[Gallagher]

He stared at the battered knight, his mouth open in disbelief. Even in such a god awful state, she worried for her shield of all things? Kier shifted his weight, his eyes flicking from her to the grounds and back, then nodded. "A-aye," he cleared his throat, "aye, of course, Miss Amélie." Without thinking on it further, he gestured for her to stay while he moved past her.

Already, it seemed, two were preparing for their own turn. Unbothered by the damage one of their own had taken. Except... That was the same knight being tended to, wasn't it? There was no reason for her to be fighting again so soon. Not that she looked as if she'd been so much as bruised.

[Salone]

Ylnjor mounted the horse he was brought, awkwardly hoisting himself up in to the saddle. After situating himself he growled at the boy offering the lance, swiping it away from his arms.

"Of course I can use this. Unlike the last one."

He held the lance and shield awkwardly, attempting to adjust the weight and get a feel for the heft of it. For a moment, he felt doubt. Then the moment was gone, and his usual bravado returned.

"If those are the words you must use to squirrel your way around a bet, then so be it. If you win, I'll follow the hopeless one."

He laughed to himself, caught up in the absurdity of the whole affair.

"By Valhalla, I'll give Charlemagne up there his blasted alliance, if it will unseat the codpiece from his pet's backside! A kingdom at your side for a lance in mine!"

[Gallagher]

Even stranger was the voice of the knight's new opponent, carrying across the grounds as easily as the whole of the crowds. Kier couldn't help but look over, startled by the strange way the man looked and spoke, participating in something like this. He wanted nothing more than to wait and watch.

Instead, he tripped over the very shield he'd been searching for. He twisted, arms flailing, and fell back into the dirt, cursing the whole way down. One leg bent awkwardly on top of the shield, he laid there for a long moment, his face and ears burning.

Graceful.

That, Kier decided, was quite enough looking for one day. Scrambling back onto his feet, he lifted the shield with a grunt of effort and hurried to find Amélie before she could wander off to be 'alone'.

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Mistral lowered the visor on her helm again and stared squarely at her new opponent. It was fun before. Now, it was a matter of honour and she would see this man hit dirt. Preferably on top of a steaming pile of horse manure as well but she tamped down that thought as unbecoming of a true knight.

More sure of herself this time, and with a cry of “beauseant!” Mistral urged Claude forward, though the horse lacked his master’s determination and started at his usual slow clop until he got up to speed, but with a little more of a bounce than usual. Again, she could hear her heart and her breathing in her ears, but she focused everything she could on her lance. It felt lighter this time, other hands helping to keep it level and steady, and she sought out the center of her opponent’s shield.

She braced herself for the coming blow, steeled her grip and shoulder, and when she felt the first scrape of the Northerner’s lance, she twisted and thrust out with her lance, hard, into his shield.

[Salone]

Ylnjor never had a chance.

His thrust had been easily deflected. Her aim felt as if it had been guided by the hands of a higher power, striking true. He was carried off of his horse, hanging nearly comically in air before the fall to the ground knocked air from his lungs.

His world was pain. His head swam as stars exploded in his eyes. The agony wracking his body was shattering. The roar and laughter of the crowd overwhelmed his hearing. His head rolled back and forth, scrambling to make sense of where he was.

Had he really been defeated? Had he been carried off so easily by a woman? For all his boasting, had he been defeated in such an ungracious way?

He continued to lie there, slowly attempting to regain feeling in his body that wasn't fire and ache. All the while, the laughter of the crowd at his buffoonery kept him company.

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Mistral walked her horse up to the fallen man and looked down at him. “The matter is settled. You will keep your word, yes?”

[Salone]

Ylnjor attempted to scowl at her, but his face did not want to cooperate. After a time he rolled over, slowly picking himself from the ground.

"If I still have air left to keep it. A bet is a bet. Hel take me otherwise."

Ylnjor gave in to the pain without warning, and hit the ground once more. A fresh wave of agony washed over him. Pain was quickly replaced with rage. Hatred flowed through his veins, and with a great might he lifted himself from the ground, attempting to pose with some shred of dignity that he might still have. His face betrayed the seething bitterness that roiled inside of him.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Charlemagne rises, clapping magnanimously at the display, a broad smile on his face.

"Well done, Dame Mistral! Well done, indeed! Thou hast sealed the alliance with our northern brothers. Thou hast conducted thyself with great worship this day, and done worship to ourself as well."

He spreads his robe-draped arms magisterially. "Thou mayest seek a boon of us, if it please thee. Thou but needest name it, it shall be thine, noble knight."

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Mistral raised her visor and bowed deeply from her horse, eyes nearly tearing for the surge of joy and happiness she felt at his holiness’ words. “It is enough for me to hear you words of thanks, your Majesty.”

Sir Guillame would be proud.

[Lawtan]

As he had done before, Gwion followed the tracks of smaller animals – they would know the location of a “safe” water source. Trampled grass and muddy squirrel prints led to a small brook. Taking out the bag full of sand, Gwion looked around. Listening for the chirping animals to fall silent, he proceeded to fill the bag with water. He hummed an old folk lyric while straining the water through the sand into the medicinal bag.

“Blancandrins, gallant pagan knight,

Advised his fellows not to fright,

“Too great a war we Spaniards have waged,

Yield to Charles, the kingly sage,”

So sayeth the Val Funde knight,

In the council of-“

The bag was filled, and so Gwion snapped out of his lyrics. Taking the dripping sack of sand and water, he held it over the bag of meal. Shifted water fell into the meal, and the bard mixed the twain. The cool soothing liquid mixed with a bitter taste down his throat. Resisting the gag reflex, he swallowed. He searched for blackberries and nuts to eat, and meal finished returned to his things.

Gwion pondered over his mission as he cleaned his armor and weapons. A young miracle-girl was reported to be active in the Holy Empire. Morcant was interested in this girl, and so sent his “fastest” spy out to find her…

Gwion strung his bow and picked up his lute. Heading to the road, he spotted the outer battlements in the distance. Gritting against some lingering aches, he set out to cover the mile to Avignon. Wagons crossed under the stone walls. The odd cloaked shadow of a foolish thieving child hung around food stands. As Gwion arrived, he pulled forward his lute out with a snapping of a joint. Strolling through the entrance, he set down a bag and bellowed, “My established lords, ladies and kids, merchants and peasants alike, if you would deign but a single copper, I shall play for you a tale. A tale of-“ a coughing fit wracked him momentarily, before he straightened back up, to see only a few eyes attracted, “-of a Valiant knight of the kingdom, whoso bravely fought off the eastern folk in the name of Charles the Great, most holy of emperors.”

A single lass dropped a small coin, and with a dazzling smile hiding somewhat yellowed teeth, Gwion began to play his tune. His ears remained strained to hear, beast or man, word of a holy woman visiting the less fortunate.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

She'd hobbled her way through the teeming streets, through the lonesome confines of the Palace, to the Poor Knights' barracks and divested herself of her armor in tedious, pained increments. Her crushing shame is spared only by the isolation.

Unclasping the strap on her helm, Amélie hurls it with her good arm crashing against the nearest wall, no longer able to suppress sobs as all of it: the hurt of her wounds, the hateful words of the foreigner, and her absolute failure as a knight, crashes upon her. The pulse of anguish from her ankle alone is enough to make her swoon.

Clinging to the bedpost, Amélie shudders and attempts to calm her breathing, quel the black spiral of looming unconsciousness. Somehow, she manages to fight through it and dress herself in a faded white cote, apt garb for penitence. Limping, she forces herself down empty corridors until coming to the Knights' chapel. It is all she can do not to collapse through the doors as she opens them.

It is empty, of course. The faithful have all flocked to the Maiden's congregation and the sinners are still at the tourney ground. Well enough.

She finds once more the prayer bench before the icon of Jesu, and lowers herself into as contrite a posture as her wounds will allow. There is pain like an iron spike in her hip. Amélie cannot control her weeping.

"In nomine Domini Jesu Sabaoth, Fillius Dei...." She cannot even go on, devolving into wracking tears. She knows what it was that did this to her, saw the presence of light at the girl-knight's back, the embrace of an angel. Amélie could have... could have broken her, if God had willed it. If he had not... had not...

Her bare fist slams down onto the unyielding wood, again and again as her weeping overtakes itself with outrage. Through streaming tears, she hurls her head back and screams to the holy vault:

"LAMA SABACHTHANI!?"

It is too much. The hurt too great. She can only stare at the passionless Christ through bleared eyes.

"Damned..." she murmurs. "I am damned."

And so unworthy. These wounds... She cannot look away from the stark lacquered scarlet leaking from the stigmata in his hands and feet, the thorns and their bloody sap. This is not for me. My suffering is a mummery, an ignorant mockery. It was not... it was not my sins for thou didst die.

"God forgive me."

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Mistral rubbed at her shoulders as she made her way through the crowd, not as dense a throng as it might have been given many spectators were still at the tournament grounds. She had removed her armour and left it at her quarters for care, still feeling odd about leaving such chores to other people, but the pages had insisted, and she didn’t want to offend. Her lance arm was sore, and her ribs ached now that the rush of combat was wearing off, but she was still too enamored with the day to bother resting, and her injuries were minor, if worth considering at all. She first made for the house of worship, to give her thanks for God for her success this day.

Upon entering the chapel, Mistral saw the other woman shouting in despair, moving with clear pain from injuries. Mistral hurried to her side, aware the woman was familiar, likely the first knight she had faced, but without armour and helm she couldn’t be certain. It didn’t matter.

“Are you alright, ma Dame?” she asked, resting her hand lightly on the woman’s shoulder. “You are hurt. Let me fetch someone to help you.”

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Amélie did not hear the other woman's approach, and starts at the unexpected touch. She hears the words, but does not comprehend them at first, repeating them silently to herself while looking into the concerned gaze lingering above her.

She stammers in attempt to reply. "Hurt? I... no, pray forgive me, I shall see to it myself."

Amélie stares at her for a moment longer before pulling herself up onto her unbroken ankle. She presses the majority of her weight onto the prayer stand for support.

"I beg pardon for the rudeness of my blasphemy. I am... in extremis. I've not taken such wounds since Hattin, I fear."

She studies the younger woman, noting the strength in her frame despite her stature. No prized political daughter here, but a warrior like herself. And yet, nothing alike. This one is not disgraced.

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Mistral looked woman over, stoic now that it seemed she had an audience.

“Independence is good, but there is help to be found here, so let’s make use of it, even if it feels a little strange.”

From her injuries, Mistral was now reasonably certain this woman was the knight she faced before.

“You are Dame Amelie, yes? I’m sorry your injuries were so severe. If it pleases you to know, the foreigner has been left with his back in the dirt. God let me prove him for a fool, and that’s just what he is. You can teach him of honour, and let him do the cooking.” She smiled, hoping her words in some way heartened the other woman.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

It is all Amélie can do to focus on the other's voice through the haze of aches and dizziness assailing her. She truly wishes only to be alone with her injuries at the moment, however well-meaning this Dame Mistral might be in her intentions.

She bites her lip in attempt to ground herself with more immediate pain, and forces a slight, wincing smile. The vacancy of her absent tooth tastes turgid against her tongue. Holding Mistral's gaze, she replies, "He proved himself a fool the moment he opened his mouth. Yet, I did not think to acquire a squire. I suppose Kier could use the company, though. I am miserable enough, withal."

The girl's casual admission of God's favor is vaguely hurtful, but in her current state Amélie cannot bring herself to dwell on it. She saw the manifest truth of it in their joust, regardless.

"If you speak of the Blessed Maiden, though, I'll not sully her good works with my ruddy presence. I will have to settle for the ministrations of my order's Brother-Physic. He can remind me of the shame I have brought to our knighthood as he tends the lashings of my unworth."

She takes a moment to steady herself before moving to leave, fails, and then says, "I would invite you to accompany me, ma Dame, and have him succor your own hurts, though passing trifling to such as these, but... I fear I shan't make the journey to the hostel on my own." Amélie smiles again at her own rue. "I seem to have expended the fervor of my indignity. If I could beg your assistance?"

[Salone]

These pompous fools.

Ylnjor repeated the thought again and again as he hobbled through the grounds, passing others with a glowering look. His ribs were agony, and he knew he would be regretting his decision for days. The so called grand melee would not be in his near future.

Nearby he spotted an odd sort of man. Thick like, but no actual muscle. The odd part though was his skin. It seemed to be lighter in various patches, giving his face a mismatched look. Even without the pigmentless patches, he had the look of a foreigner. Ylnjor spared him no sympathy as he threw words at him.

"Bit of an odd duck out in this place, aren't you friend?"