[Suzerain of Sheol]

The Lady of the Lake! her arm clad in the purest, shimmering samite held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water,
signifying by DIVINE PROVIDENCE
that I, Arthur, was to be King of the Britons!

Thus, we begin.

[Gallagher]

"Cannae forget your duties, Kier. Important day in the 'morrow, Kier. We cannae sleep in." His steps heavy against the stone floor, Kier flung his arm out, an oversized hat flopping in his grasp. "We my fuckin' arse!" It was an important day, at least by knightly standards. Not that that was about to make him rush around. More than he already had. Running around half of the palace was quite enough, thank you very much.

Kier stopped in front of a set of doors and sighed. The chapel. If she wasn't here, then he was doomed. Missing from a tournament because of some servant boy. That might finally be enough to turn her sword on him. Maybe. Probably. He ran a hand back through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. There was no way he could watch if he was stabbed through.

With that thought, he took a breath and shoved the doors open. "Amélie! Miss Amélie!"

[Suzerain of Sheol]

She'd awoke with the sound of the chapel doors crashing inward, senses honed in hissing desert dawns surging to awareness before she recalled where she was. Could she have looked more pathetic to any of the other faithful who'd stopped by for matins this morn? Slumped awkwardly over the prie-dieu, disheveled and destitute, Amélie rather doubted it.

Lifting her head, she fought back a wince at the ensuing ache. She must have spent the better part of the night with her neck lolling over the lip of the prayer bench. She couldn't even remember falling asleep.

The first sight to greet her was the statue that had kept her company in her lonely vigil, the beloved Saint-Marie la Madone, her flawless visage as irenic as the voices of Heaven who refused to break their silence. She stared into the Virgin's eyes for a moment, thinking, asking, Where does atonement end, and grace begin? For what hast thou forsaken me?

But she knew. The blood had seeped so deep within her as to stain her very soul. And even heathen blood was a blight in the eye of Christ, whatever the vicars might say. It had to be thus.

She could hear footsteps approaching, more irritated calls. A moment, she thought. But a moment more.

Righting herself into a more contrite pose, she bowed her head and began to murmur,

"Ave Maria, gratia plena,
Dominus tecum..."

[Gallagher]

What was she-? Oh. No. Of course. He could have groaned, if that weren't entirely inappropriate and disrespectful and bound to send him deeper into Hell when the time came. Kier stopped beside the bench his ever-so-devout knight had chosen, and for a moment, his eyes turned to the image of Moire.

He never did like to ruin moments like this.

Looking to Amélie, his voice far softer than when he had entered, he said, "Miss Amélie, I'm sorry, this isn't the time. Did you forget already?"

[Suzerain of Sheol]

"et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."

Looking up to her varlet, Amélie was at first bewildered by his apparent concern, and his need to disturb her repose, until she heard the words he'd spoken.

"Mon Dieu, the tourney!" she cried, pushing herself to her feet and wringing her hands through her sleep-mussed hair. "They're like to call me to the list any moment! And me, more sloth than knight, and profane no less..." She crossed herself in a hasty apology to the Lord for using the chapel as her bedchamber. No doubt, the monks had not the heart to rouse her, mistaking her wretched prayers for a piety they might envy.

Enough of that. The day demands.

"My armor, Kier," she spoke through a yawn, "At once, if you please. We cannot tarry, lest we dishonor the entire Ordo Humilis. And I'll need Sombre dressed and saddled. Spare my lance, I'd not kill whomever they set against me."

Looking out through the high windows of the nave, she attempts to discern the hour and fails. Looking back to Kier, she sighs. "I make of myself a disgrace. I am sorry."

[Gallagher]

He bowed his head. Kier was sure he was better off not mentioning the ungodly hour he'd woken to prepare, along with the usual chores, those very things. Or that all of this discussion was wasting even more time. If only he'd noticed her absence before he'd tended to Sombre. "Aye, Miss Amélie."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Late morning passes amid a spectacle of pageantry on the tournament grounds -- acrobats, flame-swallowers, and more, entertaining the assembled gentry and common-folk before the main event begins. Lords and their households have come from all across the empire for the Holy Mustering, and take this day each as a last moment of ease before the storm of the Invasion of Logres begins. Hundreds of knights are slated to compete, with a mystery prize awaiting the victor. Later, still hundreds more of men-at-arms and lesser knights shall test each other in the grand melee, with a hundred pounds of silver to go to the victor. There is an air of expectant tenacity upon the tourney ground as the heralds begin to call forth the first contenders.

High up in a canopy shielded from the summer sun sits the Holy Emperor Charlemagne, his wife the Empress Hildegard, and their daughter, now restored to health by the wonders of the Living Saint, tiny Theodrada. With them are the paladins Ogeir and Maugris, who have both declined to join the joust, as well as various dignitaries and favored peers of the Emperor's Court, foremost among them, of course, His Holiness Clement VI, the Vicar of Christ on Earth, Papal Regent of the Holy See of Christendom.

Charlemagne conducts himself with reserved levity, well aware of the hellish toil awaiting these brave men in the coming weeks. Nonetheless, he is eager to watch his Paladins -- recalled from their many quests -- join the lists together for the first time. Even Sir Bors, late of beleaguered Camelot, has elected to test himself against Charlemagne's finest knights, and it is his name that is called first by the heralds.

Resplendent in his silvered armor -- full, articulated plate of the finest craft embossed with gilded filigree of rearing lions and blued etchings of majestic flowers -- he arrives, astride a silver-coated destrier draped in equally extravagant barding. Even at his age, he looks every bit the champion legend makes him out to be. Doffing his helm to reveal his shaven head, scarred by a vicious blow on the crown of is skull, he bows in reverence before taking his place on the parade ground.

In short order his opponent is called forth, Sir Fierbras, the Saracen, exalted among the Paladins. He wears a resplendent gown of gilded scale armor, descending well past his waist to drape his plate-armored thighs and shins. A crimson sash of wafting silk drapes his chest, and his pointed helm bears a flowing crest of dyed horsehair in the same deep red. Wishing peace to his Emperor, he too prepares for the pass, saluting Sir Bors and the mutual honor between them. Both men are brought fresh lances, and the crowd falls quiet.

And yet, notably absent from the proceedings is the Saint herself, the Holy Maiden Jeanne of Arc. While she came preaching words of holy war, such violent sport is beneath the watching gaze of angels. She instead tends to the sick and destitute in the greater confines of Avignon, bringing succor and weal to all those who could not attend the events. The lack of her presence to sanctify the event has cast the slightest shadow over Charlemagne's mood, though he does his best to pay it no mind and watch the test of mettle and skill about to unfold.

[Salone]

"I do not see the point, Charlamagne. Why have them fight if they are not going to kill each other?"

Ylnjor took the drawn out time to pronounce every word as he spoke. He had done a lot of speaking today. It seemed as if speaking was all he really had to do these days.

He sat slouched back in his seat near Charlemagne, his head supported to the side by two fingers and thumb. He could feel himself becoming fatter and dough-like by the minute. The so called 'jousting' raised all the excitement of crop farming for him. He didn't give Charlemagne a chance to defend the sport or even answer his question before he continued on in his slow drawl.

"They line up. They have two sharp sticks and run at each other. What is the outcome? A man is hit with a large stick. Or if that does not happen, the opposite man is hit with an equal stick. Gripping sport, you have here, Charlemagne."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Before tensions can flare at the foreigner's barb, Ogier the Dane calmly responds, chuckling in good humor. "We are not so warlike as our northern brothers, my friend, here in the heart of holy France. 'tis mere sport, as you say. I'd not want to stand in arms against either of man down there, though, I tell thee true."

He passes a keen-eyed glance to his sovereign.Or mayhap we might oblige the ambassador a duel with Sir Fierbras this even, in true northman fashion? He does so enjoy taking steel to heathens."

The massive man barks a laugh, and Charlemagne joins in, albeit distracted by the thundering of hooves. Below, the two knight-lords charge down the tilt at each other, lances poised, and meet in a shattering crash. Splinters fly as Bors' lance shatters against the square of his opponent's shield, and sends the Paladin careening backwards over his horse.

Much to the astonishment of all watching, Fierbras flips garishly in mid-air and lands soundly on his feet, bowing first to the audience, then to Sir Bors, and then deeply to Charlemagne before departing to his tent. Raucous cheer follows him out.

[Salone]

Ylnjor laughed under his breath at the retort, becoming more interested in the conversation. He gave Ogier a not-quite toothy grin.

"I would hate to deprive your countrymen of such a fine example, as you have so few. But it would allow me to work off the fat that I have put on while basking in this...luxury, that has been graciously provided to me."

Ylnjor turned back in time to catch Fierbras' display of acrobatic talent. He laughed under his breath, bringing his hands up for a congratulatory clap for the knight.

"If he is as good with a blade as he is with falling off of a horse, perhaps I would be in trouble Ogier."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Joining in the applause, Charlemagne stands and gestures in benediction to his champion as he bows. Seating himself once more, he addresses Ylnjor with a comfortable smile.

"Fierbras brings us great honor, it is sooth. And he is perhaps quicker with a blade than any in my court, though no doubt Roland would contest that claim."

The Emperor takes a hearty swallow from his goblet. A servant is quick to offer Ylnjor a matching cup.

Charlemagne continues,"Mayhap the melee would be more to thine interest, Nord-son? It would please us to see thee prove thy prowess among the flower of France's chivalry."

With another hearty laugh, Ogier adds, "Aye. I'd be keen to test you myself, Ylnjor. I shall even set aside my dear friends," he pats the hilts of Curtana and Sauvagine sheathed at his hips, "and fight with mortal steel. There is honor in this, no?"

[Salone]

"Honor? That you would grace me with mortal instruments in contest for my mortal coil? Perhaps so. It would give a mere man such as I a chance."

He frowned, taking Ogier's reply as a slight insult that someone would have to handicap themselves so he would be on even footing with an adversary. Ylnjor waved the servant away, not caring for the bitter poison that passed for a drink.

"None for me. Were I to partake, I would surely dishearten Charlemagne as I beat his men down in my drunkeness. I accept both invitations. I could use the practice before Valhalla calls me."

He grinned again, trying not to laugh as the thought of thumping heads threatened to excite him.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

The familiar weight of her armor has a calming effect on Amélie, and she feels at ease in the martial confines of the tournament grounds. Amid the sea of pompous heraldry and bustling squires, she sees no familiar faces or coats of arms, no surprise with the number of visiting lords come to join cause with the Emperor in his holy war.

Amélie had hoped to find Dame Bradamante and offer her her well-wishes before the joust, but there is no sign of the lady-paladin, nor any of the exalted peers.

Halting amid the swarm of bodies to make sure she has not lost her varlet, Amélie says to Kier, "It will be the Devil's errand getting near enough to catch a view of the joust." She looks around once more, frowning. "Though in such company as this, you are like as not to be better spared observing my humiliation." Attempting a smile, she adds, "Christ Jesu would no doubt have it thus, nay?"

She pushes away memories of the blood-washed walls of Jerusalem, along with thoughts of the coming carnage in the north that will, if anything, eclipse the horrors she witnessed and inflicted in God's chosen land.

[Gallagher]

It was unfortunate enough that a spectacle like this, as much as he'd been looking forward to it, demanded such crowds. Kier had never been good with them. Especially the kinds of crowds filled with people stronger and larger than he was. With violent careers. And excited for fighting.

Guiding that stubborn old horse to boot.

It left Kier looking like a twitchy, eager little rat in the bakery. He hardly took three steps without checking his side. When Amélie came to a stop, he nearly tumbled right into her. Rocking back on his heels, he blinked at her as she spoke and frowned at her last comment. "Nae. Humiliation goes down better with company that's seen their own share."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Standing under the glare of the sun, Amélie's pulls back her camail and arming cap, running a hand through her hair and rubbing at the discomfort on her scalp. She checks the fastenings of her armor yet again, conscious of its foreign design among the suits of gleaming plate worn by her peers. The gold-work threading between the overlapping plates of her jack seems garish, pretentious, not to mention unbecoming of a poor knight. It had been a gift passed to her during the crusade, a reward for service and survival from the chapter master, more than she ever deserved, but she'd not dishonor him by giving it away.

"I shall have at least one praying my success from the tiers, then." She manages an actual smile, and slides her camail back into place once more. "Mayhap I might do thee honor. I'll certainly try."

Striding over to Sombre's side, she pulls her helm free from the saddle-bag, wincing at the thought of its weight. It is of little moment, though; the desert sun was far hotter, and she bore that bane amid thirst and starvation, beset by murderers and traitors, and returned alive. Perhaps not unscathed, but alas. To live is to be scathed, and face the scourge of God.

Swinging herself into the saddle, she nods to Kier in salute, and pulls down the lip of the aventail covering her mouth to tell him, "I must away to more worshipful company, though I should be more fit among your own." She lingers a moment longer, growing dour, and murmurs, "Pray for me," before driving Sombre forward.

I wish to win. I do, and how I rue it. Hubris and pride, as Satan should weep. God forgive me, for I shall surely not forgive myself.

[Gallagher]

More worshipful company. Company she belonged with, no matter how she denied it, for Kier knew just what his own meant. Those unworthy in the eyes of God, born without virtue and destined to failure. How she saw herself. How she saw him. For one of them, it was certainly true, though he had no desire to know which. He bowed his head at her parting words. "Aye. Of course, Miss Amélie."