Crumbli
the Tea Time Tyrant
Harold Solene 'the bastard of' DeRamure.
THE COURT OF KING MONTAIGNE, CLERMOT CASTLE
Shireling
Harold listens to Eduardo finding himself in agreement with his observations about the state of Oldenreich's bruised ego and caught off guard by his assessment of Espadan nobility and their interest in the cause. He knew that the situation is Espada was precarious with the new rebel nation declaring itself a holy state in the service of some backwater idol, but with such a looming threat on their doors it seemed a strange investment for them to put faith and resources in his own crusade. Regardless, this conversation seems more theoretical than absolute as no Espadan nobility had offered him troops or companionship yet. Even still with this new information under his hat he makes a note to appeal to Espadan nobility whenever he gets the chance, but to be modest in requests as they need their faithful and their outfitted more than most other nations do.
A toothy smile returns to him as the conversation veers from politics to other interests. "Politicking is an ugly necessity if you were to ask me, your highness. Must be spoken of but too easy to put others off by expressing your true intents." He takes his wine and raises it to his lips taking a larger mouthful than usual and swashing it from side to side a moment, ending in an obvious swallow. "War is simple on the other hand. There's no room for politicking in the thick of a battle or, ironically, when myself and a peer are dueling over the honour of disagreeing nobility. There is a beauty to it. A simplicity that daily life seems so eager to discard. If you've ever seen or read Narciso Rivera's," He raises his hand and begins to click his fingers as he searches for the name of the performance. "What was it? Narciso's, uh, Song of Ravens! Song of Ravens. Yes. If you've ever seen or read Song of Ravens you can really see a grim but beautiful description of the honesty of war. Wouldn't be surprised to find out he served sometime."
As the night grew old Harold's drinking slowed and his memory hazed. He could remember most of what happened. The conversations and singing and at one point dancing were ingrained into his memory to one degree or another but some parts escaped his sober judgement until further prompting by staff and others who had been with him. An example of a memory that needed such prompting was when the baron of Maroe challenged Harold to a duel and suffered an unfortunate slip that resulted in Harold's fist colliding with the poor baron's nose twice and his knee striking his gut.
In the early hours of the following morning Harold found himself less than eager to stir but his body had grown used to early rising from years of devoted service to the church and to work. He donned his most suitable attire for service and attended in relative silence. He knew most everyone there and sat beside his half-brother and father for the sake of reputation and a lack of questions. The service's conclusion gave him a chance to pursue something suitable for breakfast. He's given soft, hot bread and a pitcher of room temperature milk to quench his appetite. He drinks half the pitcher alone but leaves most of the bread behind not because of any faults with the bread but because he'd learned through years of jousting to never ride while full or bloated.
He arrives at his tent after being escorted by a stout but hardy woman with a weathered look to her eyes but youthful skin everywhere else. "God bless you," he says as she leaves and he takes immediately to a bucket of cold water with a rag thrown in. He undresses beside it to wear less formal and more combat efficient robes. While exposed he uses the rag to dab his forehead, his neck, his upper back and his chest before throwing the rag back and putting his undershirt on. Jousting was notoriously heavy and often required two or more people to help put it on but as usual Harold feels the need to do it by himself or not have it done at all. He takes longer than most other knights to get ready but as he finishes fastening his own breastplate he hears a jingling of spurs and turns his head. He barely feels the gauntlet on his shoulder but understands the gesture. "Where's the confidence in your mount that you showed last night, your highness?" The corner of his lips turn up but quickly return to a serious expression as he reaches for his coif to wrap around his head. "You'll do well. Place your faith in God and he'll take the sting from you. Besides, there's many here who've never even rode an armoured horse." He grabs his heavy helmet and puts it on over his padding, the fabric's bulk requiring some effort as he does so. "Strong faith and strong steel. The only things you need."
THE COURT OF KING MONTAIGNE, CLERMOT CASTLE
Shireling
Harold listens to Eduardo finding himself in agreement with his observations about the state of Oldenreich's bruised ego and caught off guard by his assessment of Espadan nobility and their interest in the cause. He knew that the situation is Espada was precarious with the new rebel nation declaring itself a holy state in the service of some backwater idol, but with such a looming threat on their doors it seemed a strange investment for them to put faith and resources in his own crusade. Regardless, this conversation seems more theoretical than absolute as no Espadan nobility had offered him troops or companionship yet. Even still with this new information under his hat he makes a note to appeal to Espadan nobility whenever he gets the chance, but to be modest in requests as they need their faithful and their outfitted more than most other nations do.
A toothy smile returns to him as the conversation veers from politics to other interests. "Politicking is an ugly necessity if you were to ask me, your highness. Must be spoken of but too easy to put others off by expressing your true intents." He takes his wine and raises it to his lips taking a larger mouthful than usual and swashing it from side to side a moment, ending in an obvious swallow. "War is simple on the other hand. There's no room for politicking in the thick of a battle or, ironically, when myself and a peer are dueling over the honour of disagreeing nobility. There is a beauty to it. A simplicity that daily life seems so eager to discard. If you've ever seen or read Narciso Rivera's," He raises his hand and begins to click his fingers as he searches for the name of the performance. "What was it? Narciso's, uh, Song of Ravens! Song of Ravens. Yes. If you've ever seen or read Song of Ravens you can really see a grim but beautiful description of the honesty of war. Wouldn't be surprised to find out he served sometime."
As the night grew old Harold's drinking slowed and his memory hazed. He could remember most of what happened. The conversations and singing and at one point dancing were ingrained into his memory to one degree or another but some parts escaped his sober judgement until further prompting by staff and others who had been with him. An example of a memory that needed such prompting was when the baron of Maroe challenged Harold to a duel and suffered an unfortunate slip that resulted in Harold's fist colliding with the poor baron's nose twice and his knee striking his gut.
In the early hours of the following morning Harold found himself less than eager to stir but his body had grown used to early rising from years of devoted service to the church and to work. He donned his most suitable attire for service and attended in relative silence. He knew most everyone there and sat beside his half-brother and father for the sake of reputation and a lack of questions. The service's conclusion gave him a chance to pursue something suitable for breakfast. He's given soft, hot bread and a pitcher of room temperature milk to quench his appetite. He drinks half the pitcher alone but leaves most of the bread behind not because of any faults with the bread but because he'd learned through years of jousting to never ride while full or bloated.
He arrives at his tent after being escorted by a stout but hardy woman with a weathered look to her eyes but youthful skin everywhere else. "God bless you," he says as she leaves and he takes immediately to a bucket of cold water with a rag thrown in. He undresses beside it to wear less formal and more combat efficient robes. While exposed he uses the rag to dab his forehead, his neck, his upper back and his chest before throwing the rag back and putting his undershirt on. Jousting was notoriously heavy and often required two or more people to help put it on but as usual Harold feels the need to do it by himself or not have it done at all. He takes longer than most other knights to get ready but as he finishes fastening his own breastplate he hears a jingling of spurs and turns his head. He barely feels the gauntlet on his shoulder but understands the gesture. "Where's the confidence in your mount that you showed last night, your highness?" The corner of his lips turn up but quickly return to a serious expression as he reaches for his coif to wrap around his head. "You'll do well. Place your faith in God and he'll take the sting from you. Besides, there's many here who've never even rode an armoured horse." He grabs his heavy helmet and puts it on over his padding, the fabric's bulk requiring some effort as he does so. "Strong faith and strong steel. The only things you need."
