(Archive) - The Northern Lists

[Thorondur(#23126)]

And though confusion stirs in the crowd, a murmur of recognition goes up from the royal box. The nobles therein know the face of this challenger, if the man he would duel does not -- a Bragollach, surely! Bragollach and Girithlin -- how else could it end?

Yet Thorondur knows none of this -- only does the angelic lord in white face the man all robed in black and grey -- and gesture with his blade to the cleared place of combat.

\"I accept your gauntlet,\" says Thorondur, curious, \"But I would have your name, Black Knight.\"

[Melethron(#29344)] \"Know you well my name noble Thorondur,\" the voice speaks again, easily clearing that noise which hangs above the crowd, \"As well as I know your own.\"

At this the voice falls low, twin gloved hands raise to lower the hood of the cloak, and the man\'s face is lain bare before the crowd, \"For I am Bragollach, Melethron Bragollach, the once Knight-Captain of this fair city.\"

His hands do not lower, not yet, no they release the clasp allowing his fine cloak to fall in the hands of a waiting squire, his scabbard removed from his back, sword drawn, \"And now, I am home.\" Comes the man\'s voice once more, an eager fire a lite in his eyes.

[Thorondur(#23126)]

\"Bragollach.\"

A single word, a single name, yet rife with meaning and deep association. The Lord Girithlin\'s icy eyes go narrow, and he greets the man revealed with a curt nod. \"I do know you, Melethron of Linhir,\" the Knight-Herald agrees. And now does his gaze go from his foeman, to the royal stand above.

Raising his sword into the sun once more, a final salute, Thorondur bows -- the White Knight sweeps an arm as he bends, touching heart, lips, and brow in courtly fashion. Then the time comes, as he rises.

[Thorondur(#23126)]

\"Melethron of Bragollach! Thorondur of Girithlin!\" The voice of the herald of the lists rises up and above the crowd\'s excited murmuring. \"Prepare you for single combat!\"

[Melethron(#29344)] As does the Lord Girithlin, so to does the Bragollach bow to the royal box, raising then to make ready for the battle at hand.

And yet, even as the master of the list gives them leave to make war, the man Melethron waits, watching, eyes ever watching for the first strike of the man clad in White.

[Erinhaim(#20260)]

And in that box sit a prim but aged figure. The red hound above her gaze of concealed contempt have watched her fair son fall to the sword of Thorondur. And those eyes now watch this unasked ally of the Bragollach confront this Knight-Herald. She smiles and it curves the slight jowls of a face that has weathered almost four score years.

Huan-Bereth Tarvaniel silently cheers this Black Knight, Melethron. She quietly applauds his heralding into the lists. Yet -- She makes no move to join Laurion, her wounded son. She leaves him to the care of her Husband\'s servants.

[Thorondur(#23126)] th eyes widening just slightly, acknowledgement of the order is shown in the face of Thorondur. As he did against Laurion, his leading step is to the right, a white shadow of grace as he slide-steps -- joining his opponent in that circling, the ancient dance of doom.

And again, like lightning -- a second time -- with a speed or a reflex impossibly mastered, the Herald lunges! Deadly, were it not blunted, his blade seeks a mark. The Bragollach\'s bowels.

With eyes widening just slightly, acknowledgement of the order is shown in the face of Thorondur. As he did against Laurion, his leading step is to the right, a white shadow of grace as he slide-steps -- joining his opponent in that circling, the ancient dance of doom.

And again, like lightning -- a second time -- with a speed or a reflex impossibly mastered, the Herald lunges! Deadly, were it not blunted, his blade seeks a mark. The Bragollach\'s bowels.

Thorondur attacks Melethron with his Longsword and badly wounds him!

In the days of old when the land of Numeanor was still upon the face of Arda it was known that men of that great land where tall of stature. It was also said that these men had hair colored like the wings of ravens, eyes like that of true silver or mithril, for one who speaks the language of old. Through the many long years that blood has faded, yet still, in some of the noble lines of Gondor the old blood runs strong. Such is the case with this young man, a tall and powerfully built lord of Numeanorian decent. The man stands well above the height of six feet, with fine hairs of the darkest night that have been shorn close while leaving enough for the framing of a face bearing resemblance to chiseled stone. Silver eyes along with a thin, slope of a nose rest above a mouth that has been too long resting in a frown to ever lie at rest with anything resembling a smile. He is handsome, young, and about him there is an air of nobility.

This one is clothed in such a manner that would befit a noble lord of the greater houses, for his tabard is made of the finest material, spun into a soft, mousy gray, yet there are markings upon which give hint to profession, for the Silver Swan rest preeminently upon his breast while just below the Crimson Flame of Bragollach burns ever bright, cinched at the waist by a broad black leather belt, Resting below the edge of the tabard come pants of fine make, yet darkly are they colored to match that of the mans hair. His boots are plain, save for the spurs which rest upon their heel, even the sable cloak that rest about his shoulders is of fine make, clasp as it is with a broach bearing upon the face the Crimson Flame.

Other Visible Equipment:

Thorondur

STATUS: IC (1m idle)

A tall man and slender, resplendent in the shining armour of the Knights of Dol Amroth. His hair is a mess of luxuriant black, combed back though stray strands fall down over eyes of blue. Upon his brow is set a fair crown of white rose-blossoms garlanded skillfully, and his handsome face shines with the light known only to those Dunedain beloved of the Firstborn Children. A single flower, another white rose, is slipped therough the brooch of his cape.

Over a chain-shirt is the tabard of the Lords Girithlin in regal burgundy, the amber star prominent, and gilded vambraces gleam with a polished sheen on his arms. A surcoat of chaste white samite serves as his outer sign, and upon his shield the seven stars of royal Cardolan are quartered with the Dark Eagle on gold that is his personal sigil.

Species: Human

Other Visible Equipment: Black Warg -

[Melethron(#29344)] Skill and strength are all the turn aside the blade of the Girithlin as it lunges forth towards his very bowels, for as the blade slices it\'s way through the air between them Melethron reverses his grip upon the sword dropping on hand upon the blade while wielding the weapon like a bo-staff, slamming it down upon the approaching weapon.

Yea though the blade is sent astray, a wound is inflicted as the dulled sword of Thorondur smashes mightily into the thigh of the Black clad Knight, a grunt, loud and pained is sounded, but the man does not fall, only shifts his weight to his good leg as he bats aside the now stopped blade bringing his other hand up in an attempt to smash the hilt of his blade into the chest of Thorondur.

Melethron attacks Thorondur with his Greatsword, but he misses by an arm\'s length.

[Erinhaim(#20260)]

The blow landed on the knew come challenger sits not smiling on a certain heart -- For the smiling of Huan-Bereth has dimmed. Her eyes glower and her hands clench in her lap. Yet, even as the Hound Queen she does not snarl, for such is unwelcome in polite company.

Instead, she applauds lightly, in courteous fashion, the female servants in her train, all of certain age, join in this contemptuous lauding.

For the blow of Melethron goes wide and answers not the honor of this Lady\'s son.

[Thorondur(#23126)]

And with uncanny lightness of foot, the Lord Girithlin steps -- no, spins -- aside, the heavy strike of his foe thus thwarted. Never stopping, never pausing, a whirling flash of white and lo!

Those who witnessed Laurion\'s fall will recognize, and remember -- even in this flickering instant. For with the same cold skill, the same emotionless grace, the same deft footwork -- does the Knight-Herald lash out in a backhand slash for the Bragollach\'s head.

Thorondur attacks Melethron with his Longsword and badly wounds him!

[Melethron(#29344)] The blow struck, and caught, sending the world through the eyes of the Bragollach spinning as his body reels from the blow, to the ground he falls, catching himself with a hand at the last moment and rolling away from any other attempted strike from Thorondur.

Unbalanced now, his world spinning, the Black Knight struggles to hold his own for a minute, circling his opponent, not believing the unbelievable speed of this man, \"Your skill is great my Lord,\" his voice comes, loud enough for all to hear.

Yet still not quite ready, Melethron strikes again, his sword slicing fast towards the side of the Girithlin.

Melethron attacks Thorondur with his Greatsword, but he misses by a mile.

[Erinhaim(#20260)]

Little love is there of those of Rovacil for Girithlin this hour, yet they show it not. Still the clapping still resounds from their place in the box, though its quiet is drowned in the loud cheers of those who laud their praise with great noise and much fanfair. The Lady of Rovacil turns to her maids and makes some comments left unheard by all but them for the noise about them. Quietly, those women nod and turn their eyes upon the action in the lists.

There is little pleasure in those eyes, though the lips are curved in pleasent smiles. Little can it be said that those of Rovacil are uncourteous in the face of chivalry.

For still, their savoir fails to land a blow on the figure of Thorondur and they cheer not.

[Thorondur(#23126)]

A nod to accept a foeman\'s praise -- ever the gallant, even nimbly stepping backward, dodging danger -- Thorondur smiles, and it is the cool and serious portrait of a man of purpose. Another disastrous blow averted, he holds him, and levels his blade at the Bragollach.

\"Will you yield up your sword, Melethron Bragollach?\" The question is clear and confident, and said into the hush of the crowd as the motion breaks, briefly. \"For I say to you,\" the White Knight declaims, \"that I fight this day for the honor of fair Lothiriel. And to yield to your Princess\' champion is no evil thing, and yea. There is honor in it.\"

And the meaning of the white roses comes clear, for now does the Knight-Herald brush the garlanded crown of those flowers upon his brow, and not without reverence.

[Melethron(#29344)] For truth, the crowds breath hangs for long moments before any movement is made from the form of the Bragollach, his body posed for the defense against the next blow from his opponent, his eyes fever and burning with a lust for the fight.

Though the silence fills the place, the eyes of Melethron flicker once to the royal box, then, his head bows, even as his form straightens.

\"I yield not to you Lord Thorondur, but to the one for whom you fight,\" with this said, the blade within his hands is raised, and tossed aside, \"for the glory of the Princess and the House of Imrazor\" He says to his opponent, bowing in all respect to the noble warrior, then turning to the crowd, \"For the glory of Imrazor.\" He yells.

[Thorondur(#23126)]

And the roar of the crowd rises once more in approval, for lo! Noble Melethron has yielded, and all who love Imrahil and chivalry, all who love Gondor are victorious this day!

Approval rains forth then, from grandstand and royal box, not only for victor but for vanquished, and her they honor. Flowers are cast, and glad cries of joy -- and now like unto a frenzy of joy it grows, for Thorondur, too, casts down his blade. And nobly, he embraces his fellow-knight, and the adulation of the people rains down upon the twain in glory.

[Melethron(#29344)] Brother to Brother they face the cheering crowd.

\"My thanks to you my Lord,\" the voice of Melethron speaks low, for the ears of Thorondur only, \"For both to valiant fight and the noble choice.\"

[Thorondur(#23126)]

Unheard by the crowd, Thorondur says to Melethron in similar tones, \"I could not send a fellow knight senseless, my brother.\" Still smiling for the benefit of the cheering throng, he adds, \"That first lad I fought -- a scion of Rovacil? It was ill-done. I did not care for the deed, but... such are the demands of honor, yes?\"

[Melethron(#29344)] \"For those who will not yield to he that is better, the deed is but a lesson my Lord,\" Melethron retorts softly, then turns to look about the crowd, \"How good it is to be home.\"

But alas, his gaze breaks away from the cheering citizens, and go he does to retrieve the weapon of his vanquisher, and before the man he kneels, and presents the blade unto him, hilt forward, \"In the name of Honor, I return your blade unto you, and pray that you will use the skill shown here to bring fear into the hearts of the enemies of this land that is our home.\"

[Thorondur(#23126)]

Some token of moving emotion is this sword now presented, or Melethron\'s words in it, or merely the act itself. For he shuts his eyes momentarily, and when he opens them, his expression is softened, yet distant -- lost in memory, perhaps?

A lengthy moment, and then -- he takes the offered blade by the hilt. \"I pray you, Melethron, remember this day,\" Thorondur whispers. \"For only now have I truly come home.\"

Unobtrusive and ambiguous in plain squires\' livery, three young boys of Thorondur\'s camp come forth onto the field. And slowly they begin, collecting the flowers thrown down by the throngs, and setting them aside gingerly. To what purpose, none can say, but few there are who attend to the action.

[Melethron(#29344)] With his head bowed, Melethron\'s hand strays to the hilt of his own blade, and with it firmly held in his grasp, the man rises, \"And on this day I too have truly come home,\" he says, bowing before the man, \"Let us go now my Lord, leave this field of competition and glory and find joy and merriment among the people of this fair city, in the celebration that the Prince has called.\"

He rises then, staring at the man, with respect and friendship in his eyes, \"Let us leave now,\" he speaks softly to Thorondur, \"lest the wound inflicted by your fell blade drive me to the ground.\"