Open Chronicles The Tournament of Tides

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vilen Blackhart Jason Chronicles

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

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

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

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


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

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


Monroe Olvir

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nacht

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

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

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

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

Ostrum Brandish

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

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

Click to expand...

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

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

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

Perrine Urahil Jason Chronicles

Maybe this had been somewhat of a mistake.

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

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

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

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

The damned luck he had.

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nacht

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

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

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

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

Ostrum Brandish

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

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

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

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

Nacht

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

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

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

Ostrum Brandish

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

Love.

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

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

Olvir Marta Martigan