[Quiet Man Cometh]

Mistral had risen early that morning, both out of habit and out of excitement for the tournament. With one Sir Guillame’s pages handling the morning chores, Mistral found herself without anything to do apart from take in the city, and the people, and the other knights , their horses, their armour, their banners...This was the image of knighthood she had has as a child, and though she knew somewhat better now, it was still the image she liked best.

Claude was standing and dozing. He wasn’t a magnificent horse by any means, but he was fit, big, and steady, and had no problem with pushing his way through a crowd. Mistral paced, walking over to the page once more as he readied her horse, and turned away again after the page gave her yet another exasperated glance.

With Claude ready, the page helped her up, and she thanked him for his help before riding towards the lists…almost. The page made a quick grab for the reigns and led Claude and Mistral at a responsible pace to where the other knights were gathering.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

There will be some time before she is called to the lists, with dozens of prestigious knights ahead of her to joust for the Emperor's honor. Amélie is glad for the opportunity to see the paladins test each other's mettle, though it is humbling to see their magnificent skill-at-arms. Even though she knows they have all shed their blood and slaughtered heathens on the sands of the Holy Land, to her they seem untouched by such murderous work, pristine in glory while the weight of lives taken clings to Amélie like damnation.

She feels unease at the expectation riding on her -- to try her honor before her liege-lord and all the assembled potentates of the Holy Empire -- and likewise at not knowing who her opponent will be. Though she trusts Sombre with her life, Amélie knows that her skill with the horse is lacking; far too many battles waged on foot and atop castle walls for her to practice the knightly sport. Still, she killed enough Saracens in devastating charges with her brethren to know how to place a lance.

She scratches Sombre's ear where it pokes up through his plate barding. He is a dutiful beast, and fierce at need. He at least will not fail this day.

With a final sounding of heraldic trumpets, Amélie at last hears the pronouncement:

"And now, as it please His Grace, representing the Ordo Humilis, Dame Amélie de la Roche-Blanche, oath-sworn of the Dame Bradamante, veteran of the Crusade, and Poor Knight of Our Lord Jesu the Christ. Come thee forth, ma Dame!

Crossing herself with a hasty prayer, she rides forth onto the parade ground.

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Mistral tried to conceal some of her excitement. Most of these knights she knew by name, but she had never seen them before, and now she was in their company.

She tamped down the pride she began to feel at hearing her name called for the joust, for it was both unknightly and unChristian, but still, she had a smile on her face as she urged her horse forward. She was still new to the joust, but could hold her lance, and Claude could be depended upon to run a straight line.

Greeting her opponent, who she was pleased to find was another woman, Mistral offered her sincere “God be with you” before taking her place at the start of the list.

[Lawtan]

The light of the sun rose above the tall Oak and Maple trees, beading through the leaves. Below, Gwion stretched along the grasses, the light slowly waking him up. Tossing and turning to nightmares on the uneven ground, an agitated agate thrust itself into his back. Leaping high, quick enough to put butterflies into his head, Gwion swore, “By the fickled fae whom of all men hate, the worm of a beast whoso woke me shall suffer death boiling their flesh over a slow crockpot!” Looking through blurred eyes, Gwion searched for an intruder, dagger at the ready, yet found no one. Letting loose a breath, Gwion laughed at how paranoid he could be sometimes.

Popping his joints to much pain, Gwion proceeded through exercises to loosen himself up. He swung the dull side of his Ear-dagger, Ladykiller, against a piece of deadwood nearby, using it to limber his limbs. Now somewhat “home” in his skin, Gwion went about clearing his “camp” – untying his hidden rucksack from its position in a dead pine. Checking the sack, and seeing the supplies still there, Gwion sighed in relief. Sleeping like he did had its risks, and he didn't relish waking to a blade or having naught but his armor present. His head however still felt clouded, with minor jolts of pain running within from above his eye. He grabbed a small pouch of brown medicinal meal, another pouch of sand, and proceeded to search out a source of water. His mission could proceed after he took care of himself.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

The weight of the Emperor's gaze on her is difficult to withstand as she rides out to pay him worship before the joust. Amélie is unsure whether she is known to him, though if the Lord Charlemagne, with his depth of piety, disdains her for her perfidy, he does well to hide it. If anything, the assembled peers look to her with respect, which does little to ease Amélie's trepidation at performing before such a prestigious audience.

Lord, let me only not slay who rides against me. Permit me not to shame myself with that murder which comes so easily to these crude hands. For once, I might be a knight as legendry purports, glorious and pure, if thou but allow it. Jesu Domini, so I pray.

Amélie is surprised to hear the name of another woman called as her opponent, and narrows her eyes behind her visor at the other's slight frame and diminutive stature.

She hears a call from the ranks of attending knights, a shout of encouragement to this Mistral, and looks to see the crest of Sir Guillame de Marachel himself urging her to victory.

All at once, the misgiving she held at facing this seeming-weak opponent falls away. That she is a student of Sir Guillame, perhaps the greatest knight in all the world, presents an entirely different reservation.

Before me marshals the blossom of France's chivalry, well-tended and fresh-cut to bask in the waxing sun of God's favor. I am unworthy of this.

Nonetheless, Amélie readies herself, accepting the lance that is brought to her and breathing deep. She can feel Sombre grow tense beneath her, sensing the imminent charge. Somewhere, Kier is watching this. Does he know the name of de Marachel? He outdid himself to bring her this far this morning, and now, how can she but betray that effort?

Nonetheless.

When the heralds sound their horns, the honed instincts of war seize Amélie and Sombre, and she drives the destrier on in a hammering charge, the lance angled over the divide at the smaller woman's shield. Her own is heavy, but it maters not. This will be over soon.

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Mistral started slightly at the suddenness of Dame Amelie’s charge. She urged Claude forward, and the horse took his customary few steps to get up to speed, but quickly enough was galloping down the line. Through the slit in her helm, Mistral sighted her opponent and leveled her lance.

Mistral bit back at her own anxiety, facing the big warhorse and its strangely armoured rider. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears within the confines of her helm, was even annoyed by the sound of her own breathing.

There was the crowd, and the drumming of hooves, and then Mistral felt like she had charged headlong into a tree. She tried not to lose her breath, white knuckled her lance, and heard the shower of splinters that bounced off her armour and helm. Staggered, she gasped for breath but held her seat, supported by unseen arms while she cleared the daze from her head.

Without realizing it, she had closed her eyes in the last half-second, and now they were open wide as she reigned in, Claude, trying to turn him at the same time to see what just had happened.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Amélie did her best to keep the lance level as they came together; she was unused to this crosswise style of of mounted combat, and the weight of the sporting lance was awkward as it dipped and rose with Sombre's galloping.

Keeping her head tucked low, eyes fixed out through the top rim of her visor, she braced for the impact, leaning into the strike as she collided with the other knight.

The strike was true, square on the face of Mistral's shield an instant before the smaller woman's own lance impacted her own.

It was like trying to unhorse a stone wall.

The lance exploded in her hand, the sheer force of it twisting Amélie at the waist and wrenching her lower back over the cusp of her war saddle.

And instant later, Mistral's lance smashes into her shield arm, deflecting off the rounded boss and imparting its force to the domed face braced against her forearm. Even through her armor, the pain is incredible, the steel rim of the shield driven into the bone.

And then she is falling, driven bodily back off the horse, her right foot slipping free while the left remains tangled in its stirrup. Dragged by Sombre, Amélie struggles to retain conscious as blossoming pain devours her arm and back.

Black sparks pulse across her vision. Not even sure if she is even breathing, Amélie defies it all and forces herself to sit up, instincts honed in merciless battle flaring to force down weakness and shock. She drags her foot free and rolls to her knees, gasping.

Struggling at the clasp, she wrenches off her helmet with shuddering hands, spitting out a broken tooth with gobbets of blood. Dazed, a familiar rage pounds in her skull and she finds herself reaching for a sword that is not that there before her senses returns.

There is no fell foe about to end her life, no descending axe to parry and struggle at with mortal ferocity. There is only shame, and broken things.

Spitting again, she pulls up her right foot and rises with tentative effort. Her hip feels bruised at the least, along with her ribs, the left ankle likely dislocated, and the less said of her shield arm, the better.

Limping, she leans on Sombre and leaves the parade ground.

[Salone]

Ylnjor erupted in to thunderous laughter as Amélie was wrenched from her mount. He rocked back and forth, clapping his hands together and continuing his horrible cackling at the knight's unfortunate fall. After a moment he brought a hand down on Charlemagne's shoulder, giving him a small shake as he attempted to calm himself.

"Charlemagne, I have seen the error of my ways. This is great sport. Especially if women have such fancies as to compete."

With that he stood up, bringing his hands up to his mouth to shout down at the felled woman.

"Oy, you! Better luck in the kitchens! Let's hope for your husband's sake you can handle a spoon better than you can a lance!"

[Suzerain of Sheol]

What was a jovial, if somewhat strained, atmosphere in the emperor's company fast becomes direly hostile. A grimace of constrained outrage tightens Charlemagne's features at the ungracious laying on of hands, and his attendant paladins are quick to take to their feet. Ogier has a hand on the sword at his right, Curtana. Perhaps only his Paladin's code prevent him from blasting the barbarian dignity to ash where he stands.

More collected, Sir Maugris attempts to intercede, stepping forcibly between Charlemagne and Ylnjor to confront the foreigner as much to put space between him and the Holy Emperor.

Clearing his throat, the lithe sorcerer speaks in mollifying tones. "While such camaraderie among the chieftains of thy... spirited... people may be the norm, I must implore thee to never again defile the Emperor with thy rude touch. As His Grace," he nods to Pope Clement behind them, "will attest, Lord Charlemagne's flesh is sacrosanct and inviolable. It is utter profanity to disdain such a forbidding. But how couldst thou have known?" Something sinister and threatening crawls in his eyes as he speaks the last, a promise of unspeakable sorceries merely awaiting his beckon.

"As it stands, I may only adjure thee to behave thyself, lest my companion here grow imminent wroth. He has not the boon of patience with which the Great Powers hath graced myself."

"Aye," the Dane growls, his hard brown eyes unblinking in their glare. "'As it stands,'" he does his best to affect Maugris' sibilant accent, "My hope to meet you in the melee is redoubled. May God see it so." The glance he passes to Charlemagne as he seats himself speaks of brutal vengeance.

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Mistral blinked her eyes, rapidly. Claude was walking in circles and she realized that she was leaning heavily to one side of him, and she forced herself to sit upright and settle properly into her saddle. The supporting arms she had felt were withdrawn and it took much effort to keep herself steady. She abandoned her broken lance to one of the pages and looked to see how her opponent had fared.

Not well, it appeared. She was off her horse, and doubled over, spitting blood as she groped for something at her side. Was that me? flashed though her mind as she watched the other knight leave the field. She had unhorsed people before, usually the bullies at school when they were practicing, and she had hit the dirt several times herself, but this was an altogether new image.

Mistral debated in her head whether she should apologies, or offer a rematch, when a brutish voice yelled from the stands:

"Oy, you! Better luck in the kitchens! Let's hope for your husband's sake you can handle a spoon better than you can a lance!"

She bristled inside. That was something she had heard many times before, and she had the same response to it. She called to the man sitting by the Emperor,

“And you think you have enough practice with yours that you can so surely insult another’s prowess? You insult my fellows and you insult me! His Holiness permitting, I challenge you to a joust, here and now.”

[Salone]

Ylnjor looked back and forth between his suddenly hostile company, glaring hate and death between them all. He had never felt more insulted. Rage boiled within him. It threatened to overtake him, to make him assault his humorless hosts until he was struck down.

“And you think you have enough practice with yours that you can so surely insult another’s prowess? You insult my fellows and you insult me! His Holiness permitting, I challenge you to a joust, here and now.”

That was all he needed to hear. The other female knight was challenging him! What a rich day this had turned out to be. Ylnjor turned away from Maugris, calling out to the woman below. There would be time to answer for his supposed transgressions later.

"None needed, I accept!"

Ylnjor hauled himself over the side of the canopy, making his way down to the grounds before he could be hindered. He unceremoniously clambered over obstructions and the crowd until he was in the arena, grinning with malice at the woman who had challenged him. She looked frail to him, an easy win for someone of his stature. He gestured towards her, being as condescending as possible as he spoke.

"You're sure of yourself, girlie. Care to make a wager, or do you need permission for such things as well?"

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Mistral glared at the foreigner. “I will not dishonor God by making wagers, but if you like, you can seek atonement for your words by going with us on our coming campaign and being my page, or that of the knight you insulted.”

[Suzerain of Sheol]

"He maketh sport of us." Maugris practically hisses the words -- a sure sign of his rising ire.

A moment passes in audacious spectacle, and then Charlemagne suddenly laughs: rich, powerful, and long. He turns a wry eye to his Paladin, a remnant of the man behind the irenic mask of imperial lordship. "Is that not what we are here for this day?! Let us all make sport, while yet we may!" He lifts his arm in eagerness, then brings it swiftly down.

"The terms are set! Let it be thus! Commence!

[Gallagher]

For one moment, there was silence. Though he was surrounded on every side by countless faces, as Kier looked on on the match between the two knights, all he could hear was his heart hammering. A heavy breath. His very nerves crackling beneath his skin. Amélie's body against the ground. Her armor as she struggled. To get free. Against her own panic. Silence.

And he, he only had thoughts of her. Broken. Damaged. Shamed.

The clamoring of the crowds went on with one less among them. Kier made his way to his knight and her horse, uninterested in what had earned such a commotion.

"Miss Amélie-?"

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Sombre practically carries her as she makes her way off the field. Her left foot drags uselessly and she leans against his muscled side in helpless weakness. If she had the strength, she would haul herself onto his back and let him carry her away from this place of pain and humiliation.

I have done you proud, have I not, my brother knights? Well are we dubbed the Ordo Humilis.

She hears the barb thrown at her, words meant to wound, but the voice is sourceless, meaningless in the black haze of her wounded thoughts. They signify nothing, anyway. As though she found pride and honor at her ability to murder the best of men. She was a stain upon the august tapestry of this noble company; a rude, illiterate butcher among the highest lords of the land. What husband would even have such an abominable mate, filthy with thoughts of rage? Not the Lord to whom she was wed through Christ, most certainly.

Hearing Kier's voice nearby, she slows her ragged departure, tilts her head up by margins and opens a swollen eye. "I do not... even know where my failure lies this time." The words are a struggle. "I do not... belong here, Kier. Could you... could you help me away? I must be alone."

She tries to look back at the tourney ground, but fails with the throb in her neck. "And my shield, if you could. I seem to have... mislaid it."

[Quiet Man Cometh]

The page boy who tended to Claude that morning appears again, this time bearing a fresh lance in both arms while another lad leads a heavy, black horse into the field and walks it over to Ylnjor. A third boy brings in another lance, and holds it towards the Northerner. “You can use this, sir?”