Dol Amroth Tourney - Joust Semi-finals

Belfalas: Practice Yards

Here upon a wide shelf of land southwest of the city proper, great lawns of grass are kept manicured and cut for the purposes of the Knights. It is here where the great tournaments are held, and in those fair times stands are erected, and banners and bunting unfurled. But there is no tourney this season, and all that keep the watch here now are a few lonely quintains, swaying alone in the wind off the Sea.
 
The Sea, the Sea! The yards run down gently into the sandy beach of Belfalas, and above them to the northeast, high upon its cliffs, the City of the Princes rises with its marble towers in the sunlight. The soft rushing of the waves sounds low on the air.

Contents: 
Hraefengar
Dalras
Barsaphad
Ceredir
Feohelm

Through the throng rides a Knight in raiment of white -- his breast ablaze with the sigil of the Azrabari. His navy and silver cape is clasped at his shoulders with steel hooks in the shapes of talons, and beneath his arm is held the carven Osprey helm of Barsaphad -- Sea-Knight of Dol Amroth.

He rides atop a black charger, draped with a sheet in matching colours and devices. The Knight looks ill-at-ease upon the beast, for surely his more accustomed mount is the ships that crest the waves. He maneuvers the steed into an open stall, and dismounts.

A Squire handles the reigns for Hir Barsaphad, and another begins checking the buckles upon the Lord's armor.

Dalras glances to the stall beside him as the Sea-Knight enters it, "Ah, Barsaphad was it not? I see you have caught me yet again out of my element." He quickly continues, "How do you feel about your coming performance?"

A man, a youth, a dog, a stallion. These four are off on another side of the list-field, the stallion shifting restlessly, shaking his mane. It has been braided with green ribbons, and the tail is bedecked with green as well. The gold-dun of his coat is little dulled by the fog or the clouds. He half-rears, then shakes himself. The youth helps the man, Hraefengar scop of the Mark, into his mail. It looks like it has seen better days, bearing the old marks of battle, though it has been well-mended. Over this goes a plain tabard of green and white, for the bard is no knight. He nods to the youth then, moving his arms, testing the range of of his reach, and then he nods. He speaks softly to the stallion, to settle him before the match.

Barsaphad raises a hand in greeting to the other man, "Yes." He smiles at the other man and adjusts the belt that holds his sword upon his hip, "I fear I am as much from my element as any..." His attention is drawn to the Rohirrim who now approach.

"No doubt I will fall to the lance of some Northern master rider." He casts a sidelong glace at the black horse and shakes his head.

In the stall next to the golden stallion stands a tall, lean dark bay, surveying the scene with only mild interest. This stallion, too, has had his mane and tail braided with green ribbon, and the man who checks the fittings on the bridle and saddle is already clad in ring-mail. No device does he bear either, but a braided leather band about one arm, a tabbard like the one of the scop worn over his mail. Feohelm pats his horse's neck once, then grins over to the scop, eyeing the dun stallion. "Dealfyr seems quite ready for a match, eh?"

Standing near to them, but busy studying the other compeditors -- or perhaps moreso their horses -- is Faelwine, her brows furrowed thoughtfully.

"Well, best of luck to you if it is he you shall face," Dalras says with a wave, "And best of luck to me if it is I who you shall face. I must continue to get prepared I only wished to say hello to a familiar face."

He nods and turns from the man, glancing back quickly, "Perhaps a drink after?" With another curt nod, he disappears behind the bulk of his steed and continues his preparations.

"Aye, Dealfyr is," answers Hraefengar. "Balls, 'Fyr, stand still a half-moment, eh?" He gives the fittings a final check, fingers the girth, then tightens it a notch. "Nice try," he mutters, then slaps the stallion's rump affectionately. The dun whiffles at his hair, then half-rears again, neighing challenge to the horses of the southlanders. "Easy, easy, you great oaf," he murmurs. Then he looks over at Faelwine and offers her an encouraging smile. "Eh, brother, I'll wager you on this, hrmm?"

"Best of luck to you." Barsaphad watches the fellow go, and then turns to the Northmen.

He raises his hand in greeting and call out over the throng, "Good Hraefengar...do I now have the honor of being bested by you a'horse as well as a'song?"

Seeing the Sea Knight across the yard, Faelwine offers a smile and a wave, then returns her attention to the scop and his horse, shaking her head with a rueful grin at the gold stallion. She steps over to the restive creature, lifting a hand to his reins to try and assist in quieting him. "Settle now, greatheart," she murmurs, reaching up to stroke his neck.

Feohelm's grin broadens at Hraefengar's words. "I'll take that wager, brother." Beside him, Cynerof sighs with nothing short of boredom, and turning aside to his horse, the Rohirric scout murmurs, "Just a while longer, hm, my lad? No battle today, but a joust should be close enough to liven your step."

"Hear ye, Hear ye, the first round of the joust shall begin shortly!" an announcer calls out from the stands, "For the first run, Feohelm son of Faldweld shall face Sir Azrabar. Riders, to your marks please!"

The scop turns his head, hearing Barsaphad's call, and he laughs. "I know better than to tempt wyrd by speaking such a thing!" he calls back. "But you may have the honor of fighting against me, and if so, well, we shall see." He smiles at Faelwine, and nods. "Thank you, dearest," he murmurs, and the stallion quiets some at her touch. Then he looks at Feohelm. "Good. I bet I place higher than you. But... good luck against Sir Azrabar. Luck guide you, Helm keep you."

"Hear ye, Hear ye, for the second round, Dalras Ivor shall face Hraefengar son of Hrothgar," the announcer continues, "Please mount and ready yourselves for the match after. These semi-final matches will consist of the first to three points. For the final round, it shall be the first to five. Should there be no point scored in three rounds for the semi-finals, each rider will be given a point. For the final round, this rule will not be applicable and it shall simply be the first to five."

Barsaphad looks up in surprise as his name is called, "That was fast..."

Sighing, he waves away the Squires and pulls himself atop the charger. The beast shimmies, but the Knight doubles his grip and the charger settles. He takes a deep breath, and puts on a smiling mask, waving to the crowd as he leads the horse to the lists.

As he sides the gate, a Squire runs up and hands high a lance of azure and silver.

"See? There we are!" Feohelm beams at his horse, then nods to the scop. "The wager is on, then." He laughs heartily. "We shall try to leave a bit of him for you to joust against, too, eh?" Leading the dark bay out of the stall, the scout swings easily up into the saddle, looking every bit at home there as he was upon his own two feet. He jogs his stallion easily to the lists, and accepts there a lance of green and white, then lifts his gaze in search of his opponent.

Faelwine beams after her brother as he departs, then turns back to the scop. "Best get you up and readied, too, my dear," she murmurs, still steadying the gold stallion.

Hraefengar chuckles, a soft, merry sound, and then he nods to his wife and makes his final preparations himself. But he does not mount yet, lest his horse work himself into a frenzy.

A Squire lifts a silver flag high above his head, centering himself between the two challengers. Barsaphad sets his ancient helm atop his head -- the Osprey wings covering his face. He lifts the lance in salute to the younger rider as he takes up a kite shield from a young servant. Through the opening in his steel dome, his eyes jump between the flag and the Rohirrim.

Two boys check with each of the riders as they approach the lists, then seeing them ready run back to the stands. The announcer calls out, "Riders to your marks!" A single flag bearer takes his position and raises the flag high, then it drops and the joust begins.

With a ring of spurs, The Seahawk Knight kicks his charger into a gallop -- his lance slowly descending toward the shield of his opponent...

So too does the scout of the Mark salute his opponent with his lance, keen gaze fixed upon the Knight. As the flag drops, with but a slight inclination of his rider's body, the great dark bay leaps forward, his ears pricked eagerly. The stallion closes fast, gaining speed with every stride, and Feohelm lowers his lance to strike low at Barsaphad's shield.

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

Barsaphad reels back in his saddle, but remains horsed!

The Sea Knight grits his teeth, but manages to stay atop his horse. As he rears to a halt at the end of the list, he discards the shattered lance. A SQuire is quick to bring him a whole one.

Barsaphad re-sets his shield and cracks his neck from side to side. He brings the horse once more to face the Rohirrim...waiting for the second flag.

Feohelm leans into the Sea-knight's blow, ducking his head just after he feels the jolt of his own lance contacting Barsaphad's shield to spare his face the spray of splinters. At the end of the list, he brings his horse easily about, and re-settles his shield before him. The dark bay Cynerof mouths at the bit, his neck arched and his haunches gathered, ready to spring forward once more.

Hraefengar watches from his horse's side, whispering words of encouragement for his kinsman.

The flag falls again.

As the flag descends, the Knight kicks his horse once more into a charge. Behind him, splinters float into the air amidst the dust kicked up by the thunder of shod hooves...

And again the war horse of the Mark leaps forth, and Feohelm lowers his lance, his sight trained upon the advancing Knight.

Feohelm and Barsaphad charge each other down the fence...
   ...and both jousters strike home -- their lances cracking loudly, but remaining whole!

And both rides are struck from their horses, falling in separate heaps in the dust!

Hraefengar blinks in surprise as both riders fall, and he tenses slightly, waiting for Feohelm to rise safely.

Barsaphad grunts and rolls as he slams into the ground. His cape flashes about him as he slides to a halt. The shield still clings to his battered arm, and with pained eyes he pulls it back to his side. He presses the edge of the shield into the ground and uses it as a crutch to rise.

His horse is brought to him, and before he mounts, he lifts a hand to his opponent...then turns it toward the crowd in a wave.

Once more he mounts once more the Squires bring a lance once more he brings his horse to the end of the lists, ready to charge again.

The Knight strikes true, and with a grunt the scout is sent toppling backwards off of his galloping steed. He rolls a few paces, then scrambles again to his feet, his shield brought again swiftly before himself out of reflex. Feohelm shakes his head as though to clear it, then relaxes and chuckles ruefully, returning Barsaphad's wave.

He turns, giving a long, low whistle, and Cynerof comes trotting over, looking perplexed to find his rider upon the ground. Feohelm swings back up, accepts another lance, and canters his horse to the end of the lists, turning about and readying himself.

The third flag falls, as the crowd goes silent again.

Barsaphad drives his spurs into the horse once more. With a flash of sunlight off his helm, he charges...

No spurs, not even a kick is needed, for Cynerof eagerly gathers himself and springs forward as an arrow from the string. The scout lowers his lance yet again at the Knight's shield... 

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

Feohelm reels back in her saddle, but remains horsed!

"About bloody time!" Barsaphad laughs, tossing the broken lance aside as he wheels the charger about. He uses his open hand to rub his shoulder for a few seconds before he takes another lance from the waiting Squire.

His eyes now fall upon the flag...waiting for it to fall.

A sharp intake of breath from Feohelm as the Knight's lance strikes hard, sending the scout off balance to the outside. He resettles himself quickly in the saddle, though, and turns about at the end of the list, his lips set in grim determination as his horse tosses his head, anticipating the next charge. 

"Go, Feohelm, go on," murmurs Hraefengar, shifting to keep his limbs from stiffening. Dealfyr stamps his hoof, and his ears flick back and forth.

Again the flag falls.

With a loud snort Cynerof charges headlong, and the scout brings his lance to bear, leaning into the strike...

...and again the Knight charges -- his eyes steady and his lance begins its slow descent...

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

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

Feohelm is smote from her horse, falling hard to the dust!

Ceredir isn't in the waiting stalls with a horse--he in fact, doesn't have a horse at all. Still, he's near enough to have overheard Hraefengar, and he turns that man's way. "One of your countrymen?"

Focused on his own preparations, and on the match, Hraefengar does not respond at first. He winces at the hard fall, then turns his head slightly. "Yes," he says, his response curt, though not unkind. "The brother of my wife."

Now the Knight affords himself a slight smile -- a smile that flashes in his exposed eyes. He lets the Squire take the broken lance from his hands, and quickly sweeps up the unbroken one offered by another.

He watches his opponent with a wary eye, and for the last pass he raises his lance in a salute to the audience -- who echo in riotous cheer -- before setting it once again at the ready.

"Ooof!" The sound is forced out of the scout's lungs as he hits the ground, not rolling this time, and it is with a groan of pain that he climbs to his feet. He lifts his hand, then shaking his head, grins, and whistles for his horse once more. "Come on, lad," he pats the stallion, who by now is looking wholly indignant at having such an 'incompetent' rider, and Feohelm swings back up into the saddle. "We owe the good Knight one last charge." He nods to Barsaphad, then takes his ready at the end of the lists.

And as the riders take their ready, the final flag of the match falls.

Barsaphad nods grimly before the horse leaps to the chrage...

Feohelm winces slightly as he brings his shield up, and then without any encouragement, his horse leaps forward, again speeding the scout toward the Knight with great strides. His eyes fixed upon his opponent, Feohelm lowers his lance and braces himself...

"Ugh..." Ceredir grits his teeth at the hard fall of Feohelm. "Well...he is persistent at least?" he shrugs, eyes back to the match at hand. "Sore, likely, but persistent."

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

Feohelm reels back in her saddle, but remains horsed!

The announcer calls out, as the final lance breaks upon Feohelm's shield, "And the match goes to Sir Azrabar, with a score of 29! Sir Azrabar, please ready yourself for the final match. While Lord Ivor and the son of Hrothgar, please take to the lists as soon as it is clear."

The Lord of the Azrabari lifts the shattered lance in a triumphant salute to the crowd, who respond in even louder cheer.

Fairly jumping from the saddle, Barsaphad walks with a slight limp toward the young Rohirrim...his hand reaching forward as with the other he pulls the ancient helm off his head.

"Well tilted!"

Feohelm grits his teeth as again he is unbalanced in the saddle, but he pulls himself back and as he turns at the end of the lists, he lifts his lance in salute to the Knight, then he, too dismounts and strides to meet the Knight, wincing a little as he does, pulling his helm off and tucking it under one arm, he also reaches forward with the other hand. "And you, Sir Azrabar!" He answers in thickly accented Westron, grinning. "Good luck to you, in the final match."

"No doubt I will need it!" The Knight laughs and returns with his horse to his stall. A pair of squires jump to work loosening his armor buckles, and polishing his helm.

Quietly, he reclines to watch the next bout.

Letting out a great sigh, Dalras mounts his steed, taking the reins in hand. He calls down the squire, "Thank you for your assisting me in this." He lowers the faceplate and trots out to the lists, shifting to find a place in the uncomfortable armor that feels correct.

As he passes the Sea-Knight, he shouts, "Fearsome on sea or land, I see! Congratulations and a good show by you both!"

"I want him to do well," answers Hraefengar. "Just... not better than me. Poor man...." He shakes his head slowly. "Now, if you will excuse me?" He applauds Feohelm's effort, and Barsaphad's prowess, then makes some final adjustments to the reins. Then he mounts his horse, settles his unadorned helm upon his head, and waits for the field to be clear, while his horse paws the ground. "It was a good fight, brother!" he calls. Then, as Feohelm nears, he says, more quietly, "I hope you are not too badly hurt?" He waits a brief moment, then releases Dealfyr to go forwards. He laughs as the stallion prances in a jaunty, bouncing trot, eager to try out this new splintery game. 

Dalras offers a nod for his opponent and takes his place near the rails. The squire runs out and hands him his lance. He holds it with less than mastery as the announcer calls out again. "Riders to your marks! At the fall of the flag, you may make your run!" The flag is raised.

The scout returns to his horse, giving the creature a good pat on the neck, and leads him from the arena. He is shaking his head and laughing, and offers a shrug to Faelwine, who approaches with her arms folded alongside the scop's horse, smirking. "He strikes like a ram, what can I say." Then lifting his head, he beams to the scop. "Ah, but not good in the way that I had hoped. Nay, sore, but that is all. Best of luck to you, my brother... Helm guide your lance."

Faelwine accompanies Hraefengar to the gate, reaching up to pat his knee encouragingly, smiling up at him before he goes in. "It is up to you now, dear heart. Show them the might of the Mark, and Bema protect you." She steps away then, hovering by the gate, watching with no small amount of worry once the scop has moved forward.

A slight nod of his head, and Ceredir acknowledges Hraefengar's words, but doesn't address the man further, allowing him to concentrate on the task before him. He stays to the sides, watching the tournament.

Hraefengar smiles slightly, then brings his horse to the Rohir with the lances. He takes one, then guides Dealfyr to the list. He steadies the long-limbed horse, then waits.

Bracing himself as well as he can manage, Dalras stares at the flag, rather than his opponent. He breathing slows as he watches the flag fall. A few heartbeats pass until he realizes the consequences of the fall and urges his mount to a charge, raising the lance towards his opponent.

It is only as the flag falls that Hraefengar raises his shield, and at the same time he speaks a soft word, urging his horse forwards. The horse's hind-quarters bunch, then send him in a great surge forwards. The bard's eyes glitter, and he lowers his lance, aiming it at Dalras' shield.

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

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

The Lord Ivor position is unpracticed, his lance missing Hraefengar by an arm's length, but the Rohir is not so untrained. His lance land true, knocking the man from his horse soundly. He wheezes, "That was a unique sensation," before rolling onto his knee and climbing back on to his steed, who seems no worse for the run.

Taking his position again at the end of the lists, Dalras takes up his second lance, raising it to his opponent.

Faelwine bites at her lip nervously as Dealfyr charges, but as the scop passes unhurt, and his opponent is struck to the ground, much of the worry fades from her eyes. She grins, and Feohelm returning beside her, the two of them lead an enthusiastic cheer of "Hraefengar! Hraefengar for the Mark!"

The dun-gold stallion snorts as the lance explodes, and Hraefengar ducks his head, closing his eyes against the woody rain, unaware at first of the consequence of his blow. He pulls up at the end of the list, and Dealfyr wheels about. Hraefengar checks the over-eager stallion, and his eyes widen. Numbly he takes a lance, a slow grin coming to his lips.

The flag falls once more.

Dalras does not hesitate on this flag, the pain in his chest coaching him to be more attentive. He spurs the horse forward, his lance lowers with some assurance of strength in the arm behind it.

Hraefengar does not need to urge his horse indeed it is more that he must hold him in. He loosens the reins slightly, and the stallion charges forwards. With a cry fiercely glad, a war-cry of the Mark, the bard lowers his lance once again, aiming it for the spot he struck before.

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

Dalras reels back in his saddle, but remains horsed!

Dalras reaches the end of the lists before letting out his breath. A loud laugh sounds from his helmet, raising his lance towards the crowd, with a minimal response.

He replaces his lance and takes to his mark once more.

This time Dalras' lance hits home, and Hraefengar's arm trembles under the impact. "Well-struck!" he cries. He ducks his head once more away from the splinters, and lets Dealfyr carry him to the end of the list. His shield is drooping some, and the bard hands off the lance handle, then rubs his shoulder before taking a new lance. The weapon in hand, he brings his horse about once again, facing his foe.

"Good show, Master Ivor!" Barsaphad calls out from his seat -- a crystal goblet of wine swirling in his hand.

The flag drops and Dalras charges, with only two lances before this, there are signs of some experience now altering his form. The fear from the first lance seemingly gone.

The cheering of the Eorling siblings for the scop quiets, falls, as they both watch the next charge with anticipation.

The dun-gold stallion now seems to know what the flag signifies, and he leaps ahead with no urging from the scop now, only a little lead of rein. Faster than the first charges the horse bolts forwards, and Hraefengar lowers his lance, then raises his shield at the very last moment...

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

Dalras reels back in his saddle, but remains horsed!

Another cheer from the Lord Ivor as Hraefengar's lance splinters on his shield. He trots to the end of the lists, his chuckling continuing. As the squire brings him a new lance, he calls down, "I am not dead yet, boy. Doing far better than I expected."

The squire replies, "Better than I expected as well, milord," he hands him his lance, "Watch the splinters. They can blind you." With this new information, and fear, he slowly takes his place.

As the scop's lance nearly unseats his opponent, again Faelwine and Feohelm raise their voices in cries of "Hraefengar! Hraefengar!", the scout cheering loud enough for several men. Faelwine is grinning and laughing and applauding, and her earlier worry for the scop seems vanished, her eyes bright as she watches.

This time Hraefengar must spit a splinter from his mouth, and his shield-arm quakes. He lets the shield down again, and laughs softly as Dealfyr slows and prances to the end of the list. The stallion shakes his head, and Hraefengar draws a slow breath, then wheels the horse around again. He takes a new lance, lifting it to the crowd, then to his opponent. Then he waits on the quivering stallion for the flag to drop.

The flag is raised and dropped.

Dalras leans back now, angling his shield to deflect Hraefengar's assured strike against him, as his steed dashes towards the Bard.

The stallion of the Mark half-rears, then comes down running, the ground blurring beneath his hooves. Once more the scop raises his shield late, and lowers his lance, thrusting it towards the Stoninglender's shield.

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

Dalras reels back in his saddle, but remains horsed!

Stretching his shield arm out several times, Dalras has no cheer nor cry after this round. He brushes the gathering pile of Hraefengar's splinters off himself and his steed. He wastes no time with the squire, swapping out for his fourth lance and taking his place. His shield arm shakes several times as awaits the fall of the flag, perhaps shaking off some injury from the last lance.

Another lance gone, oh poor trees somewhere that now lie in bittie pieces on the ground. This time the dun-gold stallion races to the end of the list with hardly a slowing, and Hraefengar must rein him in and give a sharp command for the horse to keep from going round again. The bard takes a new lance, stares at it a moment as if counting, then takes it in his hand. He raises his shield which quakes a little, then readies himself to charge again.

The final flag of the semi-final round falls, and with it Dalras' last chance to score a point against this Rider of the Mark. His grip tight and sure, he manages to steady his shield for the length of the run.

Hraefengar, too, readies himself, and then the stallion surgest forwards. The thunder of hoofbeats is loud, thrumming. With another great shout, Hraefengar lowers hit lance at the Gondorian shield...

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

Dalras reels back in his saddle, but remains horsed!

"Good enough," Dalras says to himself, saluting his opponent with his still whole lance. He leads his horse back to its stall, eager to dismount.

Feohelm raises a fist and punches the air, giving a loud holler, grinning as he cheers for the scop. Faelwine, too, is beaming, but she hurries forwards to help relieve Hraefengar of his shield.

"Well-fought," murmurs Hraefengar, saluting his opponent with a mercifully un-splintered bit of wood. Then he lets Dealfyr set his own pace. The crazy stallion turns three circles, then walks back to his stall, his neck arched. The scop hands down the lance, then gives Faelwine his shield with a sigh of relief. "It... was not bad," he murmurs."

The announcer calls out, as before, "And the match goes to Lord Hraefengar, best his opponent! The final match will proceed in a few minutes, allowing the competitors a chance to refresh themselves.

[Final Round in next log... :) ]