Though impromptu, the Eswynds know how to throw a revel when one is called for - and one appears to be called for given the buoyant atmosphere. Servants, guards, sailors, and even the nobles all seem in good cheer as guests are directed out to the training yard for the tournament. It may still be winter, but the wall blocks most of the wind and braziers have been placed around to warm chilled onlookers. A large pig is being roasted over a fire, and other food and drink are plentiful. The benches have been draped in comfortable furs for comfort.

Medeia is leaning against the rails of the training yard fence, trident resting beside her. As guests and competitors file in, her bright smile greets them. Aside to one of the Eswynd sailors nearby, she murmurs, "Of course I'm going to fight. Scared?" He makes some comment about being scared /for her/ which makes her laugh and roll her eyes. "If I win, something has gone terribly wrong."

Haakon has staked out a position leaning on the rails of the fighting area. A cask of dark beer has just been cracked open and the reaver is dipping a fine drinking bowl into the cask. For once, Haakon is out of armor, dressed only in wool and leather. The tattooed prodigal quips dryly, "Mayhap I spiked the wine," to Medeia's last comment. His narrowed eyes scan the assembly.

Whitebeard, (Bloodbeard, bloody iron chef, Zakhar, Old Man...) wanders in through the hall, having grabbed a drink in one hand and managed to swipe a turkey leg from who knows where. Middle of chewing and he stuffs the leg into his mouth holding it in place with his teeth upon the bone then wiping some grease off onto the side of the very Pink layered skirt before retaking the bone in hand and smirking to Haakon and Medeia while he continues to chew then slam the drink he's found. "Aye, who am I to attempt to wallop?"

Grady's slender form is wrapped in a heavy cloak, the hood drawn up to protect his head; the way he's built, the cold probably cuts right through him. His hazel eyes are wide as he looks around. "Nonsense," he's saying cheerfully to the person he enters with, probably his assistant. "You worry too much. I'm sure we'll have a delightful evening!" He pats Mortimer's arm before sending him off to do Mortimer things while he has a look around (and maybe goes in search of something hot to drink).

Ryhalt enters the Eswynd's courtyard with a warm smile. Not looking as if he's come to participate in the fight, he goes to sit near Norah and watch.

The only thing more terrifying than Medeia is a toddler in armor with a blunted toddler-size axe. Little Lady Oksana, heir to Eswynd Rock, is in leather and chainmail, dragging her axe along the ground beside her menacingly. The look on Marquessa Norah's face makes it clear that she has washed her hands entirely of this situation. She gives Ryhalt a sidelong glance and a nod of greeting, about to say something when the toddler roars, smacking Haakon's leg with the axe. "Fuck!" she declares proudly.

Norah closes her eyes and breathes slowly. This is fine. This is fine. This is her life. This is her child. This is totally, totally fine. Ah! Guests! She pats Ryhalt on the arm and swishes over to greet Grady. "Welcome, you will have an absolutely delightful time," she promises him.

Cassiopeia arrives with a wide smile on her face, it's plastered evenly and she walks with a confident stride. The young woman is accompanied by even taller guards, making them stand out, easily. Dressed for warmth, the southerner has her cloak pulled around her, tied tightly, while mittens cover her hands. Her eyes peek out, deep azure, they sparkle with curiosity at unfamiliar surroundings and new faces. There is an easy dip of her head to the hosts for the evening, recognizing at least some of the Eswynd crew. There is an especially warm look given in Medeia direction, "Lady and Lord Eswynd, thank you for opening your home." Not one to turn down a drink, Cassiopeia sends one of the guards to fetch just that. At the same time, Cassiopeia turns to find a place to sit and watch the fight unfold. The smile never leaves her face.

3 Proscipi veteran guards have been dismissed.

Haakon raises his voice to greet the newly arrived, "Show is this way! You'd best have a drink in your hand, else you insult our hospitality," he jokes (?) loud and deadpan. "Be welcome in Eswyndol! Be MOST welcome if you fight." His greeting is cut off by a cursing toddler striking him with an axe. "Fuck," he grunts in surprise. "Well, you're *most* welcome, little niece. Norah! You hear that?" He's not grinning... but he's clearly enjoying the moment.

There is, supposedly, a tournament -- so Alantir has come. Another melee. Another opportunity to meet experienced combatants and hone one's skill with a blade. He is a tall man, standing just over six feet, and adorned in a suit of well-maintained armor. The knight's tabard bears the White Dragon of House Valardin and compliments the silver hue of platemail. Protruding from his armet is a great blue plume, perhaps giving the man the appearance of a large and gangly rooster. Haakon's confident shouting, though vulgar, gives him at least some direction. Sabatons carry the man in the direction of the courtyard's ring.

The smile Grady turns on Norah has enough wattage to light a room. It certainly has enough wattage to light up his eyes, highlighting flecks of gray and green in the hazel. "I know I will!" He bows, a truncated movement thanks to the cloak swaddling him, and not especially graceful. "Lord Grady Deepwood, at your service."

"You'd do that for me?" Medeia asks Haakon, batting her eyeslashes as she adopts an overly sweet tone. She can't help but laugh at Oksana's display, scooping the tiny Eswynd up in her arms. "That's what you say when someone hits /you/," She explains to the toddler. She's helping. Ryhalt is given a nod in greeting, and Cassiopeia earns a bright smile. "Marquessa, please, this was all Marquessa Norah's idea. Be sure to thank her," A motion is made in Norah's direction, "I'm sure she'd be happy to meet you." When she hears Grady's introduction, she gives him a smile, too. "Lady Medeia Eswynd, my husband - Lord Haakon Eswynd, Lady Oksana Eswynd, and Marquessa Norah Eswynd." THere are gestures to each person as she speaks, her own Lycene accent placing her as an odd one out.

Zakhar works on that turkey leg and is quick to have it down to the bone where he gives it a look then tucks the bone into a small back pouch on his belt, there's a rattle from the pouch as if there's other bones or similar objects inside. The old man smirks at the toddler, then looks over to Haakon. "Good swing on that one. Just wait til yers are ready to do the same. Ye'll be flooded as they team up." There's a gruff laugh that follows his smirk before he looks to Norah, "Marquessa."

Ryhalt laughs loudly as Norah's greeting to him comes out as a curse, grinning in the sympathetic, amused way of someone who knows what it's like to have lively children. Not his this time! He helps himself to a drink when one comes around. He nods in return to Medeia's greeting.

Haakon echoes a half overheard introduction: "Deepwood? One of your kin came reaving with us, once or twice. If you're as good at arms as they, ought make a fit showing." A grunts in sharp amusement to Zakhar. "As you say, Whiteboard: no foe will ever find one of their backs unguarded. It will be bloody and fine." To Medeia, he s offs once. "Course I would. Who drinks wine?"

Grady turns towards Medeia as she points everyone out, following her indicating hand with his gaze and revolving slowly to face each person in turn (he maybe makes a very brief silly face at Oksana, complete with crossed eyes and stuck out tongue), until he finds himself face to face with Norah again. "Oh! The Marquessa. That makes you the hostess of this get together, doesn't it? I apologize, I didn't realize." The smile he gives to Haakon, after, is apologetic. "I'm afraid I'm the least warlike of my family. I'm only here to watch."

Dolente, a mourning dove, Dolce, a collared dove arrive, following Cesare.

Norah narrows her eyes at Haakon. "Did I hear what, Lord Haakon?" she asks him, tone a clear challenge. She turns to Grady, suddenly all gentility and grace. "Lord Grady, a pleasure." She is about to introduce herself when Medeia does so quite elegantly, and she nods her approval. "A pleasure. Do make sure to sample the seafood. Eswynders do seafood best." As Norah is making these pleasantries, Oksana climbs through the railing of the training yard and makes her way to the center. She holds her axe over her head and yells, "FIGHT!" This is fine. This is fine. Norah's eye is not twitching at all. Right.

Cesare, liberally coated in snow, sweeps into the walled courtyard and heads straight for his patron. "My goodness, don't you look fearsome tonight," he murmurs. "I hope I get to see you smash someone over the head with that trident." And there's Haakon, who Cesare hasn't seen in some time. "Oh, what a pleasure, you're always off fighting somewhere on a longship or something equally masculine and martial." Dodge him if you may, Haakon, but Cesare is giving you a hug and a kiss on the cheek if you don't, because it's been a long day and he's forgotten who in his life he's allowed to kiss.

As Cassiopeia catches sight of the Marquessa that Medeia points out, the young woman thinks this is a good idea and so she makes her approach. The tall blonde, now with drink in hand, offers the woman a flash of smile. The antics of the toddler amuses her, "Marquessa Eswynd, a pleasure. Lovely grounds and a good day for a fight," she offers with warmth. Cassiopeia doesn't sit down, rather she lingers by the benches, knowing she will do so, soon enough. One of the more adventurous Arakkoan guards eyes up the seafood, catching the blonde's attention and she encourages him to go have a taste. The man makes a beeline for the food table, while the others linger nearby, seeming keen to watch the fight.

Shockingly enough Brigid Inverno arrived to the event not in armor or leather in which to take on opponents with the best of them but this time the Solace Dame arrives in a dress autumnal in hue that cling and shimmers with each movement - mimicking rain over fallen leaves such was the crash of diamond plate. Quietly does the Dragoon go to grab a drink which appears to be whiskey given the coloration and eases to settle herself outside the combat ring. Before a taste can be sampled, there is a flicker of gaze towards Alantir who causes head to duck behind a curtain of rippling sable waves, trying her best to return to austere countenance but a snicker at the Valardin peacock breaks loose despite the attempt.

There is a straightening of back, regaining some small modicum of composure and attention drives towards all those who are attending, spotting Viviana Pravus who only gains a check of brow in the way of a greeting before a deep nod of head is tossed in reverence to her husband's cousin.

Grady watches Oksana with a fond smile. He angles his head towards Norah and speaks to her in a soft voice, tinged with warmth.

There's a late-verging-on-later Pravus royal that's tromping through the snow with a fierce grin on her face, as though daring the snow to get through the careful layers of crimson and scarlet and bronze and gold -- mostly leathers, mostly armor. She is accessorized in bronze and amber and the inky, stardust glitter of star iron that's as bright as the gleam in her good eye. Viviana pauses, mostly to take a very good look around before she sways off in search of a drink to have in hand before the tourney starts. There's another pause, mid-sip, to give Lady Brigid Inverno a deadpan stare. Then, a sunny smile is flashed over. A flicker of a wave. And she empties her glass.

Medeia grins up at Haakon. "Not a single person, not a one." She holds a hand out to Cesare, offering cheek kisses. "I will jab someone just for you. Or I will try to. My birthday gift to you." She watches as her protege attempts to greet Haakon with one brow raised over an amused smile. But Brigid's arrival has her doing a double take. A hand reaches out to clasp Haakon's forearm before she steadies herself. "My lady, it is good to see you well."

Ryhalt claps at Lady Oskana as she enters the center of the ring. Oh so hopefully he shouts, "Let's see it!" He's going to be in trouble with his protege. Still he laughs again and grins.

Grady finishes a short conversation with Norah with a good natured laugh, and then steps away in search of something hot to drink. And preferably non-alcoholic, although he's probably out of luck in that regard.

Haakon stares blankly at Grady for a long moment as he names himself least martial a d declares his intention to watch. "...." His mouth opens, but closes again without words. "Huh. So. Not at all, or just.. not when you don't need to?" Luckily Cesare arrives. "Sea and Sky strike me down if I lie: you're as noisy as ever." Haakon gets a hug a kiss. And a drink from his new drinking bowl. "You all heard the little lady: FIGHT." A short, brief laugh.

Like every good bird, Alantir has a routine. A display. Upon reaching the exterior of the ring, he raises his arms above his head and initiates a lateral stretch. Left, right, forward, back. Flexion, extension. At the end, the knight bends forward, digs his fingers into the dirt, and smears loose earth across the palms of gauntlets. This was, of course, a much easier and effective strategy when the ground wasn't partially frozen. Dull grey gaze scans the crowd for any familiar faces but only discovers one. Brigid is promptly offered an exaggerated, flamboyant, and embarrassing wave.

"I do believe the heir to Eswynd Rock has called for challengers," Norah says in her cool, even tones. "Will anyone be brave enough to accept her challenge before the tournament begins in earnest?" She glances over at Ryhalt. Hey. He started it.

3 Thrax Guards, Thomas, a nondescript sailor, 1 Thrax Elite Guards arrive, following Jasher.

Grady looks up from fussing over the question of how hard the hot hard cider is. How much alcohol are we talking here, really? A lot? It's a lot, isn't it? "Conflict makes my stomach do flip flops. I don't even like to see people arguing, if I can avoid it." His sheepish smile and abashed tone at least make it clear that he knows exactly how this sounds. House Deepwood is warlike enough that it's probably been made very clear to him, over the years. "I leave the heroism to my wife."

The next drink is tossed back as Zakhar pulls out the spoon from his vest. "She trained then?"

Did Haakon just call Cesare /noisy/? How dare he. That is the Softest of Whisper House he is talking to. And Cesare's dulcet tones are perfectly of a reasonable volume, particularly in comparison to the screaming toddlers. "It will only be an acceptable birthday gift if you absolutely stab someone's brain through their eye," he intones to Medeia with utter seriousness. "And then make me a special wine with the brain juice. Please. And thank you. By the way - the prize is stunning. It almost makes me wish I had any fighting talent at all. I could attempt to disarm my opponents by method of seduction? I feel that would be unsportsmanlike."

"Whom, the heir -- or the diplomat?" Viviana asides, asking Zakhar with a blink.

Jasper, a treasure hunting gyrfalcon arrives, delivering a message to Zakhar before departing.

Ryhalt glances between Norah and the toddler. "Does she shriek like a banshee if that axe gets taken from her?" The way he grins in mischief doesn't really say if he's planning to avoid that fate or provoke it.

Haakon looks only more perplexed as Grady elaborates. "Damnation. How has Arx not killed you? Seems to be naught but folk arguing, aye?" A sharp sniff of humor, as he turns his eye to Alantir, observing aloud, "That lad has the look of a blue plumed stork in plate armor. Even has a long blade for the long beak..."

There is a roll of eyes towards that brilliant, sunny smile from the vivacious Viviana but it is met with a raising of her glass in kind. there is a glance towards Medeia and for several moments there is a cant of head before it suddenly dawns on her why the look might be there in the first place, "I am very well and given your look I assume perhaps were a part of that false rescue. We should speak sometime." All that would come from the lines of lush concerning her wayward adventures before eyes widen towards Alantir before giving a smirk, "I'm wondering how much dirt you're going to need in your gauntlet before it actually aids you."

"I haven't been back for more than a few days." Grady smiles to Haakon, less sheepish, now, hitting him with the full force of what's not an inconsequential amount of charisma. "It still might."

"HA! The heir. I'd hope the nobbies had spent some time in training you." Zakhar grins as he runs his thumb over the belly of his spoon.

"Why don't you find out, Zakhar?" Norah eggs him, on. Who drinks wine? Norah drinks wine. Sipppp.

Cassiopeia takes a small sip of the ale, as though more curious than anything, rather than having the intent to drink. She holds the cup between hands, her eyes watching over the grounds with curiosity. Her attention drifts from person-to-person, the smile remaining on her lips, ever present though subdued enough to allow other expressions to drift through.

Haakon only notices Brigid when she draws near enough to speak with Medeia. The reaver's eye sticks hard on the lady, repeating his eloquent consideration of moments before: "Huh."

There are a few - okay /several/ - blinks from Medeia at the exchange between Cesare and Haakon, and then Haakon and Alantir. "Br-brain wine?" Her brow furrows, then she looks at Alantir. "Haakon, that's a time when you're meant to use your inside voice." She gives Brigid a nod, confirmation and agreement. "I'd like that. Haven't seen my cousin in a while. You should both come by for dinner sometime." Then she's giving Grady an almost apologetic look. "I think the city is more likely to tie you in knots than kill you, but should you wish to talk sometime, I'd be glad to. I've met Marquessa Samantha, I think there is benefit to be fuond in our houses talking more."

Haakon eyes Medeia blankly at the inside voice admonishment. "Why, don't you like storks?"

"What!?" Alantir shouts, unable to discern the dragoon's commentary. Haakon had said something, too -- what about a bird? His attention shifts briefly toward the sky. "I don't see any! And I can hardly hear you!" He rasps the knuckles of his left gauntlet against armet to provide a visual explanation. Longsword is then drawn from scabbard and planted firmly between feet, gaze then shifting to the ring to witness the first two contenders initiate their skirmish.

Jasher passes into the walled courtyard where the celebration is presently in full swing, donning oiled leather armor black as pitch, with a matching helmet tucked under his left arm. His lips are pressed into a grim, inflexible line as he scans revelers present, familiar and unfamiliar alike. A nod of his head is afforded to all in one go, though beryl irises linger a measure longer upon the faces of Lord Grady and the Softest Whisper as he crosses them with determined swiftness toward the hostesses of the evening. "Marquessa, my lady," he murmurs upon bowing at the waist respectfully, "Prince Jasher Thrax. A pleasure to meet you. I'd like to join the melee, if there's still room." He turns to observe what combatants are stretching or socializing, as is their wont.

3 Thrax Guards, 2 Thrax Elite Guards, Lady Teonia Redreef, Aryka Wyrmfang, Marquessa Pudding, a doughy dog arrive, following Sorrel.

Grady has decided, at length, to risk the cider, and finds himself drifting closer to Medeia as the fighters get ready to take the ring. "You will find, my lady, that the answer to the question 'does Grady want to talk' is almost always yes. I haven't had the chance to meet with Marquessa Samantha since I got back into town, so all my current talk will have to be restricted to piffle, unfortunately. I can't speak to her will without knowing it." He beams another high-wattage smile in Jasper's direction, and sketches half a bow. He's not very graceful to start with, and now he's muffled in a cloak and also trying not to spill his drink.

"Mm. Would give the benefit of the doubt to the heir. Some Houses don't wait until the sprog's walking before they stick live steel in their hands and let them go --" Viviana drawls, setting her empty glass aside in pursuit of the cleared place in the walled courtyard that allows the space for fighting. She's forgone her normal weapon of choice for something smaller, keener. The serpentine dagger of redsteel is small, unfamiliar to the duelist used to wielding a rapier - and so, there's the challenge.

1 Thrax Elite Guards have been dismissed.

3 Thrax Guards have been dismissed.

Thomas, a nondescript sailor have been dismissed.

"Hello, Prince Jasher," Cesare greets as the gentleman approaches his patron and her husband who is currently shouting about waterfowl. He bows, all artful dishabille and bare shoulders despite the weather. "Can I bring anything to drink while you wait for you turn? All sorts of spirits. Saik wine, spiced cider, some very strong ... something from the island. I'll probably just stick with wine tonight. The Eswynd drink made my eyes water fiercely the first time I tried it."

Haakon raises get a voice to boom toward Alantir, setting down his drinking bowl to hold up two fingers, "You're the second fight, Lord Stork! Or is it Sword Stork? Lord Sword Stork?" Hrm. Quite the puzzle.

A little quirk of Norah's head sends a man-at-arms into the fighting ring to fetch the toddler. The question of if Oksana screeches if her will is thwarted is answered now as she is carried away like a rugby ball. Even with the screeching, the marquessa maintains her genteel smile and rises to greet Jasher. "But of course, your highness. I look forward to seeing you fight."

Now that the training ring is clear of toddlers, Norah calls out. "First bout: Princess Sorrel and Princess Viviana!"

"Prince Thrax, how lovely to meet you," Medeia greets Jasher, giving a curtsy. "Lady Medeia Eswynd. I hear you are acquainted with my sister-by-marriage, Baroness Lucita." Her accent suggests she was a Saik by birth. "Welcome to Eswyndol." She then gives Grady her attention as the first round of the tournament begins. "I understand completely, and you'll find I am fluent in piffle."

Ryhalt takes a drink to stifle his laughter as his question about Oksana is answered. Hearing the first two names to fight, he claps loudly.

Delight lights Grady's eyes at this information from Medeia. "So wonderful to meet another native speaker. Oh my. This cider really IS strong, isn't it? A person could get themselves in trouble with this."

There is a quiet nod towards Medeia, "Of course, I'll see what I can do to tear him away from his current studies." Brigid offers a wry smile, passable enough for one who does not deliver them openly or freely too often. As the fights begin there is a keen interest given towards the bought itself, "I've still got that bottle of wine to help you nurse any injuries to your person or ego, Princess Viviana!"

Sorrel gets sorrel leaf styled bag of holding from a plain bag with musical note fastener to close it.

3 Thrax Guards, 2 Thrax Elite Guards, Lady Teonia Redreef, Aryka Wyrmfang, Marquessa Pudding, a doughy dog leave, following Sorrel.

Cassiopeia leans over to murmur something under her breath to one of her guards. In turn he murmurs to the other guard. The last guard makes his way towards the exit of the walled grounds. He is gone for not a couple minutes before her arrives. When he does he slips a little note to Cassiopeia. It is trick to unfold with mittens, but when she does, she gives a nod of her head. Standing up, she is slipping out of the grounds not too long after her arrival. There is a bob of her head to the event hosts, before she is gone.

3 Proscipi veteran guards leaves, following Cassiopeia.

Haakon's words are, this time, understood. The second fight. Right. More time to prepare. The Valardin prince rolls his shoulders and turns his back to the bulk of the crowd, content to wait patiently until it was his turn to engage in the melee.

3 Thrax Guards, 2 Thrax Elite Guards, Lady Teonia Redreef, Aryka Wyrmfang, Marquessa Pudding, a doughy dog arrive, following Sorrel.

Viviana dips into a dramatic curtsy to Sorrel, low, arms sweeping out to either side of her. Daggers out as though that were the hem of her skirt that she is flaring. She hears the mention of her name (how could she not -- she loves her name --) and her good eye flicks that way, evergreen bright and privately amused. "Promises, promises -- Lady Brigid. You keep mentioning that bottle of wine and the wonderful gift of your company. Wait. No, just the wine -- please."

"Ah, Princess Viviana, one of my favorite dancing partners," Sorrel replies with a charming smile and a flourishing bow to Viviana as the other curtsies to her. She flutters her lashes at the other with a pleased looking smile, straightening up to her full height. "Are we drinking before we dance, or are we drinking after to celebrate the winner?"

Viviana wields an ornate dagger with a red serpentine hilt.

A fight has broken out here. Use @spectate_combat to watch, or +fight to join.

2 Thrax Elite Guards have been dismissed.

3 Thrax Guards have been dismissed.

Aryka Wyrmfang have been dismissed.

Zakhar checks stamina and survival at hard. Zakhar fails.

A gracious inclination of his head toward the marquessa follows her complimentary words, then to Lady Medeia, replies, "Yes, we've been friends for many years, but I've been away so long as to have missed introductions to her extended family. I'm happy to have rectified that tonight, however incidentally." When introductions have been duly made, the prince pivots upon his heel in time to enter expediently into a conversation with Cesare. "Whisper Cesare, we meet again." A brief pause allows him a moment to consider what might suit both a revelry and a spar. He decides on, "My thanks. I'll opt to trust in your discerning taste, though only one. I'm hoping to win." Jasher's eyebrows lift infinitesimally at that, and then he turns to observe the spar taking place between his dear cousin and Princess Viviana.

Sorrel wields Symphony's Blade, a violet edged rubicund saber.

A fight has broken out here. Use @spectate_combat to watch, or +fight to join.

Grady takes a couple of unconscious steps back away from the fighting ring as the first spar is about to begin.

"Only one," Cesare repeats, with a raise of his own eyebrows, though his expression remains otherwise placid. He looks toward Haakon and Medeia to gauge if refills are needed on their behalf - and then he's gliding over to the refreshments area, gathering up a pair of wineglasses, assorted finger foods, and returning to peer with excitement as the combat begins. "Do you know, I've never seen /either/ the Sword of Pravus or Princess Sorrel in action, though I've heard a great deal of their prowess," he comments, handing a glass of a deep red wine to the Prince. "And do try some of this smoked fish spread, it's excellent. What sort of weapon do you wield?"

Zakhar finds the Water of Life and proceeds to chug the drink while he waits for to be told that he can hop into the field. Though, might be crawling that direction as he is now looking at the bottle with one eye squinted shut and a deadpan tight lipped stare muttering something AT the bottle.

Zakhar mutters, "Oh, I ... ... thinks thats ... funny ... to butcher it sideways then fuckery within, eh? Well you ... here mister I'm ... to love you ... run ... on ... ship cause you don't fucking retire when ... ... you ... ... wallop ... ... I'll set ... sails on fire and sink ... ..."

There is a sidelong glance from beneath the weight of lashes that lowered in a shield over silvery sights towards the muttering Zakhar and Brigid can't help but feel a brow check curiously at the few snippets caught before shifting attention elsewhere, "Must be a strong drink."

Viviana treats it very much like the dance it is - and so she does, as only a Champion can with artistic skill that only seems reckless. She leaps, twsits, dodges and parries. When there's a moment -- oop, there go her gloves. Another turn, another spin -- vambraces. Jacket. Layers shed, crimson leathers discarded against the snow that's ground down to slush beneath her feet. Like picking the petals off of a particularly sharp flower - loves me, loves me not, loves me. The steel loves her. That second kiss from the violet-edged sabre in Sorrel's hand surprises her, and she blinks hard. Until her breath is fogging the air with her panting, her dusky cheeks flushed with color. "I yield to first blood, Bladesong."

Norah applauds. "And the first winner is Princess Sorrel! Well fought, your highnesses." After allowing a moment for applause, she continues. "Next bout: Lady Medeia and Lord Alantir!"

And it's hardly as if the Bladesong is not known for her dancing skills, sword in hand or not. Sorrel moves gracefully to twist and dodge and parry everything that Viviana throws at her, smiling almost flirtatiously at the Pravus princess. Loves her. Except with steel. And when Viviana yields, she nods and offers her hand to the other woman with a smile. "Thank you for the dance, Your Highness. Shall we drink now?" she inquires.

"Mmhm, you earned that victory --" Viviana accepts Sorrel's hand, dipping once. "You are a marvelous dancer, Your Highness. Let's see how we do drinking."

Haakon hails the first match with a wordless shout, followed by the words, "Goddess be pleased." He drinks. Words muttered aside to Medeia as she is called, and his drink is raised in salute to Alantir.

Medeia looks up, surprised. "Oh! Congratulations, Princess Sorrel!" Though, it's /her/ turn. She slips through the rails and grabs her trident. "This can't possibly go wrong, could it?" She grins at Alantir.

Grady belatedly goes to match Norah's applause. Then he realizes he's holding a cup of cider with nowhere to put it down, and sheepishly takes a sip from the cup instead of clapping. With Medeia headed for the ring, he withdraws closer to Norah. "I'm not sure what we just watched, but it was delightful."

Oathlander that he is, he looks like he isn't even sure if he's watching a fight or what, but as Viviana yields, he claps loudly for Sorrel. Hearing the names of the next bout, he looks curious and has another drink.

The somewhat hammered old man looks up from the bottle as he continues to sip at it, "Hrm. Who won?" Then as Sorrel is congratulated again, "Oh good."

A fight has broken out here. Use @spectate_combat to watch, or +fight to join.

The Valardin raises his gauntlets and joins the crowd in their applause of the first exchange and its conclusion. When his name is called, he enters the ring and offers Medeia a polite dip of his chin. "You are in good company, my lady. I wish you the best of luck."

Zakhar checks stamina and survival at normal. Zakhar is successful.

Jasher wordlessly accepts the glass of wine Cesare relinquishes to him, raises it in a brief, informal toast of appreciation, and then raises it just short of his lips. He does not imbibe before inhaling the scent wafting from the deep red liquid pooled within, and what he does take is little more than a sip. "Very good," he compliments aloud, then uses his free hand to pry open the right panel of his heavy leather longcoat. Doing so reveals a cutlass sheathed at his hip, is silhouette barely visible beneath the weight of the garment when otherwise concealed. "Steel cutlass, nothing so extravagant. It has served me well, but I intend to upgrade soon. Perhaps not soon enough." As the spar between the two princesses ends, Jasher's lips curl into a half-smile. "Congratulations, Sorrel. Well fought, Princess Viviana," he adds with a polite nod in her direction.

Medeia checks 'unconsciousness save' at easy. Medeia is successful.

Medeia remains capable of fighting.

As Viviana takes her hand, Sorrel kisses her knuckles and then leads her off towards where the drinks are being served, hooking her hand into her arm like a proper escort for a fine noblewoman. Even if they did just wail on one another with swords. She smiles at Jasher and drifts in his direction, intending to take Viviana with her. "Thank you, Jasher. A delight, as always," she replies. "Let us all get rather drunk, yes?"

Medeia checks 'unconsciousness save' at easy. Medeia is successful.

Medeia remains capable of fighting.

Medeia checks 'unconsciousness save' at normal. Medeia is successful.

Medeia remains capable of fighting.

Medeia checks 'unconsciousness save' at normal. Medeia is successful.

Medeia remains capable of fighting.

Cesare applauds the two princesses as their dance of danger ends and a dance of drinking begins instead. And seeing as it is the best patron's turn to fight? He says 'excuse me,' politely and then proceeds to prove the fact that Haakon called him noisy absolutely true by giving an absolutely blood-curdling howl of support for Medeia, a sort of drawn-out battle-cry of her name. There, now even if she loses, she'll feel good about something. "Do let me know if you need a recommendation on a bladesmith. I know Raja Culler is well known for her work on small arms."

"Thank you, Your Highness, you praise is acknowledged and it soothes my fragile self-esteem," with a gesture of fingers to beckon toward Brigid, Viviana is making introductions. "Have you met Lady Brigid, Prince Jasher -- Princess Sorrel. She keeps me grounded with her scathing commentary. I appreciate her all the more for it. Now -- what do you all suggest I drink?"

A messenger arrives, delivering a message to Viviana before departing.

"Try the Water of Life," Cesare suggests merrily to Viviana. "It might make you cry or vomit."

"Sounds like my last serious relationship, Softest Whisper Cesare, how did you know?" Viviana murmurs the question beatifically.

There is applause given towards the two princesses and a wink tossed towards Viviana, "I'll make sure to have that bottle sent over promptly and to stop teasing you with it." At the beckoning fingers, there is an equine snort and the settled Dragoon rises in a sing of scales to address those introduced, "Well met, Prince Jasher." A glance towards Sorrel then back to Viviana, "I've already been acquainted with the Princess Sorrel, your information is lacking." At the drinking suggestion from Cesare there is a quick shake of head after noticing the ramblings from Zakhar, "While I might enjoy listening to her cry and perhaps vomit, I'd rather not have to hear what could filter out of her mouth after she drinks it."

"Stick with whiskey since it packs a punch almost as hard as you do."

Alantir wields Wyrmsong.

"That's most relationships, isn't it?" Sorrel notes to Viviana with a measure of amusement, winking at her playfully. "Lady Brigid, a delight, as always. Yes, I think we should both have a bit of whiskey. Do let me toast to you, Your Highness, one of my favorite dancing partners. Someday we'll do it in dresses. Perhaps even without weapons!"

Jasher raises his glass of wine up to Sorrel, but once more, opts only to sip from its depths. From over the glass rim, he observes Cesare as he steps forward to cheer boisterously for Lady Medeia. His brows draw low with some passing expression of vexation for its volume, but that cloud of judgment passes just as soon as the Softest Whisper resumes speaking in his usual manner. "I will certainly keep her name in mind," he replies courteously, and then Sorrel is proposing drunkenness. "No, cousin, not until I've won," he says with an air of surety that ought not be, considering his weapon of choice, and the skill of his would-be opponents. Now, his attention is drawn to Lady Brigid, who's mouth has, at that moment, begun to run wild just in time to evidence Viviana's claims. "A pleasure to meet you, my lady."

Medeia bows to Alantir and hoists the trident, slipping her shield from her back. She doesn't say anything further, instead stepping back and lowering her center of gravity slightly. She's a small target, fits behind her shield easily, but Alantir has the advantage of far more training. For a few minutes, all of herjabs are batted away, while all of his are blocked. In a lucky connection of trident to sword, seh manages to tangle the blade in the barbs of her weapon, dashing it away from Alantir's grasp. One of her eyebrows lifts, a silent inquiry - no, they aren't done. She drops her shield and holds the trident out away from her for someone to take. Then, there's a beckoning motion. This has become a brawl. One she will surely lose, but that she is not backing away from.

Brigid raises a brow at Sorrel, amusement clear in azure orbs before flickering it towards Jasher, "You don't need to lie, Prince Jasher." Clipped in Oathlander cadence, astute and punctuated without room for purring inflection but there is a warmth to it only aided by the pulse of good liquor. Attention has been drawn towards the ring, a hand lifting to cover the growing grin on lips, "Keep your hands up and dodge, Medeia! He's slower in that armor and you can't even take him seriously with that quail feather on his head!"

"There's so much truth to that --" Viviana notes, voice lilting agreement. Whether it's agreement to (most relationships) or (no one wants to hear an unfiltered Pravus) she rolls her shoulders back, hums in the positive, and will settle with a bit of whiskey. Once she's settled comfortably, watching the chaos unfolding between the second pair of combatants. With an inclination of her head, Viviana chuffs. "Someday. Perhaps without weapons. Perhaps, Princess Sorrel."

The epic length of the second duel has Haakon shouting encouragement to both parties in a boisterous bid to ward off exhaustion, as the match descends into a brawl. "Get his visor up and go for the beak!" to Medeia. "Don't let her atop or you're done!" to Alantir. The common Eswynd warriors add shouts of encouragement to the noise. FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT.

The tendons are visible in Norah's neck as she tensely looks on in abject horror.

Cesare tips his head back and lets loose a laugh, as bright as gold and shiny as the stars themselves, at Viviana's witty repartee. "I don't believe you," he asides to Jasher. "You sound entirely too proper." The trident, which was surely meant to go to Klavdiya or Loryk - where /is/ Loryk, shouldn't Cesare be tormenting him? - ends up in Cesare's hands instead, and he blinks at it before resuming a posture as if he was always meant to have it. Really. All along. "What will you bet me, Prince Jasher? Let's make a wager, then, if you are so certain of your abilities."

Grady seems fascinated by the display, first the Sorrel/Viviana dance, and now whatever this is. The longer it continues, the more impressed he looks.

Whitebeard hops off of his perch and wanders closer to get a full eye of the fight, still squinting as he continues to sip at that bottle then its empty and he looks more pissed about the bottle being empty than who ever might be doing what to who.

Gods, she's quick. And relentless. The knight has grown accustomed to engaging combatants with bladed and blunted weapons no longer than a human arm. There. Her guard is down. Finally. He thrusts, prepared to end the skirmish, but she retaliates quickly -- not a parry, but a perfectly-timed riposte. Wyrmsong is tossed unceremoniously onto the frozen earth. Alantir glances between the longsword and Lady Eswynd, momentarily uncertain. But there is no time to search for alternatives. She intends to brawl. "We don't have to do this!" he calls, narrowly side-stepping the first of her jabs. There was no honor to be found in unarmed combat. Was there? She lunges, and he counters -- instinctively, viscerally. Right elbow deflects. Left gauntlet is sent unapologetically in the direction of her jaw.

Jasher checks composure at normal. Jasher is successful.

Norah is so glad that is over. She clears her throat. "Congratulations, Lord Alantir. Next bout is Princess Sorrel and Zakhar!"

Medeia ducks. It's easy enough to stay under Alantir's jabs, but she's not strong enough to lift the knight or knock him from his feet. "We don't /have/ to," She counters, grinning, "But you don't seem disinclined." Oh, but she /is/ tiring, this is taking far longer than she thought it would. And it doesn't take long for that slowness to result in have her feet swept out from under her. An unrefined "OOF" comes from her. "Okay, okay, I yield, ow." Once back on her feet, she bows to Alantir and pulls her shield from the field. "Remind me not to let Miklos pull on my hair the next few days," She murmurs to Haakon, rubbing at the back of her head.

Zakhar has joined the training yard.

Sorrel has a drink in her hand like she'd already forgotten she'd won her bout with Viviana and will need to fight again as the tourney continues. She looks to Viviana and Jasher and Brigid and sighs slightly. "Ah, right. I have to go hit people more. Well. Have a drink for me, and I shall return shortly," she says with an easy smile.

Jasher shrugs his shoulders for Lady Brigid's comment, then Cesare's, and as the prince raises his glass for another small sip, the corners of his mouth twitch with the threat of a smile. It doesn't come to fruition before they become too preoccupied to emote anything of consequence. Cesare's issuance of a challenge catches him unawares, though he doesn't allow himself to show it. After all, he /is/ a son of Thrax. "A wager?" he inquires, eyes shifting to observe the man's expression, and whether he's serious or bluffing. He decides upon his being serious, and adds, "What would the Softest Whisper be willing to lose over such a thing?"

Haakon's scarred lip curls with dry amusement as he rumbles back to Medeia, "Cut yours like mine and he'll nay pull it ever again." Shoulders stir in silent laughter as he calls, "A fine match!" to Alantir. His eye returns to the field when the next pair are called.

"Prince Alantir." Is corrected towards Norah, offering a smile and a wink before glancing to Sorrel, "May you stay light on your feet, Princess." There is a glance towards Alantir, drink raised to lips in a sip before settling back down to watch the next fight, "It could have been a lot worse."

Norah clears her throat. "/Prince/ Alantir," she corrects herself.

Brigid is overheard praising Norah.

Zakhar results with tossing the bottle over his shoulder as his name is called and flopping into the fighting yard. Then pushing himself up and digging through his vest as he seeks a weapon that /should/ work. He looks across to Sorrel for a moment. Then at the knife in his hand, shaking his head the knife is slipped back to holster at rear of his belt. Then a twisted handled spoon is fished out of his vest. And he grins.

Cesare turns, leaning on the trident, and gives Jasher an unreadable, dark stare, although his eyes glitter with the reflection of the bonfires and possibly with some other light - it seems like there's too much light in them, given the dimness of the courtyard. "I'm only a humble courtier, your highness," he says with great sincerity. "I have no idea what I might possess that a Prince of Thrax would find worthy of a wager. I suppose if you do win, I'd be happy to take care of having a new weapon made for you. Design and all. Is that fair?"

A fight has broken out here. Use @spectate_combat to watch, or +fight to join.

Octavian, a silken spaniel arrives, delivering a message to Cesare before departing.

Alantir is tired. It's evident in how quickly the knight breathes and how slowly he moves. For all the protection that platemail afforded, it was not intended for prolonged use -- and he'd been wearing it all day. Sabatons carry the prince to the bench where Brigid sits and he joins her without hesitation. "Did you see how quickly that woman moved?" he inquires quietly, slipping right hand from gauntlet and using knuckles to rid a streak of blood from lower lip. "She was wild. Relentless. It was like fighting a berserker. I was afraid for my life." An exaggeration? Likely.

Brigid checks composure at normal. Brigid is successful.

"Excellent work," the prince calls above the din of conversation to the departing combatants. "So, Prince Alantir it is." It is not necessarily commonplace for Jasher to express feelings of...anything, really, except those he wishes to set free of a carefully constructed prison. So, when his eyebrows lift with considerable interest, it is for he betting man's benefit. "Indeed? And should I lose, I owe you a favor of your choosing, to be collected at any time." He holds his wine glass aloft but waits for an answer before moving to sip of its contents.

Zakhar checks 'unconsciousness save' at normal. Zakhar is successful.

Zakhar remains capable of fighting.

Zakhar checks 'unconsciousness save' at hard. Zakhar marginally fails.

Zakhar is incapacitated and falls unconscious.

A quiet exchange with Haakon has Medeia laughing as she settles back against the rails gingerly, eyes sparkling. "I'll braid it," Comes her response, sounding like a promise, to him - perhaps less quiet than intended. Her eyebrows lift in ALantir's direction. "Your Highness, I haven't the faintest idea what you mean. I am but a petite lady, born of the Lyceum and trained in all the ways of a courtier. You were never in any danger." Her assurance is offered demurely, her head bowing. Then she turns to watch Zakhar and Sorrel, keeping an ear on other discussions as they happen around her.

Cesare lifts his glass in return, and extends one hand to shake on the agreement, a small smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. But he is very distracted at the spectacle of the Princess and the inebriated eccentric doing their best to hack each other to the ground, so is attention moves there after the bet is solidified.

"Yes, you certainly looked like you were a scrambling chicken at the mercy of a fox." Features were neutral upon taciturn mien, Brigid's eyes however sparked with playful interest as her drink was handed over for Alantir to sip upon, "I hope you'll be ready for tomorrow." Interest returns towards the fighting ring, nodding head appraisingly.

Of course he settles on the damn spoon, leaping at Sorrel screaming something about breakfast then spinning the spoon around to start stabbing with it. Though, ultimately, its a spoon... The fight is over almost as quickly as it started, with the old man getting knocked to the ground and rolling around to stand back up, blood running down from a slice on his arm. He looks to it with a grin, "Ha! Again!" Then slashes with the spoon, getting back up and screaming at Sorrel until he's knocked back down again, and again. Laying upon the ground with a grin and a few cuts, he continues to hold onto the spoon. Even in the last swing, he's still muttering. "Again..."

Sorrel brings her glass with her to the ring, her sword in the other hand. She toasts to Zakhar before the fight, and then she downs her beverage. She hands off her empty glass to a server and then gets ready to face-off against the man, preparing to very artistically and gracefully offer a beatdown with her lovely rosy violet-tinted sword. Her movements are fast, and she darts at Zakhar almost recklessly, as if she fears no spoon.

"And the bout goes to Princess Sorrel!" Norah applauds politely. "Next round: Prince Jasher and Prince Alantir."

"Whitebeard went into the Waters ere he fought, didn't he?" Haakon mutters, watching the drunken mercenary warring with flatware. "Or did he? Looks.. much as he ever does. Ha, he managed to score her once. Course.. now he's getting it rough."

"Is he fighting..." Ryhalt's question is answered by Zakhar, indeed, fighting with a spoon. He helps himself to another drink. It's the good stuff. His clapping for Sorrel's win sounds a little confused.

"Rooster," the Oathlander corrects, accepting Brigid's glass and draining its contents in a single swig. He stands, carefully, and shoves his hand again into his gauntlet. "I'll be ready. I was, after all, riding horses before you could walk," Alantir retorts, flashing a playful smile before pivoting upon heel to return to the ring. Inside, he draws longsword and offers another respectful dip of helm. "It is a pleasure to meet you, your highness."

Cesare puts a hand to the small of Jasher's back, ushering him forward with that little smile still hovering. "See? Now it's your turn to prove your mettle, your highness. Don't let me down." He does not let out one of his awful battle cries for the Thracian prince's entrance to the ring.

Brigid checks composure at normal. Brigid is successful.

Zakhar has left the training yard.

Haakon peers slowly aside at Cesare's screech/squawk of a war cry.

Grady is learning important life lessons over here. Lessons about what an old man can accomplish with a spoon (and what he can't accomplish). Lessons about trusting cider not to be way too alcoholic. All kinds of lessons. He's smiling, though, a slightly goofy smile.

Brigid checks composure at hard. Brigid is successful.

Haakon peers slowly aside at Cesare's Cesare-ness.

Jasher accepts the Whisper's proffered hand for a firm shake, and then slides his coat back to rest the palm upon the hilt of his cutlass, as though in anticipation. He finishes off what remains of the wine in his hand while watching his cousin duel Zakhar, and when it's over, murmurs, "Good footwork. Very good." The glass is set down and then he wordlessly steps away from the gathering to prepare for his own spar. A brief glance is spared for Cesare as he departs. All ease of countenance has been replaced by an expression of extreme concentration as he peels the leather jacket from his form, tosses it on a nearby bench, and unsheathes his cutlass. When Alantir enters and greets him formally, Jasher replies, "A pleasure to meet you, as well, your highness."

Jasher wields a thin cutlass with a razor's edge.

A fight has broken out here. Use @spectate_combat to watch, or +fight to join.

After bowing her head to Zakhar, Sorrel meanders back over in the direction of where she was previously drinking so that she can watch the next match. She nods to Brigid and Cesare, looking rather amused.

Cesare blows a kiss to Haakon. And Medeia, of course. He still has the trident; it kind of matches his outfit entirely too well to take it from him. Perhaps that's why Haakon is side-eyeing him. Wondering if he unintentionally dressed to match the weaponry, or if it's just a godly gift of natural fabulousness.

Alantir checks 'unconsciousness save' at easy. Alantir is successful.

Alantir remains capable of fighting.

Jasher checks 'unconsciousness save' at easy. Jasher is successful.

Jasher remains capable of fighting.

Alantir checks 'unconsciousness save' at easy. Critical Success! Alantir is spectacularly successful.

Alantir remains capable of fighting.

Alantir checks 'unconsciousness save' at normal. Alantir is successful.

Alantir remains capable of fighting.

Jasher checks 'unconsciousness save' at easy. Jasher is successful.

Jasher remains capable of fighting.

Jasher checks 'unconsciousness save' at easy. Critical Success! Jasher is inhumanly successful in a way that defies expectations.

Jasher remains capable of fighting.

Jasher checks 'unconsciousness save' at normal. Jasher is successful.

Jasher remains capable of fighting.

Jasher checks 'unconsciousness save' at hard. Jasher is successful.

Jasher remains capable of fighting.

Jasher checks 'unconsciousness save' at daunting. Jasher is successful.

Jasher remains capable of fighting.

Alantir checks 'unconsciousness save' at hard. Botch! Alantir fails completely.

Alantir is incapacitated and falls unconscious.

There isn't much of a retort towards Alantir, giving a shake of her head, "Good luck, Prince Jasher!" Is tossed out as another drink is found, Brigid settling in to watch the metallic rooster doodle about the ring and there is a sudden burst of laughter. "OH!"

Haakon shouts from nearby, "Good fucking fight!"

Okay - /this/ deserves a howl, and it /gets/ a howl from Cesare, as only someone with prodigious lung capacity and talent at projecting his voice can manage. He applauds wildly, thank goodness his wine glass is empty.

Jasher, unlike Media, engages the knight with a more traditional weapon. For a time, Alantir is confident that he will be able to turn his opponent's momentum against him. Until, of course, he realizes that the Thraxian prince is much quicker, stronger, and resilient than initially anticipated. Combined with the residual fatigue from Medeia's prolonged engagement, he cannot persist. His speed slows. He stumbles. He struggles to match the ferocity of the serpent's assault. At perhaps the most inopportune time, his left knee gives way and he drops, rendering himself completely exposed to a devastating blow.

That was a gripping fight. Norah almost forgets her job for a moment. "Incredible. Truly. It seems that the final round will be a Thrax prince and Thrax princess. Prince Jasher and Princess Sorrel, I look forward to this fight."

Medeia's attention is fully on the impressive display between Jasher and Alantir, cheering on her former opponent loudly. When the Valardin falls, she is disappointed, but still she calls out congratulations to both. The announcement of a Thrax versus Thrax final round perks her up.

The attack is fairly brutal, with both men drawing blood mid-way through their dance. With the dragon prince garbed in hefty rubicund armor, and his opponent in flexible and light leathers, speed and dexterity seems to be on his side for the most part. It matters very little when Alantir strikes a heavy blow against his skull that knocks some sense out of him, the metal of his blade slamming hard against his left ear. The ringing is disorienting, but instead of letting it destroy his will to fight, he uses the pain to drive harder than before. Alantir's knee gives way in the wake of his re-energized assault, and it's the opportune moment that Jasher takes without hesitation to cut his opponent down, ending the spar.

Grady has spent the last couple of fights sipping at his now lukewarm cider and looking increasingly content with life in general and increasingly less cold as a flush comes to his face. But this last fight has his eyes widening slowly over the course of it. He's covering his mouth by the end. Everything else was good fun, but this... this looks brutal. Or at least, it looks brutal to someone with no direct combat experience of his own.

The Oathlander, breathless, coughs. For a time, it is all that he can manage; gasp and groan, mildly disoriented, with palms planted firmly in the snow. "A brilliant display," the knight says finally, unsteadily rising onto his feet. "Thank you, your highness. Truly. Your footwork was impeccable." A gauntlet is used to raise the visor of armet, revealing the Valardin's rugged features and pleasant smile. "Good luck in your next engagement. I look forward to observing." He bows, deeply, and retreats from the ring -- returning slowly to Brigid's bench.

Haakon doesn't applaud- the fresh stitches in one arm prevent such, but he grasps a nearby harpoon in his hale hand and thumps the beer cask repeatedly in enthusiasm, adding a shouted cheer to both combatants. "Best match this yard has seen, yet. Bloody well fought to both!"

Jasher paces in the ring in an effort to recover his breath, though when the Prince of Valardin stands and addresses him, he applies the full measure of his attention to him, and bows respectfully at its conclusion. "Brilliant, indeed, your highness. Very well fought. You would honor me greatly by stepping into the ring again, someday. And thank you." The Thrax prince's shoulder rolls and his head tilts side to side, no doubt an attempt to shake off the pain and prepare himself mentally for the next spar, this time with a beloved cousin.

"Oh my," Sorrel murmurs thoughtfully as she watches the princes fight with interest, sipping from her glass for a moment. She bows her head to Alantir. "Well fought, Your Highness," she says warmly, her accent far more Oathlands than Thrax, and then she looks to the other Thrax here against whom she is expected to face off. "And you, Your Highness. When you have had a moment to breathe," she says to Jasher. "I have been standing here with refreshments. It's hardly fair to start immediately."

"You were saying?" Was whispered loudly, leaning in fractionally with a nudge of shoulder, before back straightened with Oathlander posterity, "Don't worry, I'll make sure to go easy on you tomorrow since you seemed to exert all the energy you might have had on that last fight." Brigid finishes before softening up a touch, "You did well." Is coughed out, taking a fiery imbibement from tumbler glass which is also handed over to Alantir, "I've also a good salve made from an herb called frosthope which will help with any lingering aches and I'll make sure it's sent over." A pause, "Or you could just submerge yourself in snow."

Cesare has obtained more refreshments once the fight is over - water, lukewarm, and a mug of hot spiced cider, which is the least alcoholic alcoholic thing on offer. He still has the trident, though. "Your highness," he says, and offers both to Jasher for his choosing. "I've already begun thinking about your new cutlass. You're going to have to tell me what your favorite colors and motifs are, though." A soft laugh, and he leans in to murmur something quieter.

Jasher accepts the offer of a water and unceremoniously tosses it back. The empty vessel is returned to him with an appreciative nod, which is then side-tracked by a murmur caught just before it's time to begin the next round. "Well, let

Jasher accepts the offer of a water and unceremoniously tosses it back. The empty vessel is returned to him with an appreciative nod, which is then side-tracked by a murmur caught just before it's time to begin the next round. "Well, I suspect this next round won't disappoint. Sorrel is exceptional, and it's been some time since we've had a proper spar." He raises his gloved hand out to beckon the woman over, his lips lifting into a bright grin. "Come knock me down a peg, dear cousin."

A fight has broken out here. Use @spectate_combat to watch, or +fight to join.

Sorrel's comments are reciprocated with a polite dip of chin. Alantir hoists the armet from his shoulders and brings it to rest between sabatons. The cold winter winds sting but nonetheless provide sore muscles and fresh bruises some degree of relief. "I haven't fought someone like that in ages," the knight confesses, resting elbows atop knees. "You could feel it in every swing. Animosity. Fear. Desperation. Things learned not in books or stories but in the company of death." It is a grim realization. At least the exhaustion would guarantee a good night's sleep. Dull grey gaze settles upon the two remaining combatants as they position themselves within the ring.

Cesare settles in to watch the fight, leaning in eagerly with the trident gripped in his hands as though he's going to jump in there himself. And do what, Cesare, distract everyone with how wildly you can swing it around and hit absolutely nothing? It would certainly be a show of some kind. He ends up drinking the cider himself.

Jasher checks 'unconsciousness save' at normal. Botch! Jasher fails badly.

Jasher is incapacitated and falls unconscious.

By the time the fight is over, Grady has been drawn off to the side by his assistant Mortimer, and they're having an intense discussion regarding whether he ought to leave and get tucked into bed. "I assure you! I'm feeling perfectly fine. Wonderful! This has been a de-LIGHT-ful evening." His whole cadence and inflection has gone off. After one, maybe two cups of cider. It just takes Mortimer pointing out to him that he just said 'de-LIGHT-ful' before Grady sees reason. "Did I? Oh. Well. Perhaps we'd better go before this catches up with me."

2 House Deepwood Guards, Mortimer Ridgewattle the Third leave, following Grady.

Brigid checks composure at hard. Brigid is successful.

Brigid checks willpower at daunting. Brigid fails.

The Thrax prince manages to hold his own throughout the first half of the spar, which is probably surprising considering the amount of blood that's trickling down his neck from somewhere beneath the right side of his leather helmet. However, he tires in the second half, and no matter how quick he may be on his feet, Sorrel's blows begin to wear him down, cut by cut. In the end, the cutlass in his sword arm is used merely to parry her oncoming blows, until at last he trips and falls backward, opening himself up to her final blow.

The Bladesong is quite fast and light on her feet, and while she's been drinking, she's had more time to recover her breath. And so Sorrel does take the first couple of hits from Jasher almost carelessly, but uses the fact that he's tired to wear him out completely. The Thrax princess, who likely would not be nearly so dangerous with a blade had she not been born and raised in the Oathlands, takes quick advantage of the Thrax prince's stumble, bearing into him perhaps a bit harder than intended, knocking him down. "Oh!" Sorrel says in surprise, offering Jasher a hand up. "Let me help you."

Ryhalt applauds the last fight with a smile to his sister-in-law, Sorrel. "Fantastic fights, all of them." Looking to Norah and Medeia, he says, "A pleasure to be able to attend one of these for once. It's been an excellent time."

"It is definitely an honor then to fight so worthy an opponent and perhaps you have found a future sparring partner." Eyes drift towards the ring from where they had settled briefly on the armor, looking with briefly furrowed brows towards any swelling that could be detected from such precisely aimed blows. As the combat does heat up and comes to it's final conclusion, there is a shift of seated form to bring hands together in a congratulatory applause, "Spectacular!" Is tossed aloud and a genuine smile actually flourishes, chasing away that lingering ice that usually remains to cause countenance to glimmer.

As the Oathlander shifts to take her leave, a whisper catches her ear that while it doesn't exactly cause features to shift there is a sidelong glance in coy admittance towards Alantir. It keeps a riveting curve of lips that lend a gentle sweetness to a normally unyielding line, a gleam of pearly whites with chin dipping into a nod as sable waves curl against pale cheeks, "You'll have it but I'll need yours in return. Until tomorrow, Prince Alantir." Is offered before a hand is waved in departure, "Thank you for hosting this fabulous event! It has reminded me greatly that I need to train more." This to Norah and Medeia before tossing towards Jasher and Sorrel, "That was beautiful."

A slither of starlight silk and diamond plate accoutrements are paired with the heeled tap of boots as Brigid takes her leave.

Cesare finally hands the trident back over to its rightful owners and steps into the ring as well to help, staunching a trickle of blood with a handkerchief pulled from somewhere or other. There is a brief laying on of hands which probably feels more like a gentle slapping than a true medical assessment for the fallen prince. "Well fought, both of you. Congratulations, Princess! Now, Prince Jasher, we'll get a little bit of stronger drink in you and you'll forget it ever happened until tomorrow when you wake up bruised and hungover."

"It was nice to see you, too, thank you for coming Duke Ryhalt." Medeia gives the Oathlander a bow of her head and a warm smile. "Now that the Duchess has returned to the city, perhaps we can plan a dinner? I haven't seen her in some time." Then she's turning and applaud Sorrel's win. "Congratulations, Your Highness!" Before she moves to collect the prize from the case it is displayed in, she gives Brigid a nod. "It was... A relief to see you." Who says that to someone? Medeia does.

Ryhalt nods in agreement with Medeia. "We should. She wants to catch up with all she's missed in recent months, so I'm sure she'd be amenable to the idea."

Jasher looks mildly stunned, though whether because his head is bleeding or he lost to the Bladesong is hard to discern in this moment. Regardless, the prince accepts her offered hand after shaking some sense back into his head, and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. The steel cutlass had been flung from his hand and clattered noisily in the dirt upon impact, but it can wait. Upon gathering his bearings, he reaches out to carefully pull Sorrel into a cousinly side hug and murmur, "Excellent work, Sorrel, well fought. I could not be more proud." And then he releases her from his grasp so he can collect that discarded weapon. "Thank you, everyone," he calls out, and then makes the slow procession back to the stands to collect that drink Cesare promised. "Thank you. To Sorrel, the winner," Jasher toasts with a refreshed glass of wine in hand, and then he sips from it. "As for the weapon, Softest Whisper, I'll take time to think it over, but you'll have some ideas soon enough. My sincere thanks for your decision to bet against me. It's perhaps the first time I've ever thanked another for it."

Sorrel gets gilded whale leather gorget from PRIZE DISPLAY CASE.

"Ah, you won," Cesare clarifies to Jasher, completely deadpan, "but you also lost. So I believe you also owe me a favor." He leans in to murmur something more quietly, a flash of a grin stealing across his face before he slips over to Medeia and Haakon. "Do not tell her to cut her hair, my lord, you don't really mean it, and her hair is lovely. Although she would of course look beautiful no matter what as we all know." He shakes his head. "Medeia, this has been lovely. It was a delightful end to a long and trying day."

Alantir watches Brigid stand and offer her farewells with an expression that openly conveys disappointment and longing. His gaze lingers upon the dragoon even after she exits, this stupor eventually corrected by another gust of unpleasantly frigid winter wind. He claps absentmindedly and stands, flashing the remaining combatants a sincere smile. "Congratulations, your highnesses, and well fought. Thank you, Lord and Lady Eswynd, for hosting the melee. I hope to participate in another soon." One final bow is given before the Valardin collects his armet and takes his leave.

Jasher checks composure at hard. Jasher is successful.

"Thank you," Sorrel replies to Brigid as the woman turns to take her leave, and she keeps a hand on Jasher just to make sure she didn't hit him too hard. "And thank you for hosting this," she says to the Eswynds cheerfully. "I am sorry that I was tardy, but it was good exercise." She eyes Cesare. "I do not think that you can call it a win if he did not take the prize."

Brigid is overheard praising Alantir.

Brigid is overheard praising Jasher.

Cesare adds, "And tell Loryk if he keeps avoiding me I'm going to start to think he's forgotten all about me and I may cry."

Alantir is overheard praising Jasher.

Brigid is overheard praising Sorrel.

Alantir is overheard praising Haakon.

Alantir is overheard praising Norah.

Alantir is overheard praising Medeia.

Jasher is overheard praising Medeia.

Jasher is overheard praising Norah.

Medeia says, "Cesare, Loryk isn't avoiding you, he's making you friendship bracelets."