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.

 

[K0mori]

The sudden commotion drew Dominik's attention away from the field and the conversation afoot in his Lord's vicinity to focus on what was happening with the Emperor. "Sir! With me!" he yelled, grabbing the drunken Lazarus out of his seat and pulling him to his feet. "Rutu, help me move him!" he directed.

"Enough, Dominik, I can handle myself!" Lazarus snapped, but he nearly fell the moment Dominik released him. The entourage from House Von Holt consolidated around their leader as they made their way toward the exit. However, the pathway out was blocked, leading their small party to simply encircle Lazarus and shield him with their bodies, as there was nothing else they could do at the moment but potentially sacrifice themselves.

 

[Emperor Sagan]

Annaliese had spotted the commotion in the imperial viewing box from afar, though precious little she could quite make out. She wondered if one of the princes had drunkly stumbled to the ground, or if apoplexy was in the process of claiming the emperor's life at last. That would certainly make the ordeal within the arena more interesting, as so far only the violence from the Silver Lion's crippling had stood out much in her mind. If she wanted to watch muscled buffoons fight each other in the dirt, she needn't go far. She could probably see the slums from her balcony back at the imperial palace. Toss some coins far enough and surely the peasants would put on a more interesting ordeal than the peacocks down below.

Then the commotion grew more wild. The frown she already wore grew even deeper when a projectile burned into the air and exploded into a magnificent cloud of rich purple, and she could then see swords being drawn in the emperor's viewing box, the metal of the blades glinting like jewels beneath the sunlight.

"Firework?" Desmond asked uncertainly, having returned from his little expedition not so long ago. His mood had improved with his walk but that, too, seemed to be changing as he also spotted the unfolding ordeal.

Screaming of a most spirited sort began to sound from all over the arena, easily parsed from the earlier shouts of excitement and jubilation. The commotion that had begun around the emperor seemed to be happening everywhere now as folks of all kind began running back and forth or bunching together. Cloaks were thrown back, some fluttering away in the breeze. More gleaming swords were drawn and it looked, from where she sat, as if she was watching a lakeside shore at sunset down to the growing hues of crimson amidst the flicker of light. Gradually, arrows and bolts began to loosen from scattered assassins throughout the arena. In but a mere minute, chaos and death had come to the stands.

Valentova jumped to her feet. She immediately grasped her brother's hand and pulled him in close, and he latched himself to her arm in mutual fear. "To arms!" Ser von Babel roared, drawing his blade and taking position near his liege. Drawn to his full height and utterly serious in demeanor, the satyr stomped one cloven foot upon the ground in a great thump, further garnering the attention of the momentarily bewildered patrons of her entourage - a few servants, who Ser Friar quickly shuffled together. Around them, the knights of the Drowned Rose, the lifeguards of House Valentova, reacted with pragmatic experience by forming a makeshift battlefield square around their charges. The majority were veterans of the endless quasi-game, quasi-warlike skirmishes the Vallachian chapter knights engaged in regularly. Even the junior knights, such as Tamos and Kristinia who lacked battlefield experience, were well versed in the usage of their weapons and general drill. In their gleaming red armor and billowing tabards, they were picteresque.

But above all they were brutal.

The first souls broken at their defenses were not would-be assassins, but panicked patrons of the arena making to flee in whichever direction their feet carried them. Braced as if ready to repel cavalry, several arena-goers were simply skewered or struck down for running near the Valentova party. Of the knights who were more discerning, or perhaps on the kinder side, gauntleted fists crashed into panicked bodies, sending some tumbling down and away with broken noses - but their lives intact. With arrows in the air, shields were raised. The Vallachian knights made use of large notched roundels, painted in the colors of their chapter or, more commonly, in vivid personal designs. To protect Valentova and Desmond, two figures hurried forwards with their shields raised high - Tamos and Kristina.

"We can either hold here, or fight our way out," Ser von Babel declared, donning his helmet, a double-clasp piece so as to fit his horns. "We don't know what else is coming, so we ought to make a way out. I've seen what determined crossbows can do to isolated men."

"What if this is an organized coup?" Ser Friar interjected. He huddled alongside Valentova and Desmond, the three of them the effective leaders of the entire house. "We could be marching directly into resistance outside. All of the Houses streaming outside, they would be eviscerated by cuirassiers or companies blocking the doorways."

Valentova watched the carnage from her small island of calm, her eyes drifting over the nearest boxes and the growing number of similar islands as households put up their defenses. A bolt thudded into the wood seating above them and she nearly hissed at it, wondering who had the audacity to aim at her. "Then we do the best we can - consolidate and kill everything that moves," Valentova said with a contemptous sneer. The day was, most assuredly, ruined. If they survived - which she did not doubt they would, for she knew her knights would prefer death over disappointing her - then there would be no end to the questioning, the investigations. They would all likely be under house arrest for the foreseeable future.

Spotting a growing throng of people, and identifying the noble personages by their color, Valentova unknowingly in the moment pointed towards the escaping group from House von Holt. "Clear away the commoners and we'll join ranks with whoever that is over there. They've gotten all bungled up and aren't moving. Babel, you know how to clear a defended corridor, yes?" Valentova asked, though it was a rhetorical question as Ser von Babel bellowed out a laugh. The satyr hadn't risen to his position by mere status - he had broken foes in every theater to see in Vallach, from the dark forests, thick marshes, mountainside screes, and the natural habitat of the chapter knight: the castle.

By his command, the Valentova party pushed their way out, the dozen full-fledged knights pushing their way through anyone that wasn't an aristocrat. Some sword-wielders, be they patrons or actual assailants, were engaged mercilessly. Struck with swords, battered with thin-warhammers, or bashed down with shields, the group pushed on towards House von Holt.

"It's Lord Lazarus and his party," Ser Friar declared as they neared. "Given the situation, I doubt they are involved. Or I so hope not. Keep a line between us and them, but we shall hold alongside."

"Allies!" Ser von Babel yelled at the House von Holt delegation, many eyes upon them as the crimson knights steadied themselves, counting all but their own as potential foes. That said, another royal house in a dire spot was unlikely to be an orchestrator of the violence. Among the throng of armor and jostling shields, Valentova's piercing gaze narrowed in as she spotted the battered-looking Lazarus, and she called out to him. "If you try anything against us I'll be really fucking pissed!" All the while, as the group came closer, they worked to keep the commonry away and establish a safe path - or position.

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Dogged by the scornful glances, Siert moved with Coen in tow, the sellsword could feel their gaze burning into his back like wicked spears through his chest. When he had rounded the corner, Siert gave silent praise to the instant relief that washed over him. Beneath the cloak of pale shadow and bearing walls, Jomier rewarded the mercenary's efforts. Siert reached out taking the satchel of coins from his employer, feeling the shifting weight in his hand, a melodic symphony of molded metal clinking in unison. A grin split his sharp, dark features. Savouring the violence he dolls out with uncaring impunity never mattered, letting those with a butcher's madness to that particular pastime, but the feeling of an accomplished task and gratuity thereafter is seldom unappreciated by the sellsword. Then his employer held out a pendant, a lion's head carved from shimmering silver. Siert took it, fingers still slightly swollen, the flitting lantern light gleamed in the amulet's viridian eyes so much like jade stars in a lightless night sky.

"Better compensation than I expected, my Lord." Siert remarked, nodding his approval. Even Coen seemed satisfied, an inhuman hunger for cruelty apparently sated. Siert rolled his shoulders, loosening the final specks of tension in them. With their services exchanged, the sellsword began his trek away from the arena. Though as he followed Lord Leon's son, the sellsword felt his back shiver and fists clench. He turned back, glancing down the tunnel they came from, he could've sworn something felt curiously odd about the tournament. Siert dismissed the feeling, allotting it to the imagination of a combat-frayed mind.

In the hushed quiet that fell between them, Siert paused to buy a strip of salted, dried meat from one of the vendors in the fairground, a quaint stall whose owner took a fancy to Siert's well-mannered companion. His hand went up and Coen fed on the strip, not the most flavourful morsel, but enough.

The mercenary smiled and took the gifted drink, though he barely sipped. "It'll be in my mind. Continue with these types of payments, you'll have my services, of course." Siert allowed, eyes surveying the fairgrounds before them, the bustle brought by the tourney still at its feverish peak. Lord Kelfas had been right — today is a good day. The wind sang as it winnowed through the crowds, carrying the sun's soft warmth as it went up. "It's certainly a plea—" he began to say. Until a thump cut him short. His eyes snapped up, a dreaded pall of purple smoke surged towards the sky like a single sword outstretched to the heavens. At first, he assumed it was simply another spectacle of the event. The brutality that followed disabused him of that thought. His eyes widened visibly. "Damn." he muttered. Screams erupted round the grounds as masked men began their assault. A man was thrown to the dirt, throat torn by a blade glinting crimson in the sunlight.

His bag dropped, Siert drew his sword, teeth grit, nose half-snarled. "Stay behind me." The mercenary ordered.

One of the men rushed, mace in hand. Only to be halted in his advance. He was attacked, a blur of brown feathers and yellow talons swooped down. The wicked talons raked through the woolen mask he wore, gouging thin slices of flesh away. Coen shrieked murderous fury, driving the man back. The other two, startled but still stalwart, charged at the mercenary, weapons brought to bare. He swung wide, right to left, letting the threat of his sword's keen edge push them back. He forced his advantage then, closing the distance between them, allowing him to swing hard. He drove the blade down. The sword sheared through the leathers, passed his shoulder to his stomach before being pulled out.

The last man trembled for a moment, before spinning around to flee. Clearly deciding there are easier victims about. "You can pay me for one man then," Siert said tersely. Coen had returned as well, talons and beak wet and dripping with crimson, his prey likely scurried away in the frantic chaos. "Come on, then." He gestured for Jomier to follow. "Need to move fast."

joshuadim

 

[Breadman]

"Highlord, we have to get you out of here, now!"

"No." Vigot's voice was calm as ever. He had gone through a hundred ambushes and he intended to go through a thousand more if he could help it. "The safety of the emperor is our priority, everything else comes after." Pila looked to her Highlord and cursed under her breath. Her main concern was his safety, but he was right. They didn't know who was behind these assassins, but the targets were clear. "Come, there is work to be done."

The watchmen had the uneasy task of moving through the frightened mob of people and the assailants trying to kill everyone in sight and while they did, arrows rain down from an elevated position. The two would use the cover from the paniced bodies as cover for their movement as they escaped the wide open space of the seats and into the covered area. Death was all around them, but Vigot was no stranger to such scenes. The crowd of people began to thin out only leaving cut down corpses in the wake. The assassins seemed to have moved towards the nobility after they had their fun with the surprised guard and arena patrons. VIgot knelled down to pick up one of the spears that had been dropped by a slain guard. Pila in turn helped herself to a shield that was on the ground.

The two hurried to catch up to where the fighting was intensifying. As the sounds of combat were becoming louder, they could see more corpses littering the ground. Eventually they would come to see the struggling guard trying to take control of the slaughter. The highlord strik first as he used the spear to implale one of the assailants in the back of the neck. The tip emerged straight out of his mouth and quickly would return back from the way it came. This allerted the men next to the poor assailant, forcing them to pay attention to their back. An distraction the guardsmen would take as an oppening and push back. Pila swung a sword and cut another man's throat. The group of assassins was quickly thinning out as they were slaughtered like animals.

"You, with us!" Vigot gave an order to the guards.

"Thank you for the assistance lord, but the captain is the one who gives orders to us." One of the guardsmen answered. The man looked like he was still in shock from the attack.

"You mean him there?" Pila pointed to the guard captain's corspe. Torn to ribbons from the enemy blades.

"Aye. Him." The same guardsman looked to the Highlord. "Suppose we can ignore the chain of commande then." VIgot nodded as the guardsmen fell in line.

"Pila, sound the horn. If the damn fools know what's good for them, they will come." The shieldmaiden nodded in turn and sounded the the horn of the watchmen. It was a desparate move to call for reinforcements and they risked painting a target on their back, but they had to try. "Onwards to the Emperors and the nobles!" VIgot pointed forward with his spear.

 

[Vexumin]

The last round had gone by rather quick. Thankfully this Ser Chabert did not prove to be more of a combatant than Rozet. Kyraug managed to get away from the challenge with fewer marks, especially not of the serious sort. Mending only took a moment since the cuts he had received were so shallow. It was honestly a little disappointing. He was hoping a bit more of a lead up to his next bought, but at least he could go into it at his best. He would have been surprised to see Jendrick before if he hadn't been speaking to him so far. However, their interactions so far have made Kyraug aware of one pressing fact. Jendrick has frightening potential.

If he wasn't sure that Jendrick was being considered by every house in attendance, he would have tried to recruit him right then and there, but at this point the matter seemed better to be brought to his masters attention. He wondered if a reasonable offer for his skills would be enough to take Jendrick away from his current lifestyle. Perhaps not, but it would be worth it to at least try.

As Kyraug stepped onto the field, he almost couldn't help but feel... excited. When was the last time he was truly eager to engage another in combat? It has been a long while, certainly. He usually didn't enjoy fights or even spars. He almost always fought because it was expected of him or because it was an order. This time around he wanted to fight and win. Jendrick woke something deep within Kyraug that had been asleep for a long time. The passion for battle. Kyraug was certain that the moment the fight was over, that passion would sleep once again, but until that moment comes, he would enjoy every moment of this match.

"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.

Kyraug grins, slinging his sap over a shoulder and resting a hand upon the hilt of the dagger on his belt.

"Indeed. I am sure that this is the most unexpected fight to happen in a long time. We can't disappoint."

The anticipation for this moment was killing Kyraug. He drew his dagger, ready and eager for the fight to begin. He watched Jendrick wielding his warhammer as if it was nothing more than a stick wielded by a child, although he didn't fumble with his stance or the weight of his weapon. He is ready and skilled. Kyraug felt his grasp tighten around the weapons in his hands.

The two men are signaled to begin and Kyraug jerks forward, eager to begin. However, a commotion brings him to a halt.

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!"

Kyraug paled upon realizing the gravity of what had begun. His eyes shifted to the stands and the assassins tearing their way through civilians and nobles alike. They were indiscriminatory in their slaughter. They were slowly making their way through the crowds. Slowly making their way to his own master who had been enjoying the fights so far. Thankfully Damik was already well aware of what was going on.

Kyraug's instant reaction was to join up with his master. Push back the attackers. However, he was not quite so safe either. Already he could see hooded folk dropping into from the stands and into the arena, making their way to the competitors below. Kyraug sneers.

"Dammit all. Must protect my master."

Kyraug turns a bit, looking back towards the man he was meant to be fighting.

"Jendrick! I need your help, please! I must get to my master. Help me push back this scum!"

 

[joshuadim]

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

The Arena​

For the contenders remaining in the arena, they fared no better than the chaos in the stands and in the Fairgrounds; and worse still, they were out in the open for bolt fire as the shafts whizzed in the air. At the very least it proved to be a difficult challenge to fire on moving targets as many of the bolts hit the dirt and sand of the tournament grounds below as the contenders paced themselves to prepare for a fight. Jendrick had immediately broken from his competitiveness and instead brought his hammer to a traditional stance at the front as he looked around, before turning to Kyraug. He nodded to the Vadyeen, but the circumstances to which they would actually *get* out of the arena remained tenuous at best. A few of the remaining knights steeled themselves and readied for combat as if they were used to the stresses of fighting, but Ser Branco of Kholan seemed the most green out of them all as his hands trembled.

However, as fortune favoured them all, the Blade of the Southron Wind was among them to take impromptu command as his raised his voice: "We make for the Staging Grounds! We can get to the Fairgrounds from there!" the Knight shouted with confidence, "Hold our flanks, and we will make it through. I will lead the charge!"

While Jendrick wasn't familiar with battlefield tactics, he understood the position of protecting one's blindspot and so took up position - following the example of others - in a triangular formation and pushed forward. Kyraug, eager to reunite with his House, took up position near the front in order to help with the advance while Goldbert took the flank opposite of the blacksmith with other knights of the realm. They were collectively outnumbered in the arena, as two dozen assailants marched towards them with confidence in numbers even against such armoured opponents. But as the contenders all moved towards the Staging Grounds entrance/exit to the arena, they proved their mettle against their foes: Ser Faralt cut down the first man with ease with a sidestep to a sword strike that he then followed up with a pierce of his rapier into the man's throat before sliding across the dirt underneath another assassin's strike and grabbed his leg to knock him down.

With his back exposed to Ser Faralt, the man died as steel pierced his heart. The other assailants launched their collective assault, spurred on by the first casualties, and charged at Kyraug and Goldbert!

---

The Stands​

As House Valentova united with House von Holt, pushing through the chaos and commotion of fleeing souls, they came upon a grisly sight; the bodies of attendants and arena workers lay strewn about, coating the wooden floors and walls with their blood, as the assault spared no one it could get their hands on. But there was also the pleading cries for mercy coming from a noblewoman as she was picked up by her cloak before her throat was slit by a viciously crooked dagger. The killer, clad in shades of dark green and ironwood, looked with deep purple eyes towards both Houses, whose knights responded to the threat with forming a wall of steel tips. Silently, the figure stood up before pulling forth a small, smoking acorn from a pouch on their hip. "Gw'hew yan tilak seelah." the figure spoke with a hiss before throwing its reagant onto the ground below, disappearing in a plume of gray smoke. it was an elf working with humans.

Shortly thereafter, a new entourage came across the scene with drawn swords with the banner visible of House Harkren. Florina looked at the corpse with a frown before turning over to see the other two houses just across from them. "Good, you survived." she commented towards Annaliese before motioning her head behind her, "The exit is just over yonder. We three have better chances sticking together. I've already lost one of my guardsmen and I don't plan on losing any more."

...

House Froste would come across a similar sight as they made their way from their viewing box, protecting Oliver with their lives as they hurried him out and into the back of the arena stands to find their way out of this debacle. Bodies lay slumped on the ground and walls as the assassins went about their rampage, and Oliver even recognized some bodies belonging to that of House Tobels and House Rischers though it was of some comfort that their leaders were not found among the dead. Footsteps emerged nearby as a group of hooded assassins, like the ones from the arena outside, came to intercept their path. Then another figure made themselves known from the rear, sporting a crooked dagger and ironwood much like the other elf that had confronted von Holt and Valentova.​

But the elf was seemingly disinterested in the others as it instead pointed its blade straight towards Ser Titus with visible anger.

...

With the horn sounded by Pila, Vigot could only wait for reinforcements as he and his entourage moved to find the Emperor and his guard in order to reinforce their ranks. For as good as the Redguard were, they were no less prone to being overwhelmed than any other collection of knights. As such, the Watchers advanced through their section of the stands with raised swords. Fortunately for them, their section was less active with violence as they pushed ahead a great distance; save for the occasional straggling assassin, who were easily dispatched by Vigot and his companions, they had a clear way and soon spotted the red cloaks and cloth of the Redguard moving in unified formation to surround and protect the Imperial family.

"Highlord!" Ser Eren shouted with relief, "Thank the FIve. We could use your numbers as well. We're close to one of the exits."

But the relief was cut short when yells were heard from both Vigot and Eren's directions. Both parties turned to face their threats, which were groups of the assassins that had now found the Emperor and sought to finish the job. As they were in a relatively narrow corridor, numbers did not play to the attackers' advantage due to the natural chokepoints. Something intrinsically understood by both Vigot and Ser Eren as the Redguard broke formation to instead form a defensive line on their end while the Watchers worked on defending their own side. This hurried the Emperor and his sons to the centre, and put them in a stronger position to be safe from the coming attack.

...

House Kragh, with its loyal retainers, pushed through the first attackers that had closed in on their viewing box as Ser Harald, Calder, and Jomner worked with other bannermen to keep Lord Kragh and his son safe. But Uchtred was less worried about his own safety, knowing full well that his men were more than capable, and instead shouted to Ser Harald after he had cut down another assassin: "Where are Reimar and Enya!?" he asked with frantic worry.

"They went outside the arena, I saw them." Riseig said to try to comfort his grandfather, though it was difficult to contain his own worry as his eyes darted around with concern. "They should be out of the main trouble."

This, however, only made Uchtred worry more as he drew his own sword and - out of anger - pushed ahead of Ser Harald to strike down another assassin. "My Lord! Reimar is a good fighter. He'll keep Enya safe. For now, we must get *you* out of here!"

Uchtred, at first, didn't seem convinced as he breathed in heavily with frustration and fear. But he soon calmed himself with deep breaths and soon sheathed his sword again, nodding to his trusted friend. "...very well. Let's move."

---

The Fairgrounds - The Grand Tournament
Worthlessplebian​

Jomier nodded to Siert, sheathing his dagger as there was no need for it anymore and followed the mercenary's direction. Crowds erupted in waves of panic as commoners, merchants, travelers, and others alike all shared in the same predicament of terror. The clashes of steel could be heard as city guardsmen tried their best to fight off the attackers, though it was clear that they were caught by surprise and in turn routed in their efforts. The carnage only continued as a result as more bodies fell lifeless into the grass and dirt below, painting the area as a canvas of death that made Jomier wrinkle his nose as he followed closely behind Siert. It was clear that this was a highly organized effort, though his mind raced towards the possibilities as to who was behind this.

But what he did know was whatever the outcome, it would greatly benefit the instigators from the chaos that would result from all this. But those were thoughts for later, as the two of them then came across two nobles who have also managed to survive thus far. Reimar's blade and armour was splattered with blood and was visible exhausted while Enya remained close to her half-brother for protection. He exchanged glances between Siert and Jomier for a moment before speaking up: "Hail. I am Reimar of House Kragh... this is my sister... we were attacked-"

"We can see that. And no, I don't know what's going on." Jomier interrupted the young man, looking to Siert for a moment before back to the bastard as if he had anticipated the question in the first place. "We are in the dark as much as you are."

Then came more yells as a large group of assailants, having finished killing a small crowd of bystanders, not turned their attention to the four of them. Their conversation ran short as a result as Jomier turned and moved behind Siert again. "You're more than welcome to stick with us for now. Strength in numbers and all that..."

"Enya, get behind us!" Reimar shouted, hurrying the young lady along to Jomier's side before taking position with Siert at the front. There were ten of them in total, which made Reimar nervous as he tried to steady his breath. Today was the first time he had ever killed someone, and the bloodshed only continued to escalate as he nodded to Siert wordlessly.

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Siert was forced to bite back a surge of anger flooding his thoughts, teeth grit beneath his taut lips, fists clenched around his sword. The Fairgrounds, long descended into chaos, became a rolling mass of bodies, churning along the streets of stone and dirt, wet with crimson that seeped deep in the cracks. The sellsword led his employer through the crowd of people trying to force their way away from the grounds. Occasionally his eyes darted to the bodies, slumped in pools of their blood and riven with grievous wounds, the rank stench of spilt blood and torn gore hit him almost immediately, a stink not unfamiliar. Strangely, despite the vexation flooding his mind, the mercenary had been coldly focused in the midst of this havoc.

Turning the bend of a corner, Siert came upon the sight of an armoured man, his features drawn with exhaustion, plate and blade stained with a thick, streak of dark red. The sellsword's hardened gaze fixed him, seeing his ward cower behind him. He looked down to his own sword, slick with blood. It seemed, as it often did with battle, they've been baptised as brothers in the heat and fury. Siert turned to Reimar and nodded. "Siert." He spoke, voice frigid in the day's sweltering, battle-haunted air.

A yell rang out from behind them. Siert spun, sword raised in the direction of their attackers. Clad in the same darkened garb as before, Siert imagined their faces twisted with rictus expressions of pure resentment. He breathed sharply, gauntlets clicking against the handle of his sword, his grip tighter. Legs planted wide, sabatons digging into the dirt underfoot. Withdrawal was their only salvation, refuge their only chance, however, he knew that it was impossible. He glanced at Reimar for a brief moment.

They charged. Two of them were faster than others. They reached Siert first. No hesitation, no fright. Their weapons primed in unison to strike. Then Coen let out a shrill shriek, swooping down, silhouetted by the sun's blaring glare from above, a dark blur. Yellow beak, like that of a golden-tipped spear, gouged one of the masked men through his eye. Talons slashing, stabbing deep in the man's flesh. Both creatures screamed in their bloodied grapple.

The mercenary lunged forward, sliding passed the assailant's guard. His other hand clenched the blade, driving the tip deep and through the man's stomach. A thin, rancid breath was loosened from the man's lungs, a soft hiss as Siert felt the warmth spread over his face. Just as Siert pushed him off, he was already under assault again. The mercenary realised a second too late. His attacker howled with effort, swinging a large, flat-bladed poleaxe. It went wide, low, right to left. Still, Siert tried to defend himself. He raised his blade to parry, but it had not been enough. The poleaxe crashed through Siert's sword, forcing his arms away as it hit his side deep. Plate and chainmail screeched as the metals met, their mettles tested. Siert went back, spit and phlegm slammed into the back of his teeth. His expression twisted, snarling. Through the pain, he stepped forward, sword already slashing through Ifosea's sun-torn day air. Startled by the unexpected retaliation, the masked man could not lift his poleaxe up in time to block the strike. Siert's grit teeth stifled the roar of exertion as he swung the blade through the man's neck. His throat was torn, a small spray of blood in the sword's wake. His hands went up to clutch it. The mercenary punched with his other hand. There was a crack of metal and bone as the man fell, his body slumping against the dirt.

Even with his efforts, the situation remained dire.

joshuadim

 

[Vexumin]

Tension. That was all that flooded Kyraug for a moment as the group began to arrange themselves in formation. However, that tension only lasted him a moment. At this time, he no longer had to worry about holding back. That thought let him ease up a bit. The trouble with his weapon is that when enough strength is put behind a blow, the resulting injury could be irreversible. True, the same could be said about a lot of weapons, but there is a difference between loosing an arm from a blade or having the bone slinter into a dozen different pieces that could then result in infection if not treated.

It's that or brain damage from a hard enough hit to the head. Not a quick and peaceful way to go.

Although the Vadyeen was keen on joining with his master as soon as possible, he fell in line quick. He was familiar with combat. He has fought alongside his previous master before on excursions into the marshlands. He can fight. He can kill. He would have no trouble with assassins.

As the line advances towards the assassins, Kyraug tightens the straps of his equipment and then draws his blade and sap. He begins to run alongside the others towards their foe, and when the battle begins, it is certainly a bloody conflict. Kyraug was ready though. He had been ready to give it his all the moment he stepped onto the field, and that is where these assassins screwed up with their little plot. They challenged fighters in their prime.

As the line met the swarm of assassins, Kyraug took off. His legs tighten and release, sending him flying into his foes, a whirl of steel and blunted destruction. The first assassin unfortunate enough to meet him in true combat was perhaps the easiest to fell on the Vadyeen's end. The impact alone was enough to send the poor fool to the ground, and in his dazed state he did not notice as the dueling blade was placed against his neck and ruthlessly drawn across it.

Any assassins caught around the Vadyeen as he mercilessly puts down one of their own are helped to a splatter of red as they descend upon him. Kyraug was tricky in that he knew how to use things to his advantage. Flicking the blood from his blade into the eyes of attackers was a favorite of his. As they are busy trying to clear their eyes, they are soon victim to fierce blows from the servants sap. One man crying out as the sap crashes into a kneecap and the last thing one of the others feels is the force of the sap slamming into the crook of his neck before he falls silently.

The Vadyeen tucks and rolls back into the line of allies before blades from other assassins could catch him. Then he was back to fighting with the others.

 

[K0mori]

"Allies!" Ser von Babel yelled at the House von Holt delegation, many eyes upon them as the crimson knights steadied themselves, counting all but their own as potential foes. That said, another royal house in a dire spot was unlikely to be an orchestrator of the violence. Among the throng of armor and jostling shields, Valentova's piercing gaze narrowed in as she spotted the battered-looking Lazarus, and she called out to him. "If you try anything against us I'll be really fucking pissed!" All the while, as the group came closer, they worked to keep the commonry away and establish a safe path - or position.

"You what!?" Lazarus called back, his voice cracking with a drunken temper. He turned to Dominik, red in the face. "Does she think we're involved with this!?"

"No sir, I think she's just a tad moronic," Dominik replied. "We need their help nonetheless; we can't get out unless we start cutting our way out-"

Lazarus cursed quietly. "I see, I see! Don't do that - just press in and move firmly toward the exit with the Vallachians!"

"You heard him, push!" Dominik called out, and the body guards began doing so, using their shields to bash against the mad crowd all around, as well as using blunt weapons and the broad sides of their swords as tools to batter any commoners out of their way as they advanced with Valentova's group. Soon, another banner joined up with their united front as House Harken approached from the opposite side of the Vallachians, and this united front was able to progress over the dead bodies of those the assassins had already claimed.

 

[Infab]

Its happening.

Again.

That was the only thought running through the mind of Maria, as she clutched an arming sword in hand and keeping Oliver as close as possible to her side. Did the gods have some sort of vendetta against House Froste? Did they deem that the House needed eradication? Was the Froste bloodline tainted? She didn't know. She didn't care. She had parted ways with the gods not too long ago, and had sworn loyalty along with the rest of her family to House Froste decades ago.

The guards did their duties, defending the pair under Titus' supervision as they made their way down from the stands and into the back. Oliver spotted bodies, briefly recognizing them before pushing on. Is this what his father experienced before he died?

Eventually, they emerged into an open area, before encountering more assassins. "Take them down!" angrily spat Maria, pointing her sword towards the group. The guards of House Froste didn't hesitate. They wouldn't fail the young lord. The guards rushed the assassins, using their swords and polearms to combat the attackers.

Titus, on the other hand, was more preoccupied with the one that had crept up behind. This one was different, sporting different weapons. They even moved different, carrying themselves unlike a human. Titus recognized it immediately.

It was an elf, just like him.

He prepared himself, clutching his longsword tightly as he moved to place himself between the assassin and the young lord. He knew the assassin was focused mainly on him, but instinct told him to move between them. Just in case.

"Come on, then." he called out, preparing himself for combat. "I'll end you right here and now."

 

[Breadman]

"Not one step thought, you hear me?" VIgot shouted to the men that had rallied under his command. "Form a line. They have to get through us, not the other way around, so keep those shields up!"

"Just how we practiced, move!" Pila shouted as the watchmen formed a defensive line between the Emperor and the assassins. "Hold your ground or I'll make sure the Hells will be so much worse for your sorry asses." Spurred by her words, the watchmen moved with all the discipline they could muster. Despite being formed by the men and women the Empire would want to throw away, they had been molded over the years into a competent fighting force. Now they had to show it.

While his comrades were fighting in the stands, Goldbert was looking for the best way to simply survive. Arrows and bolts whizzed past them and embedded themselves into the ground. Even if he was used to working alone, he understood perfectly what strength numbers can bring when facing an assault like this. He quickly folded into line with the knights. Lucky for him that they would accept the scoundrel in their midst while he was useful to them.

As they pushed forward, the enemy would push back. The assassins would try their luck at him and the others. Goldbert sidestepped the assault coming his way and used the opportunity to stab him in the back. The assassiin let out a pained grunt as the Watchman's blade found his kidney. Goldberd then pulled his sword out of the body and hurried to get back into formation, anticipating the next enemy move.

 

[Emperor Sagan]

With the arrival of House Harkren, and the subsequent redoubled efforts from House von Holt, the impromptu plan to push for the exit became the best option they had for getting out. The brutal throng of panicking commoners continued to break against them, or otherwise get held up in smaller tangles in their own attempts to flee, forming vast blockages of human bodies stuck in a crush. Valentova saw this merely as a practice in cutting hedges - they were in the way and they needed to be trimmed.

"Babel, get us outside. We'll make for our carriage and horses, if they're still there," Lady Valentova said, in which the satyr nodded heavily. The entourage had, like so many others, left their mounts out upon the outer fields as if they were on campaign. Some servants and only a single pair of knights had remained to look over what amounted to a miniature baggage train, though in the case of the bulky carriage Valentova refused to travel without, the carriagemen were already armed and trained as well. But against whatever was happening here, cutting off their means for escape would have been her first opening move. It was a grim thought.

Her thoughts then continued to drift back to what she had seen moments earlier, the beautifully vibrant purple eyes of what had been an elf assassin. She spoke not their language, knowing only a few words here and there from books. Somehow she doubted they said anything kind, and her own colorfully horrid swears had likewise been lost in the sea of shouting, screaming, and roaring. In a way she felt attached to that killer elf as one would when spotting a particularly unique animal in the woods while hunting. A deer with a chipped horn, a great bear with a scarred eye. They were something she would have liked to collect. In this case, the elf would have looked great mounted on the dark walls of her dungeon as she entertained herself with stripping their mind of thoughts and secrets until the life left them - then she could collect those eyes of theirs, safe in a jar, while their bones could be crafted into an assortment of cutlery, scrimshaw, quills, letter openers....

"Sister, watch your step," Desmond quietly warned her, the boy still shaking as he held himself tight against her arm. Annaliese glanced down to see another flowing puddle of blood, something which would surely ruin the leather of her good shoes, and she stepped gingerly around it. She had been caught in a thunderstorm without a parasol, once. This somewhat reminded her of that occasion, getting soaked in a well-made dress and having to ride back - without a carriage! - home in the midst of wind and rain. Her former cloudwatcher had received a thrashing for that one.

Valentova glanced aside to Ser Friar, and her advisor merely shook his head in unspoken recognition of her question - who or what had caused this. "If this doesn't lead to war from mistrust of the emperor as the houses break apart, the inheritance crisis will," he said, retaining his somber neutral tone, though his hair was somewhat tousled and yet unfixed. "As for who could be so bold and competent to assemble so many assassins to strike at all the houses... a foreign power perhaps? The answer would be more obvious if we were accosted by zealously hateful Glyrrans, but this doesn't seem to be the case. This speaks of the power of wealth." In a way, this calmed a slight fire in Valentova, as the thought had already struck her mind that this could have been some brilliantly organized peasant rebellion seeking something as wretched as equality or the abolishment of bloodlines.

 

[joshuadim]

The Melee - The Grand Tournament

The Arena - Kyraug and Goldbert
Vexumin Breadman
​

Unlike the various bystanders that were mainly helpless to the onslaught, with their screams of terror filling the air still, those in the arena were far beyond being simple targets as they worked in a disorganized, yet focused unison to get to safety. Ser Faralt led the way with vigorous step, eager to return to the side of his companion with visible worry growing upon his visage. By this point, after having lost over a dozen of their compatriots to the knights, the would-be assassins instead retreated to find easier prey for the slaughter as they dispersed towards the other ends of the arena. There, they were pulled up by their compatriots over the low walls and fences to rejoin their comrades and to continue their violent tasks. The way was thus clear for the contenders to return to the staging grounds, rushing forward underneath and behind the stands.

There, more bodies littered the ground; some were those bystanders that had previously visited to observe the contenders, others were some squires that had valiantly attempted to defend themselves and others. But there were also bodies of masked assassins, particularly around Faralt's companion who looked worse for wear and trembling in fear whilst holding a bloodied blade to his front. Ser Faralt quickly sheathed his own and approached, gently caressing the young man's head in his palms and whispering to him to try to calm his nerves. This left time for the other contenders to leave to find their lieges or to simply look around in awe of the carnage that had unfolded.

"You're okay. You're okay." Ser Faralt repeated to his lover, "You're not hurt... we'll get out together."

Jendrick in the meantime looked around with wide eyes as he rested his hands atop the pommel of his warhammer and shuddered: "Gods... all those people..." he muttered, swallowing his nausea down.

"We can't do anything for them now." Ser Faralt simply stated, as he helped his companion gather his belongings before pointing to a path outwards. "If your lords have already made it out, you'll find them in the fairgrounds with their entourages." Ser Faralt then spoke, before nodding to another path. "If they're still fighting in here, you will have to search the stands... I do not envy that position." He first looked to Goldbert shaking his head: "I saw your Highlord make way for the Emperor I believe." His gaze then fell on Kyraug and he gave a grim expression: "I'm afraid I didn't see where House Bralmeyer went off to. I wish you luck in finding your House."

As Faralt departed with his compatriot, Jendrick looked over to Kyraug and shrugged: "I imagine your Lord is outside by now... I say we search for him there."
,,,

The Stands - von Holt and Valentova
K0mori Emperor Sagan
​

"Come along then, we haven't the time to tarry." Lord Harkren then said, before shouting to her guards to reform their position and thus led the vanguard for all three houses. Advancing through the stands, they continued to push along all the while pushing away fleeing commoners and cutting down assassins. Bolts continued to fly in the air, thumping into the wooden pillars and structures of the stands as the marksmen continued to fire at anything that moved and without hesitation. One such bolt struck at one of Lord Harkren's guards, catching him in the neck and causing him to clutch at the wound as he crumbled to the ground. Another would manage to lodge itself into back of one of Valentova's knights, felling him as it pierced the gap between plates and hit his lung. Another bolt just nearly sent Rutu to an experience with death, as she felt the wooden shaft graze by her whiskers before thudding into a pillar nearby.

However, outside of lucky shots, many went wide and simply hit nothing - a fortunate turn of events for everyone involved as they finally exited the arena into the wider spaces of the Fairgrounds. But little was better there as they were all greeted with the sights of more carnage. And unlike the masked assassins they had seen before, clothed in simple drapes and clothings, there were now more armed assailants on the field that were fighting against the city guard and cutting down any innocents that would come close to them by chance. "Tch! Bastards brought a small army here!" Florina then shouted with annoyance, before spotting the banners of House Canlan in the near distance along with her sister. "...bastards could have done at least the right thing and killed her." she then muttered before turning to Lazarus and Valentova.

"Strength in numbers still, looks like we're stuck together for now." she said before drawing a small dagger for self-defence, in the event that her own guardsmen failed. More assailants flooded towards them now, with better equipment and greater organization than those they had faced before. The time to fight was now!
...

The Stands - Highlord Vigot
Breadman
​

Both the Watchers and the Redguard rallied to the defence of the Imperial family, cutting down enemies that charged at their lines out of arrogance of their numbers. But it quickly became apparent that they were outmatched in this bout against well trained and discplined knights/fighters. As a result, their offense quickly wavered to keeping a short distance away though with blades still drawn. Even more fortunate for their position was that it was shielded by the spectator seatings, thus preventing any volley fire from reaching. But for the moment, they appeared trapped between two large groups of attackers; a tenuous standoff ensued, as the Emperor clutched at his hand while his physician worked tiredlessly to bandage it as best as he could in the chaos. The claimants looked on with varying degrees of worry and concern, as it seemed that they were sitting ducks now.

"We can't stay here forever." Ser Eren then spoke up to Vigot from his end, "We'll be sitting ducks... the exit is just up ahead." He looked ahead towards the assailants, who were keeping their distance from his Redgaurd's shields steel, much to his frustration before scoffing.

"Well do something already!" shouted Prince Landon with annoyance, "I'd rather we didn't get cut down or shot!"

"Trying, your grace..." Ser Eren responded wearily, before looking back to Vigot. "We're going to push, you hold our rear and advance with us!"

Ser Eren then shouted: "For the Emperor! Cut these mongrels down!" The rest of the Redguard shouted in unison, advancing steadily which began to panic the attackers on their side as they wildly slashed and stabbed to no avail. Their blades met shields and armour, and were swiftly retaliated against with utmost ruthlessness.
...

The Stands - House Froste
Infab
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The guardsmen of House Froste did their job well, as they cut down any assailants with ease and pushed ahead to get the young Lord Froste to safety. Carving a path forward, they left Ser Titus alone to deal with the elf as she paced across the width of the walkway with an unbroken gaze towards the knight. A dagger twirled in between her fingers, allowing the steel the move freely with grace before she finally spoke up: "You can try to hide yourself among all these... chi'zhars, but they will still hate you for what you are. For what I am." the elf said with a thick accent. It was obvious that it was a learned language, but she spoke it well enough to even convey her hatred for the tongue of men.

She then lunged forward with great speed, nearly catching Titus off guard as he barely managed to bring his blade's guard up in time to block the attack. The force from the impact staggered him two steps as she struck out again, and while he was caught exposed his armor took the brunt of the impact as the elf slid under him before coming to a stop a few meters away. She backstepped again to gain more distance before letting out a scoff. "Why do you fight for your own oppressors?"

For the rest of House Froste, they would managed to fight their way out of the stands and into the Fairgrounds proper and were met with the same scenery that had greeted Valventova and von Holt. But unlike the trio of houses that would come under attack due to their numbers, House Froste had the benefit of being less outstanding in presence and thus had less enemies to face. But another bolt flew out from the Fairgrounds that hit one of the guardsmen, sending him reeling in pain as his gut had been shot. A few other attackers coalesced in lesser numbers after seeing the noble house in the open, but House Froste was not to be alone.

Another house rushed into the foray, which was recognized by both Maria and Oliver to be that of House Kragh and their retinue as they kept up the defence of their Lord and his son. Together, they would cut down the stragglers that dared challenge them but Lord Kragh was visibly distressed as he looked around worriedly before turning to Oliver. "Have you seen Enya and Reimar, Lord Froste!?" he asked with heavy breaths.

But just as quickly, Riseig quickly pulled his grandfather down as another bolt flew by that nearly hit the man. "We need to deal with these assassins first!" the elder grandson spoke, gritting his teeth, to which Ser Harald and Calder quickly rallied their defenses. "To me!" the man-at-arms spoke as he moved ahead with a heater shield and pushed along with other guardsmen.

---

The Fairgrounds - The Grand Tournament
Worthlessplebian
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Reimar would fight alongside Siert, managing to fell another of the assailants though his innate inexperience with direct combat was apparent given how unrefined his moves were. And he would quickly be forced to reckon with multiple attackers as he was pushed back by a combined effort from two more assailants. Siert would also come under assault as a flurry of blades came towards him. Two men went to avenge their fallen comrades, though Siert was able to defend himself even on the backfoot. A third kept swatting at Coen with his blade, keeping the bird at bay from defending its master as the others continued their assault. The mercenary would find himself continually pushed back, like Reimar, though the latter was worse for wear as he received a cut on his face from one blade and another managed to lacerate his side.

Because of their preoccupation, the remaining assailants circled around Siert and Reimar and instead went for what they saw as more vulnerable targets. Jomier stepped back, feigning fear, as a man approached with blade drawn but soon realized that he had been lured into a trap. The lordling was, for all intents and purposed, more than seemed to the eye as he displayed a roguish finesse as he sidestepped being stabbed and - with the flick of his wrist - cut across the assassin's neck. The man fell to the ground on his knees, clutching at the wound and choked on his own blood; Jomier seemed rather unimpressed at the display before kicking the man down to the ground to let him spill his blood away from his boots. But a fritghful scream caught his, and Reimar's attention as they both saw Enya be encroached upon.

"Enya!" shouted Reimar, which in turn urged him to struggle harder against his enemies. Jomier himself paced himself to try to help the young lady but was then given sight to a new development. Enya collapsed backwards, scrambling on the grasses below to escape her would-be killers until she shrieked and put her hands out front reflexively in a vain attempt to defend herself. But in that moment, a flash appeared as both men spontaneously combusted and began to flail and scream in pain. Jomier looked on in awe, mouth agape slightly, as he realized that he was witness to an extraordinary display of élan use. But Enya seemed more surprised as she looked on with wide, teary eyes as she watched her attackers die horrific deaths as their flesh began to melt and their bodies collapsed.

 

[Vexumin]

As the assassins began to withdraw, finally understanding that targeting the competitors was perhaps not the best choice they could have made, Kyraug only wished that it took them a few moments longer to wise up. The less there were left, the better. He already had his blade buried in another assassin, holding the man in place as a living shield, a few arrows already sprouting from his chest. The Vadyeen pries his blade free and lets the man fall dead as he runs to keep up with the others.

His gaze then fell on Kyraug and he gave a grim expression: "I'm afraid I didn't see where House Bralmeyer went off to. I wish you luck in finding your House."

Kyraug had already been searching the stands for his master before he was spoken to. He turns his attention to Ser Faralt, nodding his head in response.

"I am sure that Lord Bralmeyer is fine. He has his fathers spirit. The Marsh Treaders also should be with him. He won't be without protection."

Kyraug searches the stands again but finds no sign of his master of the colors of the Marsh Treaders above. No corpses on their end, or any casualties had been dragged away. Kyraug breathes a sigh of relief.

As Faralt departed with his compatriot, Jendrick looked over to Kyraug and shrugged: "I imagine your Lord is outside by now... I say we search for him there."

"Right. Let's go join him."

As the two go through the passageway leading out of the arena, they pass carnage left over from a fight. Leaving the arena, there are the last sparks of combat around a large group of people who are being protected by a ring of knights donning green and black colors. The Marsh Treaders were protecting those they had managed to escort to safety. They were marked with blood and other signs of combat. Some soldiers were being treated for injuries. One or two had perished from the fight with the assassins. Lord Damik, thankfully, was unharmed and had also seen combat judging from the blood he was cleaning from his rapier.

The young lord looks up as Kyraug and Jendrick enter the clearing. He brightened up, his mood having seemed rather dour a moment ago, and greeted the two with a smile.

"Kyra! You are safe! I had little doubt of that. And the fellow you were meant to fight? Jendrick, correct? I must thank you for helping Kyra return to me. You both look like you've been through it."