(1866-09-01) Kentaire Shooting Competition
Kentaire Shooting Competition
Summary: Kentaire shooting competition some good shooters, some not so good, winner gets to pick from the Prince's personal armory a long cannon.
Date: 1866-09-01
Related: Anything to do with the Kentaire tourney.
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Mikel  Angelique  Casimir  Dario  Francois  Havelock  Myrana  Raevyn  Ramius  Sorcha  Stellan  Sylvain  

Kentaire Tourney Grounds
he Kentaire tourney grounds have been heavily decorated with purple and yellow ribbons and other accoutrements mirroring the country's coat of arms, the expense of the colour indicative of the riches that this small principality possesses. Today's events are taking place at the tourney ground's archery butts, though instead of the normal target wells, small metal plates on poles have been set up at regular intervals. The competitors may not be able to see the damage that their weapons do, but they will hear them!
1866-09-01

The Kentaire tourney grounds have been heavily decorated with purple and yellow ribbons and other accoutrements mirroring the country's coat of arms, the expense of the colour indicative of the riches that this small principality possesses. Today's events are taking place at the tourney ground's archery butts, though instead of the normal target wells, small metal plates on poles have been set up at regular intervals. The competitors may not be able to see the damage that their weapons do, but they will hear them!

Just like at the melee several days ago, the tourney grounds are ringed with well drilled soldiers, all dressed in armour shined to a parade glimmer with purple cloaks and large purple crests on their helmet. These are the Prince's own troops, The First Vicarian Legion of Kentaire. Most are equipped with large shields and broadswords, but a large number of them carry small bucklers strapped to their backs and long cannons with vicious gladius short sword bayonets on them. Prince Mikel, as with last time, is ringed by an especially imposing group of these men, dressed finely in silk court clothing and an purple cape. He wears his Prince's crown on his head, the gold and purple Alexandrite stones gleaming in the sun.

ir Havelock Synn, clearly relishing the chance to be out of heavy plate armour for once is again clad in the white and red robes of his Holy Order. The white Cross of the Reliant emblazoned on his front and back and a rather bulky looking crossbow clutched within his right hand by the foot stirrup. Watching, waiting, taking in the sight of this great city and its leader, for it is indeed a sight to please a knight who spends a good portion of his life riding to the most backward villages that time ever forgot. The Penitent is indeed very patient.

Dario says, ":offers Raevyn his spare hand cannon. "Just do better than Casimir…thats all I ask."

Sorcha was one of the knights, trying to find a Lord commander to serve under.. she this day armed with her cannon, she moves to the edge to wait for her name to be called. Whispering a soft prayer for her luck.

Raevyn, competing? What was he thinking? The bulky crossbow looked awkward in his arms, in fact, the weight of them seemed to drag them down. He wasn't experienced at all with the hand cannons and held it as if it would explode on him at any minute. So, the crossbow was the only other available option. It took a quick run through to figure out how to crank back the string and set the bolt. Oh and boy was that an effort. "I still don't see why I can't use a regular bow…" he grouses somewhere beside Dario, struggling with the crank to get it load properly, panting at the tail end of his success, "And I completely disagree with you Dario, I looked smashing in the audience." Audience he was not a part of now. He was wearing a heavier thread tunic, one that wasn't expensive in case he happened to shoot the wrong end of the crossbow at himself, or something, though a plum coloured scarf was wrapped around his neck to give him some style. Bangles and rings, also there, as well as the knee high boots and fashionable trousers.

Stellan was a knight. As a knight, he generally prefers weaponry that requires him to be up close and personal with the foes he slaughters, and he considered slaying enemies from a distance less than honorable. As such, this was likely the only time he would be compelled to actually use a crossbow. The one he has in hand isn't anything special - he borrowed it from one of the men in his retinue, and the man wasn't paid enough to get a crossbow of masterwork quality. Still, it would do, for now. His competitive streak demanded it; he hates merely being a spectator!

When he arrives, he seeks out his Lightning Brigadier friend, whom he knew was also competing… for a variety of reasons.

Another member of the church is also present. The Bishop Dario Tevino is here as well. He stands near Raevyn offering the younger man a gentle paitent smile as he grumbles. He holds a hand cannon in one hand, a finely made weapon that seems old but well cared for. Dario studies his surroundings and then looks back to Raevyn. "Yes you looked smashing in the audience but you will look even better here. Just try your best. I have faith in you." The words are offered in a quiet tone as the Bishop waits for the contest to begin.

The slim figure is in all black. Breeches, jerkin, bodice and boots. She is petite, with the midnight black silk of her hair trailing down her back in a long, tight braid. Her broad brimmed hat bears a jaunty plume of black, pinning up one side of said brim, At her waist sword and daggers, and a black quiver bearing a score of bolts for the long, slender crossbow over her shoulder. The tiller of said bow is plain, but the lines and finish of the woods are beautiful. Is a weapon both delicate, lovely and deadly; like its wielder.

Angelique spots her fellow /courtesan/ and nods the Black Bird, a gentle smile on her perfect cupids bow of a mouth, tilted eyes dark and unfathomable.

Lady Myrana D'Armaz, normally a fixture in the high box at these events, takes the field for the first time at a Tournament. Dressed in kirtle of stunning gold-and-maroon brocade belted low about her hips by a band of black leather from which hang a pair of elegant hand-cannons, she brushes the bangs from her face with white gloved hands, letting the breeze over the tournament field toy with the spill of lace at her cuffs. Her charcoal hair is bound into one thick braid down her back, swaying down her full skirts, and at her white throat a small lightsilver bell glitters in the sun, hanging from its black chain. She doesn't greet anyone, but seems to calmly enjoy the breeze, keeping her thoughts to herself.

Having arrived recently for this particular event, Sylvain's dressed in rather simple clothing. Looking around at the others, the al'Ramar looks far more nervous than he would if this was a normal archery competition. He's carrying his seldom used hand cannon, studying the weapon a bit carefully. "This will be interesting…" he mutters.

Casimir is on the field watching competition curiously with a faint smirk on his lips. Myrana is spotted and eyed for a moment and Raevyn is as well though there is a slight frown when he sees who Raevyn is with. He turns away just in time to see Stellan come up beside him. He nods to his fellow knight and offers a friendly smile. The Lightening Brigader is dressed as one today, or at least partly. A set of well fitted dark grey leathers is worn along with a sky blue cloak held in place by a lightening bolt shaped pin. The cape flutters behind him and in his hands is his hand cannon which he will be competting with.

Walking forward, Prince Mikel sweeps his hands as if to encompass all present. "People of the West!" He uses the same greeting as he had before; the man is nothing if not consistent. "Today, after a riveting, well fought melee, we gather here to participate in a competition dear to my heart." As if to illustrate, his hand lifts up to press against his chest. "A shooting competition is an event which the Principality of Kentaire relishes in. We are the nation that invented flash powder and cannons and the practice of its skill is something to be encouraged."

Prince Mikel steps forward on his dais, shadowed on three sides by elite legionnaires. He points towards the targets, turning the crowd's attention there. "As you can see, we shoot at these metal plates, simulating the armour of a Man-at-Arms. Hand cannons are to be favoured in this event, but I will make allowances for those too poor or rustic to have been afforded the privelege of our nation's weapons." The man's chin turns up just slightly, a smirk crossing his face.

"If you could not afford a hand cannon, you may shoot with crossbow, though we most heartily doubt in its penetrating capabilities being anywhere close to that of our explosively propelled cannon shot." He pauses, frowning briefly as if what he is about to say is distasteful. "Bows… are forbidden." The frown disappears. "The winner is to be awarded a long cannon, which I have selected from my personal stock, made in the highest Kentaire tradition." His hands lower and he nods. "Contestants. Take your places and may the One favour the most skilled!"

Sir Havelock is perhaps increasingly rustic the more this tournament goes on, he was almost certainly rustic yesterday with his fortified wine and now wielding a crossbow, he's even more rustic, albeit a rustic with a few bolts planted at his feet. The words spoken by the Prince are measured, Havelock's face if anything remains quite impassive except for the gentle utterance of, "Amen.", when the One is mentioned. The crossbow is twirled, the blunt foot stirrup planted onto the ground and his boot shod foot placed within. The string is cranked and a bolt slid into position and with a hearty heft of that exquisitely rustic weapon, Havelock moves to take his place and gazes down the bolt towards the metallic targets ahead.

Stellan returns the smile as he sidles up beside Casimir. "I'm glad you didn't sleep in and miss it." He leans forward to survey the other competitors lining up as he adjusts the unfamiliar crossbow in his hands. "Want a good luck charm? You may need it, with this bunch." He lowers his crossbow and uses one hand to tug off the sharktooth necklace normally hidden beneath his tunic, and extends his hand to offer it to Casimir. "There's a reason why I brought it with me to the North," he explains. x1 favor acquired! It was better than his dirty left sock, at least.

Sorcha looks up to the prince and she inclines her head to his words. She moves into her place, and she smiles her hair stark white against a blue cloak. She mutters "Amen" she nods her head then she raises her cannon readying it as she watches the targets before her

Myrana steps up into place, her skirts kicking about her legs and her braid swaying. The tassled gold earrings hanging against the dark cloud of her hair flash as she turns her head and briefly looks out at the crowd— and in doing so espies her brother down the line. She offers him a smile, and then faces downrange, slipping one of her pistoles into hand.

"I don't sleep in that often…" Casimir replies with a grin. The offer is met with a look of surprise followed by a grateful smile as he accepts the necklace and slides it over his head to rest visible against his leathers. He offers Stellan one of his most charming smiles and inclines his head gratefully. "Thank you Sir Stellan. I will do my best…especially now that I have someone cheering for me." He gives the other man a playful wink and turns to get ready to shoot.

Angel stalks to the line, boot heels tapping lightly on the packed ground of the firing line. She eyes the target steadily then the lowers the bow to the ground, fitting the lever into place and with a quick, firm movement cocks the stout bow, the nut clicking loudly as the trigger bar lock into place. Standing sh plucks a bolt, short, stout, fletched with dark feathers, its armour piercing head gleaming in the sun and set it beneath the Horn spring, locking it into place. She calmly regards the line of targets, raptor gaze intent.

Moving into position with the others, Sylvain looks around very briefly, smiling as he does. His expression soon turns a bit distant, as he prepares his weapon, just like his instructors told him to. Getting ready to fire now.

There is a thoughtful look on Dario's face as the prince invokes the One. A soft "Amen" is muttered more out of reflex than anything as he turns to give Raevyn another encouraging smile. Then he focuses taking a deep breath to steady himself and staring down the targets as he moves into place.

Stellan raises the crossbow again, getting ready to let the bolt affixed to it loose. "If not me, then you," he asides to the knight next to him. "It'll be a victory in itself if I can shoot this straight - first time using it." A few spectators inch away from his position warily.

Raevyn glances down the line toward the competitors, noticing Casimir and no surprise, his new lackey, Stellan, there beside him! His eyes may narrow a bit and oh if he wasn't tempted to point the crossbow anywhere but down range. Especially since he spots Myrana there as well. Thankfully, a friendly face like Angelique distracts him from the others, sending her a meek wave. The grand speech that pokes fun at those wielding Crossbows has him shake his head, comments kept in between his lips. Dario's encouragement has him huff out, "I'll try not to shoot anyone." A jest, or was it?

Francois sits in the stands for this event, the archery definately not his event. He looks over to the competitors though and eyes the line for those he may recognize a small number of them which is always a good thing. The Viscount will sit up and look waiting for the event to begin.

The targets may be small metal plates, but they do have target rings painted on them, albeit very small ones, and a mound has been raised behind the targets to soak up whatever missiles punch through. A number of young men and women dressed in purple clothing wait at the sides.

Angel waves to Raevyn then turns back to target, taking up her bow. Laying the long tiller over her shoulder she cuddles her cheek snugly against the stock, both eyes open, concentrating on the mark with all her being. She squeezes the long trigger upwards…Then with click and thrum, the bolt flies on its way, striking the target with a CLANG. She does not consider her shot, but rather bend to her bow, cocking it quickly, stowing the lever at her wait and loading another bolt. Moving with an grace and economy of effort. She takes slow, deep breaths, relaxing into the next shot.

Angel waves to Raevyn then turns back to target, taking up her bow. Laying the long tiller over her shoulder she cuddles her cheek snugly against the stock, both eyes open, concentrating on the mark with all her being. She squeezes the long trigger upwards…Then with a click and a deep thrum, the bolt flies on its way, striking the target with a CLANG. She does not consider her shot, but rather bend to her bow, cocking it quickly, stowing the lever at her waist and loading another bolt. Moving with an grace and economy of effort. She takes slow, deep breaths, relaxing into the next shot.

The d'Tremaine remains oblivious to any dark looks sent his way for his gesture towards Casimir, for this required his concentration far more than stabbing people did. The bolt is unleashed with a strident *TWANG* and manages to embed itself firmly into his target. It does not land where he would prefer, but there was no loss of life, which is what counts! He looks a smidge pleased with himself as he glances to Casimir. "Almost as good as yours!" He brags, though it was clearly good-natured. He hefts the crossbow as he readies another bolt.

Havelock levels the weapon and it sways a little, more so as the Reliant squints down the bolt and along the rudimentary sights that probably aren't all that true. It is very much an 'aim towards the enemy and hope for the best' sort of weapon. The trigger is tugged, the string twangs and the Reliant sends his bolt hurtling out towards its target and in that brief moment the bolt flexes through the air, Havelock actually looks quite surprised. And then thud! The bolt connects and punctures the plate's middle ring and Havelock lowers the weapon to once again press his foot into the stirrup, crank the string and load the bolt. In his robes he looks looks somewhat ecclesiastical, but cranking a crossbow keeps him just on the right side of warlike and battle-ready.

Internally, Myrana is acutely aware of each shot, and twinges a little standing there at her place in the line of competitors on the tourney field. A thunderous explosion of a hand-cannon, a ratcheting keen of a crossbow being pulled to readiness. Thankful for the distance from the other competitors and the crowd that hides her face from plain reading, she struggles for a moment to relax, thinking of the last time she was in Kentaire, and the shots in the night as soldiers (and, like as not, soldatos) went from door to door. Hunting. She lifts her hand cannon and takes aim at arm's length with a thunderous CRAKK! and a plume of smoke that billows over and past her.

Letting out a breath, Sylvain pulls the trigger. As the cannon goes off with a boom, he takes a few brief steps back, muttering to himself as he looks to see how he's done. And looking to the other participants too.

Casimir lifts his hand cannon and fires off a loud ringing shot that lands neatly on the middle ring of his chosen target. He looks to Stellan and grins. "Indeed. You did well!" Then he loads his hand cannon for another shot looking down the line briefly to see some of the other compeition and how they are doing. He only does this for a minute though and soon he lifts the hand cannon again drawing in a breath as he lines up another shot.

Sorcha watches Casimir and the others take there shots, she moves with her handcannon in hand she laughs softly a bright smile on her lips as she readies her shot and then a loud crackk is heard as her cannon is shot and a smile grows on her lips.

No pressure, right? But Dario seems to feel at least slightly pressured as he takes aim. His shot land on the edge of the target and he studies it with thoughtful dark eyes. His gaze narrows a bit as he readies his next shot. There is no looking elsewhere the Bishop is focused on this single task as he prepares to shoot once more.

Okay, maybe Raevyn was exaggerating the weight. The crossbow he was using wasn't a heavy, a simple design, bowstave and all - very rustic indeed. The sight is looked down, similar but vaguely different from a bow, waiting for that particular moment when the 'bangs' of the hand cannons beside him empty and allows him a hair of quiet. He squeezes the tickler that sets a series of motions that releases the nut and carries the momentum of the wound up bowstave free. The bolt sings forward and sails through the air, crisp and on target. The bolt hits with a jarring noise and a ring, to at least tell him he was on target. In fact, as he draws the tiller down from where it was nestled in the crook of his shoulder, he realizes he didn't do half bad. It's the problem of getting the weapon ready for another bolt that becomes an issue. Cranking those bowstaves back if you weren't experienced sucked! More so when you lacked military experience altogether. But hey, he managed to keep the pointy end down at the ground as he loaded.

Prince Mikel has settled into the low, bronze legged chair. If one was read up on their history, they might recognise it as a curule chair, what Vir Sidus magistrates used to sit on while rendering decisions in public forums. Kentaire holds to its roots strongly. The Prince sips from a golden chalice presumably filled with wine, smiling at the mixed sounds of crossbow bolts twanging, flash powder exploding and metal plates being hit. No misses yet.

Naturally, Stellan's good luck is all used up after the first good shot. The next bolt goes wayward but lands in the ground, thankfully, though there were more spectators now scrambling away from his position. He ego deflates just marginally, though, and he goes right back to preparing for the next round. "Crossbows are dumb anyway…" He mutters petulantly to himself, low enough to keep it from anyone not adjacent to him. If only he could throw swords or javelins at the target instead!

Another steady shot, Havelock nods and once again slams the old crossbow against the ground and begins the steady task of cranking and settling the old string into its notch and likewise the bolt into its groove. And again his steel-shod foot is drawn from the stirrup and again he readies his next shot. Though for a moment he just stares along all the other targets, all as equally battered as the others, barring one admittedly. But with a glance down the line of contestants, Havelock can't quite tell who missed.

Myrana reloads with well-practiced hands; with that smoke in your eyes, it pays to practice this in the dark. And while she's fallen out of the habit in the past year, much of her adolescence has been spent in this way. Feel for the barrel, but gingerly, don't burn your hands. Load. Check the lit saltpeter to make sure it hasn't gone out. She aims again, and this shot nearly touches her last. She smiles despite herself. "And here I thought I was rusty," she mumbles, a little pleased. There's nothing like being good at something still to help one out of a bit of a funk. She winks down the line at Havelock reloading his crossbow. "Remember when that Avalanche almost came down on us?"

Raevyn manages well enough with the cross bow on his second attempt. Something wasn't set right when he fired or maybe as the bolt let loose the tiller came back a bit too much. The second bolt strikes the target on an outer ring from the first he shot. He makes a little shrug as he glance aside to Dario, perhaps on par with the hand cannon wielding Bishop? He squeezes and flexes his hand, shaking it out. The twang of the bowstave sent a slight shock to the hands.

Angel stares, concentrating deeply. Her whole being is centered on the mark, her body nearly one with the 'Bow. She pulls the long trigger. Smoothly, slowly, almost imperceptibly. Then, as unexpected and a drop of water falling from a branch, it is gone, the deep thrum of the bowstring merging with the hiss of the Bolt's flight and the urgent, deep twang of the hit. The sound is different, seeming to vibrate through to core of her being. A hit, a Palpable hit!

She bends to her task, cocking and loading another bolt….

Sorcha laughs jovially and she looks to Raevyn, "good competition.." she laughs and laughs again as she takes another aim at the target before her. Another ring is heard, shooting loudly with the gunfire. She waves to the prince with a bright bow to him and the people watching.

Despite what Raevyn might wish, though, Dario's shot impacts the direct centre of the target, a bullseye.

Having reloaded, and gotten ready again, Sylvain takes a few moments of pause, and a few deep breaths, before he fires off the next shot. It seems that he manages to do about as well as the last time. Letting out a bit of a breath as he moves to reload once more.
Angel's concentration is nearly as much as her last shot, melding with the bow target and bolt. But, in this world things do not always go as planned. A loud report rings out beside her and the Wraith loses focus, the bolt shrieks out and catches the edge of the target. She smiles ruefully, lowering the bow, resting it on the ground and leaning on it, watching the others….

And again Havelock's shot hits the target, not quite as decently as the last two shots, but it hits all the same with a satisfying thunk and a shake of the target. With that final shot fired, Havelock lowers the weapon for good, setting it onto the ground upon its stirrup, his right hand settled against the stock to offer it some measure of support.

Raevyn is glad to be finished with this silly debut of skills, handing the borrowed crossbow to the livery servants, dusting off his hands. He smiles faintly for Sorcha's jovial laugh, "Not my type of competition. How'd you do?" asked to Sorcha as he wasn't able to watch the other's, mostly focused on not getting his hand caught in the bowstave or crank.

His last bolt joins his first, nearly knocking it off the target. It made up for the last shot, in his eyes, so his ego was content. His blue eyes drift to regard Casimir's target and the holes within. "It looks like the dust may have gotten in your eyes, too, a bit. Sorry my necklace didn't quite come though," he says as he offers the taller knight a sheepish smile. "It may be better against barbarians." He lowers his crossbow and exhales.

Myrana's last shot is let off with another CRAKK! and Myrana lowers her hand cannon, letting out a breath and shaking her head with nervous tension.

As he prepares to fire his last shot of this contest, Sylvain's weapon discharges too soon, firing down into the ground and sending the Aequorian prince backwards a few steps before he manages to regain his footing. "That's not good…" he mutters to himself, shaking his head a bit too.

Sorcha takes another shot of her cannon and she rolls her shoulders - "About as good as you did." she smiles as she turns to listen for the points to be named. A little shift of her feet and she watches the prince with a smile. "this one.. will be close."

As the smoke begins to clear and the weapon reports cease, the young men and women who've been waiting on the wings the whole time run out to verify the targets and check where each round or bolt has hit. As they are doing this, an older man with two attendants limps out from the rear area of the tourney grounds. He's past middle aged, olive skin wrinkled and weathered. He wears the tunic and chest plate of the Kentaire Legion's ceremonial uniform, the brass plate highly shined and bearing an enormous number of decorations on it. His right leg is missing, replaced with an artificial limb made from a light, sturdy metal, yet somehow he manages to almost outpace his much younger attendants, one of whom carries parchment, a stylus and a wooden 'pad' with which to write on.

"Let's go, you bloody sloths." He says to those following him and then bellows out to the counters in their purple clothing. "Alright you apes, gimme the scores as I pass. I don't want to hear your bloody comments and your bloody chitchat! Just give me the scores and be done with it." His Common is heavily accented by the Imperial which is obviously his mother tongue; why he even bothered speaking in Common goes unexplained.

Prince Mikel is highly amused by the situation. He appears to recognise the man; in face, by his mien, it is likely that he was the one to put him where he is now.

Havelock smiles somewhat at the attendants and the much decorated one-legged man that follows. Though the Reliant doesn't say anything, he simply bows his head lightly to the decorated veteran as a mark of respect and then resumes his patient stance.

Dario has been silent as he competed in this contest, his dark gaze stays focused on his target until after the final shot. Then he looks around his eyes seeking out Myrana and Raevyn as he waits for the scores to be given.

Myrana puts her hand cannon away into its hard leather holster, still smoking slightly. Seeing Dario's gaze come her way she waves a little to him, a cheery young woman for the span of a few moments. Its that competitive spirit.

Angelique stands so very still, crossbow standing before her, stirrup on the ground, both slender hands folded upon the tail of he long tiller. She waits, tilted eyes dark, watchful, a tiny smile playing upon rosebud lips.

Casimir smiles warmly at Stellan and shakes his head as he lowers his hand cannon having fired his last shot. "Its fine, I think it helped…and thats all that matters yes?" The hand cannon lowers still smoking and Casimir glances at Stellan's target with a smirk. "You did rather well though!"

Sorcha chuckles as she looks to her fellow knights, a nod of her head to them all and of course to Raevyn as they wait for the scores, she tucks her cannon into a holster and smiles.

Stellan cocks one brow back at Casimir. "You do notice there's only two arrows in it, right?" He pauses, then chuckles. "But it's a compliment, I'll take it." He awaits the results alongside everyone else, though he was quite confident he wouldn't be called into the winner's circle.

There's a hint of a smile on Sylvain's lips as well, as the older man speaks, as if the man might remind him of someone somewhere. He looks between the other contestants, to look for their reactions.

Casimir chuckles lightly at that reaction from his fellow knight. He raises a brow. "Yes but you didn't shoot anyone on accident. I'd say thats a good thing in itself?" The man taking the scores is watched rather calmly while the al'Mordran waits for the results.

Having noticed the Prince of her own country nearly shoot his foot, Myrana wisely smiles at him down the line and bobs a curtsey. She saw NOTHING.

Raevyn waits with everyone else for the results.

The grizzled old legionnaire mumbles scores out, now in Imperial, to his two young attendants. Once they've passed by the last of the targets, he sweeps his hands in a shooing motion which sends the target counters scattering. Why were there so many people to count rounds on targets? This also goes unexplained, just like the old legionnaire's use of the Common tongue. Left with just his two parchment bearing attendants, he leans over to take a look at the scores.

The attendant whose hands are empty, a tiny young lady no more than sixteen, says something in Imperial. He grunts back at her and she looks abashed, then clears her throat. When she speaks, her voice projects throughout the whole grounds. Unlike the legionnaire, her Common is polished and sounds well learned, the accent of educated gentry. "In third place with six points, Sir Casimir al'Mordran. In second place with seven, a tie between Sir Sorcha d'Mordran, Mistress Angelique Bouchard, and Master Raevyn." She pauses, a smile gracing her lips. "And finally, in first place and our winner - Lady Myrana d'Armaz! Congratulations to all participants and most especially, to the young daughter of the Viscount d'Armaz!"

The crowd applauds steadily and politely.

The grizzled old legionnaire mumbles scores out, now in Imperial, to his two young attendants. Once they've passed by the last of the targets, he sweeps his hands in a shooing motion which sends the target counters scattering. Why were there so many people to count rounds on targets? This also goes unexplained, just like the old legionnaire's use of the Common tongue. Left with just his two parchment bearing attendants, he leans over to take a look at the scores.

The attendant whose hands are empty, a tiny young lady no more than sixteen, says something in Imperial. He grunts back at her and she looks abashed, then clears her throat. When she speaks, her voice projects throughout the whole grounds. Unlike the legionnaire, her Common is polished and sounds well learned, the accent of educated gentry. "In third place with six points, Sir Casimir al'Mordran. In second place with seven, a tie between Bishop Dario Tevino, Sir Sorcha d'Mordran, Mistress Angelique Bouchard, and Master Raevyn." She pauses, a smile gracing her lips. "And finally, in first place and our winner - Lady Myrana d'Armaz! Congratulations to all participants and most especially, to the young daughter of the Viscount d'Armaz!"

The crowd applauds steadily and politely.

The short d'Tremaine knight perks up when the results are finally revealed. Third place wasn't too shabby, and Lady Myrana clenched first! He wasn't even paying attention to her until now. He lets out a cheery whoop in her general direction. "Good shooting, Lady Myrana!" Casimir is given a good, hard clap to the back. "You, too, Casimir. Maybe you're right and the necklace isn't completely useless after all! Not sure if there's any prize for third, though… but hey, points!"

And Havelock rests the bulky crossbow against his right leg and applauds Myrana, "Congratulations Lady Myrana!" His warm voice calls forth as he applauds not only the petite d'Armaz, but those other contestants whom he competed against. With all said and done, Havelock gathers his crossbow and moves a few paces towards the Legionaire and his assistant to offer a simple, "Thank you." And with a gentle and respectful nod towards the Prince, whether it is seen or not, the Reliant then takes his leave of the contest.

"Oh hell," pops out of Myra's mouth, then is covered by her hand slapping up over it and a look over at Havelock. Did he hear her blaspheme? Oh jeez. But at the applause she gets a look of consternation on her face and steps forward, sweeping a deep curtsey to the throne where the Prince sits, her voice carrying hestitantly at first as she attempts to smooth it a little. "Thank you, your majesty. We are naturally only students of your great nation's art."
Havelock has disconnected.

Sylvain smiles momentarily as he listens to the scores. Applauding for the winner as he hears the announcement. "Well done," he calls out, a bit softly. Looking back to his own target a bit thoughtfully now.

Angel, bracing her elbows to hold up the bow, applauds lightly. "Congratulations! Well Shot!" Her light voice ringing out, accent trilling softly.

Dario makes his way over to Myrana as she is announced as the winner. "Congradulations sister. You did very well." He inclines his head to her a happy smile on his lips. He placed second along with Raevyn and Myrana won this is good in his eyes. He doesn't yet rememeber the possible risks but suddenly he does and he shifts closer to Myrana, a subtle sign of protection. He studies her with a faint smile still unable to shake his pride at her vistory completely.

Sorcha congratulates her fellow knights, she knew it was close. "Very well done, very well indeed.." she murmers as she moves away from the field herself.

"Well done Lady Myrana!" Casimir calls out and grins as Myrana wins. "Well that was fun." He claps Stellan on the back cheerfully. "Want to hit the tavern?"

Despite the almost tepid reaction from the crowd, Prince Mikel does not look displeased. He first acknowledges the legionnaire, who has bowed and appears to be waiting for a nod from the royal. Mikel gives him this, and the old, one legged soldier hobbles off, returning his own nod to Havelock. Mikel then turns to Myrana and his lips part in a gregarious, friendly smile that constrasts with his angular face. It almost looks unnatural, no matter how many times he's appeared to be in good cheer today.

"My congratulations to you, Lady Myrana. You bring credit on your House and your father. You will be invited to come to our armoury, in due time, and choose from our collection which long cannon you desire. It is no wonder that the hand cannons won the field, in the end. To all ocmpetitors, we applaud your skill with arms." Raising his arms up, Prince Mikel prompts the people and indeed, the crowd applauds again - this time, more forcefully.

Stellan smirks back at Casimir and nods. "Aye, to the tavern once more." He hefts his crossbow once more, turning to leave with Casimir. "George ought to be there and I need to give this back to him." And unless there's suddenly someone there to stop them, they are off for tavern adventures once again!

Myrana inclines her head so that her dark hair falls forward about her face and shoulders as she pays deep respect to Prince Mikel, with whose family she dined at last year's tourney banquet. "Thank you, highness; My brother and I are are honored. Our father sends his warm regards to you and your gracious family." she says, and blushes at the louder applause. When the Prince turns his attention away from her she takes Dario's hand; unlike her big brother she doesn't forget for a moment the danger they're in, especially with the both of them having won honors in this tournament. Once its safe and polite for them to do so, she tugs him back towards the company of their guards and out of the clear field of vision.

Dario's hand is taken and he is silently led away by his sister. He doesn't say a word the danger they are in slowly sinking into his mind. He glances around the field for Raevyn with worried eyes but he cannot spot the young man before he is pulled away by Myrana.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License