Fantasy Drums of War [IC][Closed]

[Worthlessplebian]

His hands shook beneath the gauntlets. Poisoned by the adrenaline, he could not will the sickness in his stomach and the tremor in his limbs away, his breath shuddered in his helm. The sellsword reached up and undid the chinstrap. His features ragged, taut, deathly pale in the hard gloom of the corridor's craggy shadows. The intoxicating surge had gripped his body again — more potent, more sharp, sunken deep within his bones. Siert's hands were swollen by the time he entered the staging grounds from the lengthy corridor behind him; his brown eyes surveyed the people before him, picking out faces, twisted with animosity or suspicion or odium, Siert moved unbothered by their icy gaze. His avian companion, however, bore a predatory fury in its merciless, haughty eyes. Alighted on his shoulder, its feathers ruffled, Coen's mood remained bloody. The sellsword lifted his hand, brushing lightly against the bird's chest. With the agitation quelled, Coen beat his wings, taking flight to find a perch in darker corners of the grounds.

Siert sat down, unbuckling the binds of his gauntlets. His fingers bulged, knuckles raw and red. Slowly, he clenched then unclenched them, occasionally trying to rub away the stabbing, hot pain. His throat dry, longing for an ocean to drink. He threw his head back, further leaning on the chair's support, wiping away the exhaustion prickling his features. Then, the grounds resounded with the harsh thumps of sabatons and the tapping of weapons fast approaching the sellsword. Siert prised his hand away. Weary, dark eyes fixing the Master of Tournaments and his assembly of guards. Siert was the one who fought, but the Rules-keeper was jittery with hate. Siert could feel two gazes burning into him. That of the rage-fueled man before him and the animalistic cruelty of Coen behind him. It was futile to resist their wishes, his task was seen to completion. He stood slowly, gathering his belongings and departed with Coen in tow.

He had noticed Lord Jomier beckoning him earlier, though he displayed no sign of acknowledgement. Once he found his way to his employer, the sellsword spoke quietly as if he were in conversation with himself. "Well, not the first tournament to be ousted from, though certainly more bloodier than the others."

joshuadim

 

[Breadman]

"A shame when that happens, but what can you do?" Goldberd commented on the situation that unfolded before them. It was hard not to. For a few moments when he saw the master of tournaments barge into the room, he felt trepidation a pang of anxiety that it was he who was found out. Yet it was the sellsword that had advanced as far as he did in this tournament. He breathed in relief of this. "But about our business..." He returned his attention to the young lord in front of him. "The Highlord would have you even without my word, lad. It is your grandfather who needs to be convinced." He chuckled. "I'm sure if I vouch for you, my judgement would be tied to your fate as well. So if I do that, you would have to promise me that you wouldn't shirk off any duty related to scouting, foraging or subterfuge and perform them with notable skill. Can you do so, lord?"
joshuadim

 

[Vexumin]

It certainly didn't take long for Kyraug to pick up on the situation, not that any of the others took the time to spread what had happened to him. However, he is the head servant of House Bralmeyer. It was practically his job to pick up on information that must be shared with his lord. In this case, it was merely an expert level of snooping that allowed the Vadyeen to catch on. He glanced at Siert, his eyes narrowing slightly, but not with displeasure. If anything, he seemed to be measuring the fellow by deed, adding this one to the very top.

"Has his efforts to claim victory been sold off? To lay low a champion such as Sir Locke. One might think it a slight against his noble name and the Empire, unless it is not that complicated. Strange."

The Vadyeen frowns slightly but soon takes a breath.

"In truth, as unsporting as it is to admit, I am rather relieved. The Silver Lion was not someone that I was looking forward to facing should I get far enough. It is just a shame. Crippled in a tournament. A man like that deserves an honorable end to his career."

It was true, Kyraug was actually rather nervous about facing off against the Silver Lion until now. One of the few people that he was certain would give him a hard time. Sir Rozet was an unexpected surprise that he had only just managed to overcome. Whatever the case, the amphibious fellow had less to worry about now. Well... his eyes look towards Jendrick, the younger man also looking around to get the scoop about what had occurred. Kyraug breathed a sigh. If he had to fight Jendrick, he might find a greater challenge than he expects. He would also mourn having to give it his all to claim victory.

The Vadyeen looks to a Bralmeyer servant sitting off to the side with a spare tunic. He had been relieved of his other one after his injury. His chest was bare in the cold shadow under the arena. He was also garnering quite a few stares. Likely not because others find him appealing, not in the slightest. His chest is a tapestry of taught muscle, quite alien compared to human fleshiness and smoothness. He covered himself after a moment, as much as he would love to continue to make some here uneasy.

"Jendrick, I know it goes without saying, but mind yourself. This place is not quite as honorable as one may hope. If you are kept from competing due to underhanded actions from others, I would be beside myself. I will accept nothing less than facing you myself in the arena. However, should you fall victim to these rogues, I will avenge you," Kyraug says, those final words spoken in a rather teasing manner.

 

[joshuadim]

The Staging Grounds - The Grand Tournament
Vexumin [Kyraug], Breadman [Goldbert], Worthlessplebian [Siert]
​

Trudging away from the competitors with an aura that repelled the knights nearby, many of whom were silently watching and judging the mercenary as he walked off, until he was out of earshot and rounded the corner where he had spotted Jomier at earlier. In the privacy of the support beams and walls supporting the stands, the two were masked by both position and the ever present noises of the crowds above them. "Well done." Jomier commented with a grin, presenting Siert with a relatively fat pouch of coin for the taking. "The betting pools were shocked by the outcome, though we are walking away with a hefty profit for the both of us. Especially since I used a few mediators to place several with the books."

Siert had thus made Jomier that much more wealthy, given that his own cut was just a portion of his total winnings. Taking the pouch, it felt heavy in weight as he could hear the pieces inside clinking against one another like a ceremonious orchestra of wealth; it was undoubtedly more than he had been paid in at least several prior jobs combined. But it certainly was nothing compared to the vast wealth of a great house the likes of House Kalfas. But there was another portion of his payment, which was a silver talisman of a lion with eyes of jade glistening with beauty that was placed into his other hand.

"An additional reward for ruining Ser Locke in such a manner." Jomier explained with a impish grin, "I will very much enjoy the fact he will be leaning on a cane for the rest of his life." The words came out of his mouth with a certain restraint towards his hatred of the man, though it certainly was unclear as to what history the two shared to warrant such feelings in the first place.

Reimar shifted where he stood when Goldbert spoke, and nodded. "I can learn quickly." he insisted, although he wasn't particularly used to field work given his status. Even as a bastard he was rather insulated from the harsh realities of the world, save hunting for sport when House Kragh signalled the beginning of harvest celebrations with a boar sacrifice to the old gods. But eagerness could sometimes substitute for experience, especially in a difficult situation, as it brings out the best in certain people. Or it could expose them in much the same manner. But from appearances alone, the young Kragh didn't seem to be the type to run from the fight.

"I'll keep that in mind." Jendrick responded with a grin, "I doubt no lord wants to be bested by a commoner such as myself, especially this far into the tourney... who knows what they'll do to protect their image?" It was a prediction based on the egos of artistocracy, especially within such a stratified society, that made such motives all the more apparent when it came to maintaining the status quo. A commoner with no ties to any house would upend that with victory, showing that nobles were no more capable than a regular man. "Besides, I don't plan on going down too easily! I still need to have that bout with you." the young man then teased back with a mischievous smirk.

The horns sounded once more, drawing the attention of the remaining contestants back towards the arena, as the next round began. Reimar departed shortly thereafter with nod, and bid Goldbert best of luck in his bout. Even though he was not a noble, he was still a members of the Watchers and thus commanded the respect that came along with it - completely different to that of Jendrick's lowly status as a blacksmith's apprentice. The contestents gathered round and pushed forward into the Round of 16, strutting into the arena with the confidence afforded to them by their current victories.

---

The Melee - The Grand Tournament
Infab Vexumin Breadman Emperor Sagan K0mori​

The Round of 16 passed quickly, leaving 8 competitors left in the tournament for the Quarterfinals - the beggining to the greater event than what had come previously. Ser Faralt, of course, remained the favorite as he stood on the field with his graceful demeanor; it was no surprise to anyone that he had come this far, and was now set to fell Goldbert - who represented the Watchers of the Wall. Lord Kalfas was unfazed by the possibility of defeat, as he put his faith in the strength of his champion for such a prestigious event. His son did not share this confidence as he shifted nervously where he sat, observing the Watcher with narrowed eyes. "There's simply no way a knave such as him could have possibly made it through thus far." Alistair commented.

Lord Kalfas did not immediately comment as he remained face forward with arms crossed, a smirk painted by his lips as he watched the festivities. "...Father, what if this rogue is a cheat? A scoundrel much like that one that felled Ser Locke?"

"Ser Faralt is above and beyond the Silver Lion. You concern yourself over nothing." Leon's words cut through the air like a knife, drawing the attention of Aulen - cutting her own conversation with her son short - as she shot a glance towards the two feuding men.

"Tsk, I try to give you a damn warning old man and you-"

"You give nothing but prattling that grates my ears. You should only speak when you have something *important* to voice." Lord Kalfas shot back, his face remaining forward. But his eyes threw a glare like daggers to his side. "We lions do not concern ourselves with the threats of sheep and rats."

"Now, now, let's now make a scene. Not when our triumph is at hand." Aulen cut in to defuse the situation, turning her head back to Lodric with a gentle and calculated smile. "Victory here assures prestige that we need to claim the throne. Anything other than that sullies that chance." Lodric could only meekly nod along to his mother's words, though his heart was clearly not in it. Leon noticed his grandson's demeanour and furrowed his brow: "Boy, you are being given the path to power and still you dance around the issue like a damn mouse. You have a duty to your House to seize such power."

"...power you'd control." Lodric muttered, a whisper in the wind, that Leon caught and nearly exploded in frustration from. But another quick glance from Aulen dulled his wrath and left him seated as he returned his attention back to the game. Lord Kalfas held no care for how much he was resented by his own blood, as the endgame was all that mattered to him. It would be Kalfas establishing a dynasty and rebuild the empire from the incompetence of older emperors. Ser Faralt in the meantime observed his opponent with an owl-like vigilance, watching every movement - no matter how minor - as he maintained a fighter's composure with a cross-legged stance.

With his rapier by the side, Ser Faralt then spoke up to his opponent: "Fight well."

The other competitors stood tall in the arena, which included Kyraug as he had bested Ser Chabert just earlier to advance further. His next opponent, however, was one that he had conversed with up until this point. Jendrick had surprised the entire arena, Lords included, with a victory over Ser Mazzano of the Blackwater; his sheer strenght was a sight to behold as he had practically lifted the armoured man above his head and thrown him onto the ground with such force that he was knocked out. As such, he had now garnered an almost mystical presence among the commoners as the people's champion. Such an advancement was unheard of in Imperial history, and now he was facing off against another anomaly.

No non-human had ever advanced this far into such tournaments before, given the skill disparity between tribal and reigonal warriors and full on knights of the realm. But Kyraug had defied expectations with his agility and speed, and put to good use the formal skills he had been given by his masters in order to fight against the greatest warriors of the Empire. Many still held their prejudices, but there were audibly more cheers for the Vadyeen than there had been at the start. It was a duel of miracles, for the both of them, as Jendrick waved over to Kyraug: "Told ya! I don't go down that easy!" His confidence was almost bordering on arrogance, and yet he retained that light-hearted demeanour that he always carried. But it was not lost on him the weight of the people's aspirations being placed upon him.

"Now, we just gotta give 'em a good show right?" he then said as the two of them took their position in their corner of the arena for their bout. The blacksmith unhitched his warhammer from his back and let it casually drag on the ground to kick up dust and dirt. He then took a low crouching position, his weapon grasped with only one hand like an oversized club as he got ready for the horns to signal their fight would begin.

...

At the same time, House Brentor's viewing box flared up with commotion as Ser Haillet demanded an audience. The Redguard kept him at bay at first as he yelled: "I was cheated! That Watcher is a cheat!" Amidst the anticipation and roars of the crowd, this was only audible to the immediate vicinity as the Emperor turned his head about along with his sons and the Master of Tournaments, that latter of whom was just as surprised as the rest of them for this disturbance. "My liege, I speak true! Have a maester see the residue of elan upon me!" The Emperor, at first, was skeptical as he narrowed his eyes.

But he turned his gaze back down to the arena as the remaining contenders prepared to fight, and looked over Goldbert. Regardless of how well he had fought, he could not shake the possibility of yet another cheat in this tournament. The incident with Ser Locke had shaken his faith in the integrity of the outcomes, and thus decided to entertain the opportunity. He turned to his physician and gave a nod as he stood up. Helped by Ser Bostaque, he appraoched as Ser Haillet was allowed through. The man immediately knelt and averted his gaze, prostrating himself to the most powerful man on the continent as he awaited word. The Imperial physician, the one responsible for the droughts and elixers keeping Verus alive through his continuing ailments, extended a hand just above the man's head.

A moment passed in silence, with the Master of Tournaments quickly holding back the horn bearers from their signals, until the physician quickly nodded. "He speaks truth, your grace. There is elan upon his mind. The Watcher is a cheat."

The Emperor's eyes widened as he quickly turned his gaze back to the arena, realizing that one of the remaining contenders had made a mockery of the whole thing thus far. But this was merely a distraction for what was truly going on as he and the others saw the glint of steel from the corner of their eyes. Somehow, the Emperor grasped a dagger's edge in his palm. Blood streamed down his skin, and his eyes were wide from the shock of his reaction speed. Ser Haillet held the blade with a crazed look, as if he had stricken a killing blow, but there was something else in the other: a small, cylindrical thatch box with a short string that he pulled on with his thumb.

And soon enough, a purple flare flew upwards into the sky. Ser Haillet was quickly cut down at the same time as the Emperor's sons darted up from their seats at the sight of this assassination attempt.

The flare above exploded into a cloud of brilliant purple, painting it like a purple splotch across a canvas of blue. At first, the crowd thought this was simply a part of the festivities. Then the screaming began. Blood streamed in the air as daggers and shortswords cut through people, signalling the beginning of a massacre as dozens of cloaked and hooded assassins began their carnage.

"PROTECT THE EMPEROR!" Ser Bostaque yelled as he and other members of the Redguard quickly got into a defensive position and moved to hurry the members of House Brentor out of their viewing box. Arrows sailed through the air from unseen shooters, hitting the box and pillars of the arena with one felling one of the Redguard with a bolt piercing his throat. Other arrows flew out towards the other Houses as well, as it seemed that the attack sought to cut off the heads of the Empire. House Kragh quickly jumped into action as Ser Harald and other retainers of Lord Kragh moved to escort them out of the arena. Other houses quickly dashed for protection too, but would find themselves not only under assault from afar but also near. The assailants had also managed to break into their portion of the arena and were massacring servants and workers alike, leaving trails of blood and bodies that made the scene all the more horrific.

---

The Fairgrounds - The Grand Tournament
Worthlessplebian​

Siert and Jomier left the arena in its entirety after the former had been paid handsomely, and walked together in an awkward silence for some time as they made good on leaving the scene of their little scheme to enrich one another. It was then that Jomier treated the man to some drinks from the great casks that were on display, a honey gold liquid filling a tankard. If Siert didn't know any better, he would think he was being courted. Though with what came after, that seemed to be the case with regards to his services: "A good day today, thus far." Jomier commented, breathing in the fresh air. "Though, I have to say, you are more reliable than I previously had imagined. If you'd want for more work, you can find me when you need the coin."

A distant thump, alongside a purple cloud of smoke, caught his and Siert's attention then and there. And then the chaos unfolded as masked assailants began to attack people at random at the Fairgrounds, with both Siert and Jomier witnessing a man getting knocked down onto his knees and his throat being slit open in a gruesome fashion. "...interesting." Jomier commented with concern as he noted now that there were three assailants rushing towards him. "I'll pay you more to kill these men and see me safely back to Ifosea." Jomier then quickly said, darting a glance to Siert as he drew his own weapon - a small dagger - and prepared to fight.