Dol Amroth Tourney - Joust Final

Barsaphad rises now, the motion echoed by the overly-eager squires. With a gloved hand he shakes the moisture from his black hair before tucking the locks back behind his head. Quick hands reach out to tighten the straps of his vambraces and greaves. "I ... ... ... ... ... this ......" he murmers to himself.

Once more his black charger is brought to him, having just fed and drank well through the last bout. The Knight looks the beast in the eyes, 'Do you best not to kill me, will you?'

Shaking his head, he kicks up into the saddle and gently taps the horses flanks with his silver spurs...moving out slowly toward the lists.

"Hmm," Faelwine eyes the scop knowingly, but she grins, her eyes bright. "Well done, you. I wonder what Feohelm shall offer for his loss in the wager." Taking the shield, she sets it aside, then goes to Dealfyr, reaching to set a hand each upon his reins and neck. "Let me see to him, hrrm? While you rest. I think my brother was getting drinks for both of you."

Indeed, a few moments later, Feohelm appears with two cups of ginger-water, one already sipped from. He offers the other to the scop, a wide grin on his face. "Well tilted, my brother, well tilted indeed."

"Finalist, take to the lists for your final runs!" the announcer finally calls out, "Your match will begin shortly. Please send a page if you have a request for more time."

Hraefengar sighs, giving a slow nod. "Splinters," he murmurs, then sits for a brief moment, removing his helm and plucking splinters out of his beard and braids. He takes a drink of the water, letting the sweet tartness refresh him. "Thank you, Feohelm," he murmurs. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then sighs at the call to the list. He hands over the cup, then mounts again. "Is he well, Faelwine?" he asks.

For the brief moment of rest, Faelwine had led Dealfyr to a bucket of cool water left ready for him, and had checked the stallion over. As Hraefengar mounts, nods and smiles up to him. "He is well, and eager as ever, I daresay." She glances then to her brother. "Carry his shield for him to the gate, Feohelm? To let your arm rest a little longer yet." She adds kindly to the scop.

Feohelm nods, drains his own cup, then sets both the cups aside and picks up the scop's shield. Faelwine stays at Dealfyr's head, to try and keep the stallion settled.

Well indeed it is that Faelwine stands at Dealfyr's head, for the stallion is more eager than ever, and he tosses his head and champs at the bit. So they come to the gate, and Hraefengar dons his head again. He takes the lance handed to him, then reaches stiffly for his shield. "Thank you," he murmurs softly, then says naught else. He sits ready, his gaze already fixing on the Sea-Knight.

As the two approach the lists, the announcer announces them once again the crowd, his words muffled by the cries and cheers, mainly for the Knight of Imrahil. The former flag has been replaced by one edged with silver thread, but it is raised the same as before, and falls just as quickly.

"Send him to the dirt for me," murmurs the scout as he lifts the shield, helping it onto the scop's arm. He grins then, and nods. "Good luck, brother."

Faelwine helps guide the stallion as long as she may, then releases him wordlessly, but with a bright smile up to her husband. She retreats then, standing beside her brother and watching anxiously.

"A challenge worthy of song, eh, Hraefengar?" Barsaphad laughs and slips the styled helm over his face once more. He taps once more with his spurs and moves to the end of the lists. He stretches his arm in a wide circle to loosen the muscles before taking the offered lance.

The spiral-coloured spear is lifted in salute to his opponent, and the lowered to the ready. When the lance descends, the Knight snaps the reigns, and the horse leaps to the charge...

"Well, Barsaphad, you shall have your question answered," answers Hraefengar. He lifts his shield, wincing, then urges his horse forwards. Clods of earth fly up as the Eastmark-bred stallion leaps forwards, neighing. As he charges, carried forwards, the Master-Bard lowers his lance and breaces it, aiming at Barsaphad's shield.

Hraefengar and Barsaphad charge each other down the fence...
   ...and Hraefengar's lance strikes Barsaphad -- but his lance remains unbroken!

Barsaphad reels back in his saddle, but remains horsed!

"Damn." Be it the glare of the sun or the sting of sweat rolling down his face, something causes the Knight's lance to veer off to one side -- missing the Rohirrim's sheild entirely. His curses continue to ring in the confines of the steel helm.

Quickly, he veers the horse around and to the ready.

Admittedly, Hraefengar flinches, then laughs as his lance remains unbroken. The curses do not reach his ears, perhaps, for the wind of Dealfyr's running blows them away. They come to the end of the list and wheel about, and the bard holds the horse in check, waiting.

Wasting no time, the flag is raised and brought down again, the crowd's roar dropping to a hushed silence.

The Knight once more sets his lance and charges -- an uncertain gleam in his eyes...

The once-Rider lets Dealfyr rush forwards, and he, too, lowers his lance, charging. The gleam in his eyes is eager, and he laughs softly, gladly.

Hraefengar and Barsaphad charge each other down the fence...
   ...and both jousters strike home -- Hraefengar's lance exploding in a flurry of splinters!

Hraefengar reels back in his saddle, but remains horsed!

"A mighty blow, master bard!" Barsaphad laughs this time as he cranes his horse about at the end of the lists. He hands his still-unbroken lance to a Squire and brushes the splinters from his tabard. He lifts the shaft once more, and readies for the third pass.

On the side-lines, Faelwine winces visibly as the scop is struck, and beside her Feohelm makes a face. A moment later though, the scout has lifted his voice again in cries on encouragement for his brother-in-law, and though she still looks worried, and watches Hraefengar carefully, she adds her own voice to her brother's.

The blow sends Hraefengar back, back, for his arm cannot hold the force of it. Yet the scop bends, shaking himself from a flurry of splinters. "Well-struck!" he answers. Pain shows on his face, but he quickly masks it and rides to the end of the field, Dealfyr going more carefully now. Hraefengar takes a new lance, and wrenches his shield-arm into position. Then he sits, waiting.

As the riders ready opposite each other, the flag is raised. Shortly after it falls for the third time.

"Come on then!" Laughs the Knight, and the sting of his spurs drives the horse furiously forward!

Dealfyr tosses his head and races forwards as the flag drops again. No spur needs he, and he almost seems to leap rather than run. His hooves skim the field, and with a slight gritting of his teeth, Hraefengar sets his shield properly, then lowers the lance, aiming it towards the shield of the spur-happy knight.

Hraefengar and Barsaphad charge each other down the fence...

..and Hraefengar's lance strikes Barsaphad -- his lance exploding in a flurry of splinters!

Barsaphad is smote from his horse, falling hard to the dust!

The crash is mighty. Barsaphad slams into the dirt and rolls, cracking his lance across his chest. There he pauses...motionless for a few seconds. With a heave and a groan, he pulls himself up once more. He mutters in his greathelm.

He mounts again, and takes up a new lance.

Dealfyr's whinny seems almost like laughter, and the stallion half-rears again as he pounds down to the end of the field. Hraefengar shakes splinters from his hair, then wheels 'round at the end of the list. He speaks a soft word to the horse, who stands quiveringly still, and then he takes a new lance and waits.

Feohelm and Faelwine together let out a mighty cheer for the scop, grinning at each other and then eagerly watching the next exchange.

After the pair are readied, the fourth flag is raised and swung down.

"Damned horses." Barsaphad's smile twists into a sneer, "Let's get this over with..." He kicks hard and the horse bolts out toward the scop. His lance drops toward the interior edge of his opponent's sheild...

Hraefengar lets the reins loose a notch, and the dun-gold stallion surges forwards. The bard steadies his spear, then lowers the lance, aiming it at Barsaphad's shield-shaped target.

Hraefengar and Barsaphad charge each other down the fence...

...and both jousters strike home -- Hraefengar's lance exploding in a flurry of splinters!

Hraefengar reels back in his saddle, but remains horsed!

"About time! Another strong hit, Hraefengar!" Calls out Lord Azrabar -- his shield dented where the mighty blow struck. He smiles grimly as he takes up his position at the end of the lists. Creaking in his saddle, he leans to check his horses eyes for splinters.

Satisfied, he awaits the final flag.
 

Another exploding lance, another solid hit, and Hraefengar is sent reeling back as his shield-arm is wrenched upwards. He winces, and for a moment closes his eyes. Then he rights himself, and lets Dealfyr carry him to the end of the field. There the stallion barely stands as the scop takes a new lance, and he stamps impatiently. They are ready.

The Sea-Knight and Bard need not wait long, the flag is dropped signaling the charge of the final run.

There may be no hope for victory for the Knight, but non-the-less his charge is full of fire and vigor. The black steed thunders along the fence, and the Knight drops his lance into place...all his focus on the target before him...

Hraefengar steadies himself, lifting the shield, though he canno9t quite hold it as high as he ought. Wincing, he jerks it higher, and Dealfyr takes the bit in his teeth as the flag is dropped. His haunches bunch, then release, and the stallion plunges forwards, running at near full-speed. Hraefengar nods his head, then lowers his lance one last time, aimed at the Knight's shield.

Hraefengar and Barsaphad charge each other down the fence...
   ...and Hraefengar's lance strikes Barsaphad -- his lance exploding in a flurry of splinters!

Barsaphad is smote from his horse, falling hard to the dust!

It is no use...the Sailor cannot keep his horse beneath the shattering blow. With a defiant growl, he slips from the saddle and crashes to the ground. The ancient helm rolls from his head and spins like a top in the dust. Barsaphad winces as he stands, quickly unlashing his shield, "Squire!"

"Amazing horsemanship, Bard! You do the Mark proud." He winces and reaches up with a single hand to pull back his cape and reveal the large shard of wood that now pierces through the seam of his mail shirt. A stain of crimson starts to blossom even as he curses.

He grabs the Squire by the tunic, "Fetch me some bandage...and get my helm." The Squire, shaken, runs to do as he is bid.

"And we have our victor! Hraefengar!" the announcer cries, the crowd politely cheering, obviously disappointed by the loss of the Knight. "Congratulations to him and his beautiful steed!"

For a moment, it takes all of Hraefengar's will to slow his horse, and as the stallion wheels around, he hears the Knight's words. He leaps down from the stallion's back, heedless of his maimed arm, and runs to Barsaphad's side. "Are you much hurt?" he asks, brushing aside the compliment. His own face is pale, sweat-covered. "I can get a healer."

The Eorlings at the rail cheer even more wildly than before, nevermind that the rest of the crowd does not follow suit, and Faelwine hurries forwards, grinning. She pauses though, her expression falling a little as she looks towards the Knight. "I hope he is not too badly hurt," she murmurs, then moves towards Dealfyr to take the stallion's reins.

Feohelm comes up behind them, and he, too, frowns as he notes the Knight's splinter. "Hraefengar," he calls. "Go with Faelwine, rest. I can fetch a healer if the Lord Knight is in need of one."

"It is nothing, friend," Barsaphad smiles through gritted teeth, "Enjoy your victory, wave to the crowd...I've had worse." Picks up the haft of the shattered lance and offers it to the Rohirrim, "Take this home with you...it shall make a grand prop for your songs."

A squire rushes up with the bandages, and the Knight grits his teeth and pulls the shard free with a sickening squelch. A gush of blood rushes out behind it. He watches the crimson ichor stain the dirt for a few seconds before he presses the cloth to his shoulder.

"If you will excuse me...I should have this stiched up. Again...my best." The Knight takes the helm from a nearby Squire and with a final wave to the crowd, he walks -- limping -- from the lists.

Nodding, numbly, Hraefengar takes the lance-haft. Then he goes with Faelwine, following her off the field.