Drunk in charge of a weapon?

The Lists of Pelargir

This area has been set aside for the defining events of the Tournament: the martial games. A field of green grass stretches seventy paces wide and nearly one hundred and fifty long. On either side of the field rise wooden stands constructed for the pleasure of the crowd. Row upon row of simple benches line the tourneying ground. At the summit of either bank of seats has been fashioned as special viewer's box, most likely to accomodate the most distinguished guests at the Tourney. Colorful parasols and embroidered tapestries add luxury to these seats.

The southern stand has been festooned with purple and white bunting. At regular intervals, the White Anchor on Purple Field banner of Pelargir flutters in the breeze. Further standards of various noble houses line the margins of the field. Indeed, the northern bank of seating is the mirror image of its companion, with one major difference: Here, the gallant Ship and Swan of Dol Amroth float serenly in the wind.

The eastern and western ends of the lists have been marked off with ropes. Beyond these barriers lie specially constructed wooden sheds, which house blunted lances, swords, and even stretchers which will doubtless find use in the contests to come.

Obvious exits:

 Stands leads to Stands.

 Fairground leads to Fairgrounds.

[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:

Nighttime on Sterday, Day 17 of September.

Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.

Real time is: 15:16:44 MDT on Wed Aug 18 2010.

Your location is in a timewarp! (See HELP +TIMEWARP). In your location it is always DAYTIME.

(IC year: 3050)

[Agladar(#32295)]    Many bouts have been fought upon the lists of the Festival field. Today the final bout of the Bronze level is about to be fought between the Haradrim Corsair known as Bahazaid and the Blue Squire Agladar of Gondor. Stripped to the waist, the Blue Squire hoists his massive Tournament greatsword upon his shoulder. The expensive item is treated preciously by the youth as makes sure that as he practices his movements that the blade never touches the ground below.

     The Officiant now makes his way to the middle of the field and awaits the arrival of the Bronze finalists. The sun beams down upon the field from the cloudless sky and many of those of Gondor bear sweat upon their brows.

A thread of off-key melody is the first herald of Bahazaid's arrival. His warbling bass sings words that are, mercifully, unknown to most here, from the lilt of it it's probably some variant of a tavern song. The southron corsair is dressed, as is his usual wont, in trousers that strain to encircle his ample midriff and a somewhat stained linen shirt, with a lumpen-looking leather waistcoat over the top. Does that count as 'armor'? At his side hangs a blunted and battered-looking scimitar, a tournament blade that's seen better days.

And in his hand ... a bottle. He swigs from it as he approaches the middle of the field, then goggles at Agladar, swaying slightly. "'m I seeing things?" He holds finger and thumb up as though to gauge the size of his opponent's sword.

[Agladar(#32295)]    "No, southron. This is a greatsword. Well a Tournament greatsword blade at least. Expensive bloody thing. Your lucky its not my real blade." At this the Blue Squire chuckles before walking towards the middle of field to stand by the Officiant.

     The man holding the position of referee over the arms tournament nods towards the Blue Squire but looks absolutely disgusted by the appearingly half drunk large corsair. "Are you ready to begin?"

     At this the Blue Squire nods and then looks to his opponent for his answer. His blade now rests against his shoulder and clears his head by a good few inches.

Bahazaid stares at the blade. "By Pharazon's Ar!" (or might that last word have been something rather more unsavoury?) At the referee's question his expression turns considering. "No," he mumbles, then raises the bottle back to his lips, draining it dry before tossing it off across the field. Nothing like a little liquid courage, is there?

His newly-freed hand heaves the scimitar from its sheath and he stands with his feet planted firmly apart and the blade held in both hands, like a minature greatsword. "Ready as a rat on a rubbish-heap," he answers with a grin for his large opponent that shows a row of yellow-stained teeth. His bald head is glistening with sweat, but then it's a hot day.

[Agladar(#32295)]    Looking rather unapprovingly at the Haradrim, the Officiant raises an arm and suddenly drops it. "Very well. Let the match begins." He then speedily runs backwords to the side of the field to watch the duel begin from a safe distance.

     The Blue Squire nods at the words of the referee and now raises his massive blade into a high guard stance with his feet firmly planted apart and a grin upon his face. "Come on Corsair. Do you worst."

The overweight corsair takes the words at face value. He doesn't bother with any little niceties like feinting to test his opponent's reflexes rather he charges forward like a bull elephant, his scimitar held high so that its waving path is aimed in the general direction of Agladar's head and shoulders, with a bias toward the left (perhaps assumed the weaker?) side.

[Agladar(#32295)]    The nimble Squire attempts to move out of the way of the barreling Corsair but sadly unsuccessful. While avoiding being slammed by the man's body, the blade cuts through his flesh leaving a fine gash across his shoulder. Grunting from the pain and taking a step back, the Blue Squire now raises the massive greatsword to strike again the Haradrim's torso, hoping to return to the favour. "I never thought a drunkard would be able to hit me but then again you Corsairs never cease to surprise me."

Bahazaid grunts, too, as his blade strikes home, a sound of immense satisfaction. "Some of us don't have size envy." He eyes the massive blade as his steps trace a rather uneven circle around the Gondorian. "The best sword's one quick as-"

The sentence doesn't finish. He had puffed out his chest - big mistake. The tip of the blunted greatsword scores across his ample midriff, the worst of its fury turned by the leather waistcoat. There is the faint chink as though of coin. "As a mongoose," he eventually mutters sullenly. "Time to teach you what size you really are, lad." He crouches down, more like a swaying camel than a mongoose as he swings the scimitar-blade forward and sideways, aiming to hack at Agladar's calf.

[Agladar(#32295)]    "Oh. Like I haven't heard THAT one before." At this the Blue Squire laughs as his blade strikes home. "A mongoose? Strange. I don't believe I've seen such an animal. I trust you are familiar with the grace of Swans however?" The man then swings down from his high guard stance to deflect his oppenants blade and save his calf from injury.

     Swinging the massive blade back up he strikes out in a great arc to land the blade against the Haradrim's shoulder. "Cur." Is the final word said towards the drunken Corsair...for now...

Bahazaid lets out a low, rumbling grumble as the heavy greatsword pushes his scimitar away. "Pah," he mutters, then answers Agladar peaceably: "Swans? They taste good roasted," here he give another of those grins that show his stained teeth, "and my stomach's already grumbling."

Once again, the greatsword strikes him, and were it not for the protective waistcoat he'd likely be maimed by it. As it is, he's forced to his knees. With an alcohol-induced haze cushioning the pain, he shows no worry. "First thing to ready a bird for the spit's disembowelling." His scimitar-blade upward even as he rolls sideways and bounces back to his feet.

[Agladar(#32295)]    The Squire of Dol Amroth glides to the side, and very luckily avoids the near fatal thrust of the drunken Corsair. "They smell a lot better than you fishy Corsairs, thats for sure." Agladar now catches his breath from the sudden exherstion and raises his blade back up again. Now facing the other man on his feet, the Blue Squire hopes to take the legs out from under him. Slashing from high to low, the man of Gondor arcs down the greatsword in a quick swish towards the legs of the drunken man of Harad. "Just like felling a tree." He says to himself as he strikes out.

Bahazaid, back on his feet, lifts his scimitar-arm to sniff at the flesh beneath. "What smell? Nothing wrong with a little sweat. Girls know I'm a man, not some pansy white-livered-"

The insult, whatever it might have been, is never to be finished. Agladar's swing comes down swift as a whip-crack and the drunken corsair is still gaping as the massive sword connects. There is an unpleasant cracking sound and then the corsair topples sideways to land with an elephantine thud on the parched ground. There he lies, leg twisted at an awkward angle and beginning to seep blood. All that comes from him is a loud, "Aaaaagh!"

[Agladar(#32295)]    Relaxing slightly after witnessing his blade connect with the man's leg, the Blue Squire walks forward towards the Corsair with his greatsword in front of him pointed like a lance. There is little pity in the man's eyes as he approaches his enemy upon the ground and he ingores the man's cry of pain.

     "Do you yield, drunkard or shall I continue to beat you into the crowd?" Agladar's tone is stern and his face looks capable of splitting rocks.

Bahazaid's eyes snap open and he lifts his head stares at the long, straight line of the greatsword before him. "Yield to a boot-licking paleskin with a chin like a goat's backside? Not like-" His scimitar-holding hand, which had been raising slowly as though for some massive blow, falls limply back to his side and his head lolls. Perhaps it's the pain, perhaps it's just the copious amounts of 'liquid courage' finally taking full effect whatever the case, Bahazaid is no longer concious.

There is no doubt that the match has been won by Agladar.

=== Agladar's DESC ===========================================================

     The man before you is a kind reminder of Gondor's proud past. He stands like a mountain over most of his foes. Warm grey eyes greet whoever looks upon his face a face which is framed by a shaggy mop of raven black hair. Though an attempt is made to maintain a clean shaven face it is not uncommon for a five o'clock shadow to be seen upon this Gondorians features. Around his neck, the young man wears a silver medallion. It features a grey fox which stands on alert in front of a full moon that dominates the background. In place of eyes however, the animal hosts two white elongated stars.

     A muscular figure accompanies this man's height making him a good candidate for learning the arts of war. His developed upper body is indicative of nobility as his muscles are large but his hands are not as rough or calloused as one who has laboured for long hours in the fields.

     Garbed in a grey tunic and black pants, the young man appears neat and tidy, but not one who flaunts his wealth. The heavily worn sides and soles of his black boots speak both of long hours spent walking as well as riding.

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