Eroba, but his father had ensured that Albion's ascension was one that would be noted by the Imperial court.

The trumpet reached him first, sharp enough to still the hand upon his horse's neck. No more waiting.

Coenred mounted in one smooth motion, settling into the saddle as the weight of his mail shifted and found its place. His heart had begun to quicken now, not with fear, but with the sharp clarity that came before action. He steadied the reins, murmuring low to the horse, and turned toward the gate as his name carried across the field.

Prince of Vandemar. Heir to Albion.

The words felt heavier here. He thought, briefly, of Gisele. Of her quiet composure, of the child she carried, of the future that pressed in on him from beyond the Lists. Not for glory, then. Not for spectacle. For them. The gate, at last, opened.
He rode forward into the light, the roar of the crowd rising to meet him. It struck hard, but he did not waver, guiding his mount with measured ease. Somewhere within it he heard them, the voices of Albion, calling his name above the rest.

He inclined his head just once.

Then he fixed his gaze ahead, the noise falling away as the field narrowed until there was only the length of the Lists, the weight of the lance to come, and the man waiting at the far end. The Lion of Austerlitz himself.

Leopold von Aulitz

 

[Leopold von Aulitz]

Location: Tournament Grounds, Basteaux
Tags: The Soothsayer | Coenred Raedwald

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Leopold always grew quiet at the outset of a battle, be it a tournament or otherwise. He stood within his pavilion wordlessly as his son finished with the clasps and straps at the back of his breastplate, and then with the help of another servant, slid a yellow hauberk adorned with the Red Lion of Austerlitz over his father's head and down, to settle atop the breastplate. Then, the two young men set about the shoulder pauldrons and sleeves.

In due course, Leopold would emerge from his pavilion as the very image of a knight clad in a deep blued-steel suit, and his head thus unadorned as his golden hair wafted in the breeze. With a grunt, he hefted himself atop his horse; a chestnut brown destrier with a sable tuft of hair that ran down the back of his neck, but was altogether unseen now with steel plate protecting the beast thence. The Osterman Knight clicked his tongue and nudged the warhorse onward, who set forth with a casual trot. The roar of the crowd within the lists was almost deafening, with Leopold exchanging glances with those amongst the crowd - meeting their gaze and nodding modestly, or on occasion waving with an understated gesture.

For those who did not know him, he was perhaps a reserved man of war unaccustomed to pomp or accolades. But for those who did know him, they knew he was mentally locked into the bout before him. As he entered the lists, Leopold paused as he regarded the knight opposite him - a prince no less. The Lion nodded out of respect to the Prince, and stared as he mounted his horse and prepped for the tilt before them. Yet as the announcer shifted to Leopold, the Count was about to do something that the Crown Prince did not - either because it had not occurred to him, or perhaps he did not care.

Leopold nodded to his squire, who gave him his helmet, and Leopold in turn slid it over his head. The lance was next to follow, yet instead of settling in and readying himself for the tilt - he guided his horse to the side and rode to the base of the viewing gallery, the crowd's mirth still present but dying down as they watched him closely. Many in attendance knew well that Pomegratia was no longer a fiefdom of the Reich, and they were all keen to observe why the Lion deigned to approach the Imperial dais. Leopold stopped, raised the visor of his helm with his shielded off-hand, and met the gaze of the Emperor and Empress.

The noise died, eventually allowing for Leopold to speak.

"Eure Kaiserlichen Majestäten – Ihr beehrt mich mit Eurem Segen, an diesem Turnier teilzunehmen."

His head bowed in deference to the royal pair, and he continued: "Trotz der jüngsten Ereignisse zwischen dem Großreich und Pomegratia bin ich nach wie vor Osterman – und ich erachte es noch immer als eine unermessliche Ehre, in Eurer Gegenwart zu weilen."

His horse stirred beneath him, yet the Lion of Austerlitz remained focused and undaunted. Internally however, his heart fluttered; for he knew well that as a representative of Pomegratia, whatever he deigned to say would possess a greater impact than a simple conversation. Words were wind, and yet wind could uproot the greatest of trees. A smiled softly, as if a touch of sorrow entered his eyes.

Yet he continued on: "Wenn es euren beider erlauchten Urteilen zufolge richtig erscheint; würde die Kaiserin mir ihre Gunst erweisen? Ich bin überzeugt, dass der Sieg dann gewiss wäre.."

Leopold tilted the tip of his lance to the dais in waiting for his answer. Many a noble would ponder over the gesture that Leopold was initiating, as many still assumed him to be a guileless and overly direct man. He was most certainly direct, yet he was aware of what he was going - in more ways than one. If the Empress, and by extension the Emperor refused him - it would set the tone for the remainder of the tournament, causing strife in the far west borne from recent conflict in the east. It would also bring into question the presumed magnanimity of the Emperor to 'allow' Leopold to come here in the first place, making the monarch appear weak. Yet, if the favor was granted, it would be an overture.

Many would assume it would be to the Great Goravolst as a whole, and rightly so. Yet what such observers didn't know is that the situation was also much simpler to Leopold than simple politics. To him, the Emperor was still the Emperor, and Leopold was still a man of Ostrein. The results of this gesture would communicate as much to him personally as it would politically.

Plus, perhaps it would unsettle the young pup opposite him on the field.

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[Lilianna von Osthaus]

Empress of Reich of Ostrien • Inquisitor 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 | Coenred Raedwald | Leopold von Aulitz​

Thanks to my education, I now recognised almost every symbol and heraldic pattern at a glance. The chief lady-in-waiting had insisted that an Empress must know these, along with at least a few words in the tongues of our vassals. Yet even without such training, I would have recognised this one. The man before us was one of my uncles, Karsten von Vasmer's, retainers, a vassal… which meant he served Tsar Martin I, and not Karl.

That made this… diplomatically delicate. I could not understand my uncle's decision. A traitor remains a traitor. Martin had betrayed Karl for his own power, and there was no certainty he would not betray those who now stood beside him as well.

They had not even given my husband the chance to act for the eastern region before they rose in rebellion. My family had not, yet they remained there, within that land. Perhaps my becoming Karl's wife, his Empress, was a form of protection, a reason not to dare strike at them, for it would be an act of war… and yet I worried for them every single day. I prayed to Theos that one day they might return to the Reich, and I asked Edom to protect them.

It was true that my uncle loved me. He had even attended our wedding. And still, there lingered a quiet bitterness, that he had betrayed the ruler… and the family.

And me.

Even before I had ever met Karl, at barely seventeen, I had stood in defence of him against the Eastern March. I had been raised to serve the ruler, and at that time, Karl had been our king… later, our Emperor. My family, my parents, their household, they had never ceased to recognise him as such. It felt strange, at times, that I now stood above them in rank.

At last, Lord Leopold looked toward Karl and then to me, and spoke. Diplomacy again. I had never liked it. Every word, every gesture had to be weighed, measured, planned, for all carried meaning. Karl and I both preferred the battlefield. There, at least, things were… clearer. For a brief moment, I glanced at Karl, to see if he would speak. But Lord Leopold continued, and as he asked for my favour, it became clear that I had no real choice.

For an instant, the world seemed to tilt. A wave of nausea rose sharply within me, but I forced it down. I did not like being seen, nor standing at the centre of attention. In truth, I would have gladly hidden behind Karl, letting him shield me from the gaze of the nobles… but I could not. The dizziness eased, though my heart still raced. I needed a moment before I could speak.

"I welcome you to the tournament, Lord Leopold. I, too, am pleased that despite past events, you have come today and chosen to take part in the joust." I told him.

I glanced to the side, away from Karl, and there, upon a tray, lay the imperial ribbon, prepared for the one who had asked for my favour. I could not refuse him. It would have stood in direct contradiction to Karl's open welcome, and any refusal, even one cloaked in reason would have been taken as an insult. It would have shown that the court had not forgiven the East, that our words were not matched by our deeds.

There was only one thing I could do. Accept… but on my own terms.

"Nothing could be more natural, Lord Leopold," I said with a polite smile, reaching for the ribbon and taking it into my hand.

As I rose and began to descend the steps, the dizziness returned, stronger, sharper. Weakness crept into my limbs, and the nausea threatened to rise again. I faltered for but a moment, hoping no one had noticed. I swallowed, closing my eyes briefly as the cool air brushed against my face, steadying me. Then, carefully, I continued down. The length of my gown likely made my movements seem measured, graceful… rather than unsteady. I told myself the carriage journey must have unsettled me more than I had expected. I had always preferred riding.

At the foot of the steps, I reached for the lance… and placed the ribbon upon it. I did not tie it. I simply set it there, allowing it to slide down toward Lord Leopold, leaving it for him to secure himself. In this way, I accepted his request… yet remained properly distant. I did not insult him. I did not shame him. But neither did I grant him more than was required. Etiquette allowed this, fortunately. He stood too far for me to tie it myself… and that, perhaps, was a gesture I would reserve only for one of my own family. At the end, I inclined my head to him with quiet formality.

"I trust my favour will bring you fortune, my Lord." I offered him a smile, though it was difficult to hold it upon my lips through the lingering sickness.

When the moment, this small interlude had passed, I turned away and made my careful return to my place. The weakness remained, the nausea with it, though the dizziness eased slightly. Of all moments… I had not wished to fall ill here, not during such an important public occasion.