The Team Melee

An overnight thunderstorm has dampened the grounds of the palace meadow, but not the spirit of the people of Gesarien and outlying regions who have returned to the lists in even greater numbers. The sun has started to break through in patches and a light breeze scuttles over the grounds and stirs the frock of the clergy, the tunic edge of the yeoman and the veils of the ladies. As per usual, troubadours and vendors wend their way through the crowd, the voices of the first pleasing to the ear and those of the latter setting up quite a clatter for the former to contend with.

Overnight, the city has adopted the young Tibault of Gallerneault as their common son and, fortified with their pride in their staunch and stalwart class, the people have arrived ready to allow the nobles the day. Wagers are made as the knights who kept themselves from the archery tournament now appear in the splendor of their mail which gleams off and on with the scuttling of the crowd. Plumes and pennant stir in the breeze as folks of all classes once again return to the lists of Gesarien and forget their daily worries.

The common class may not be participating, but the group melee has always appealed to the masses as a show of brutality and grace in equal parts, and so they mill gladly about the grounds searching for the best vantage point.

The competitors mill about as well, not nearly as cheerful as the archers were the day before, instead choosing to size up the men that will be both competitor and companion in the day's event. One man, wearing the diving falcon symbol of County Veraux, stands near the middle of that throng, where he studies his sword while an attendant sees to this knight's armor. Known to those of Duchy Chaveaux at the least, he is Borsard de Veraux, elder son and heir of the Count, brother to the Marquis Alain.

Armand de Chaveaux makes a rather unspectacular entrance into the lists, wearing what appears to be old and tarnished armor that has seen its better days. His helmet, which used to sport a plume, now has an empty socket at the top where said fathers used to sprout. His horse, however, is a fine one. A chocolate brown charger of magnificent size and spirit who paws the earth and snorts energetically as the young lord reigns him to a halt at the southern end of the lists.

Fashioned in bright mail and hand placed upon the hilt of a blade at his side, the Count de Soncerre seems more at home in the thick of the action. The blue Mirvil stag rears up on the crest of his mail.

A crowd of commoners enter in and move to some of the stands, acting as escort for the triumphant archer of yesterday's event. He is given mead and ale and all the food he could possibly eat...in fact, the youth still seems to be celebrating with the others. He's probably more than a little bit drunk, but he's in a jubilant mood, waving and smiling and chatting with whomever wishes. The baldric is still draped about his shoulder and the horn still about him...emptied of its coins. Upon noticing the heir to County Veraux he seems to sober up, gently pushing away another offer of mead to watch this contestant in today's event.

After the surprising display of the young archer the day before, one might expect an even larger number of Gallerneault to be in attendance, but it appears to be the exact opposite. Probably not surprising to some, the Count is nowhere to be seen as his lady life arrives with only a couple of men in armor and wearing the green and white of the County. There are a couple of guards in attendance, two handmaidens and a few other members of the county attending with Melisse. The men fighting this day are given a few words, likely of encouragement, from the Countess before she and the others continue on to their seats.

It seems, in contrast to Gallerneault, that County Veraux has turned out in force to support their sole entrant. A full contingent of the Knights of Veraux accompany the nobility of the County. The count himself has even chosen to attend, despite persistent rumors of his failing health. Indeed, he does appear less than hale, walking with the aid of a cane and the arm of an attendant. The de Veraux make their way toward their seats at a pace to match their Count's.

Unlike yesterday's disturbance, the contingent from Mirvil arrive early to the grand melee, to show support to their entry, the Count de Soncerre. Their Duke, Durand, stands close to the sidelines, surrounded by countrymen, Captains, and guards. Indeed, even Prada, the runner up in the archery contest stands near the Duke, to watch the show before them. From a warlike Duchy, there are many whispers circling the commoners and the nobility, alike. Why has not Durand stepped forward to lead his troops? Did he not make a name for himself in the border clashes before he was risen to his present title? Whatever his reasons, the Snake of Mirvil is here dressed in plain livery, preparing to give support and attention.

The murmuring of the spectators grows as more and more knights appear on the lists below, gathering in groups mostly based on faction and talking quietly amongst themselves. It appears that two knights, brothers as may be determined by those close enough to not the resemblance, are representing Gallerneault. Armand and Borsard de Veraux are there for Chaveaux. Armor flashing gallantly, Count Cyon de Soncerre is noted in the group as well as some other men of Mirvil, famed for their prowess in Melee.

Cyon walks about the grounds, his eyes inspecting the area for every detail, and taking time to carefully consider the other men who are gathered about. Cyon immediately notices the entrance of the Duke and his party, and he makes his way over to where the man stands to put in his greetings.

As the Count de Veraux makes his way to the canopied stands, Tibault stands, moving a bit uneasily from the commoners stands towards the Countess de Gallerneault, if he is permitted near her. As he passes, he gets a few slaps on the back of congratulations, a few more handkerchiefs stuffed into his hands...most likely another tankard of ale and a cake thrust onto him as well.

Smaller in stature and in breadth than the armored individuals, decidedly more curvaceous, Joanna de Chaveaux meanders through the lists, offering words of encouragement to as many of the competitors as she can address. A touch of a hand here, a dazzling smile there...she greets each man cheerfully, charmingly, ensuring that the one individual she sees most directly is Borsard. And when she does so, offering a quiet salutation, she does so with a regal air that seems reserved for him in specific. Even if she stands before him but briefly, he has little choice but to address her or ignore her.

A gaggle of trumpeters and heralds arrive on the scene, keeping back for the moment until Joanna de Chaveaux finishes her greetings. The Duchess, of course, as soon as she is seen, is greeted with loud cheers from the crowd who show their appreciation of the holiday they are getting from the drudgery of their everyday lives.

Armand, meanwhile, watches his sister and Borsard closely, his steed sidestepping anxiously in the growing crowd of the lists.

Melisse greets the approaching Tibault with a polite smile and a nod of her head in his direction. When he is close enough so that she need not shout, she speaks. "I had not the chance to congratulate you yesterday, Tibault, for such a fine show, though I doubt very much the Count shares in my appreciation for your fine shooting." Her eyes glance over him, noting the number of handkerchiefs stuffed onto his person and her smile brightens. "It seems to have quite enjoyed yourself and your success, Tibault. It surprises me not that you were not seen at the manor last night. I hope you have not squandered all your winnings on ale and women."

Borsard bows deeply to Joanna, as is proper to one's liege. "Blessings of the sun and moon upon you, your Grace," he says in a deep, dry voice. "Your presence here brings light to us all." While the words are nice enough, he bears little more emotion than might a stone. He does not smile, nor does he frown. He simply... is.

"Didn't have to..." Tibault murmurs, the evening of drink and debauchery pretty much returning his country accent. His mind may be sober now, but his body isn't yet. Sitting unsteadily, he plucks at a few of the handkerchiefs and blinks, grinning broadly at the Countess, "Thank you, M'lady...and I can assure that hardly a coin is left. Threw 'em to the crowd..." doesn't she remember that?

Unlike yesterday, when Alain accompanied the Duchess to the tournament's event, today the Marquis has joined his infirm father. He pauses to take a long look toward Joanna and his brother, expression as neutral as he can keep it. Hints of worry, or perhaps distrust, worm their way onto his features, but he continues on with the Count of Veraux silently.

"Why, my Lord Borsard," not 'Sir Borsard, no, but his more pedestrian title, "How kind of you to say. Good luck today. I an certain you will do as best you may." Joanna flashes another one of her white-toothed smiles, then quits the lists so she may stand someone less hazardous. A sideways glance is shot toward Armand, her lips pressed together briefly and fretfully, before she continues on.

As Joanna moves to her seat in the special canopied box reserved for her as in yesterday's event, she is handed a golden baton...the stick, that when waved will signal the end of the melee. Also at this time, the trumpeters march forward and give a longwinded fanfare, causing the crowd to rustle with excitement. The lead herald then steps forward and makes the following announcement.

"Oyez Oyez Oyez! Her Grace Joanna, Duchess of Chaveaux welcomes you to this, the second day of the Tournament of Lilies. All knights competing in the group melee are to report to me at once with the name of one man in the group they wish to see as a captain! The two knights with the most votes shall be the team leaders." He pauses, sucking in a big breath before continuing, "The leader of the winning team, as judged by skill and attrition, shall receive 500 silver to be kept or divided among his men as he decides. Further, each man on the winning side will receive a medallion of gold commemorating their victory on the lists of Gesarien!"

Pushing past his guards and his Captains, Durand approaches his cousin, reaching out to take Cyon's armored hand in his own. The delight in his eyes is as evident as the spring in his step, as the normally reserved Duke continues to throw off the cares of his Duchy for the festivities. His grasp is animated, as he says, "What do you make of the competition, good cousin? Worthy of our attentions?" Perfectly in his element, the Duke nods his head past Cyon towards the Mirvil soldiers who have entered, looking past Cyon for their personal greetings.

It appears that the Countess had missed that little display as she was leaving the field. Melisse blinks as if one startled but finds her voice easily enough. "You *gave* your money away?" she asks with disbelief in her voice. "No wonder your friends were so eager to buy you drinks last night." The way in which she says the word friends sounds anything but complimentary.

Gripping the Duke of Mirvil's hand, Cyon grins slightly and glances back towards the competition. "I have no doubt than many are well worthy of our attention. There are some I would rather be on our side. We shall truly see when the weapons come free." He takes a slight step back and gives a bow to his Cousin. "It begins." He drops his hand down onto the hilt of his sword and makes his way back towards the others.

Each knight approaches the lead herald who dutifully records that man's choice for captain on tablet kept by his assistant. The crowd goes restless with the anticipation of who shall lead each of the miniature armies into battle. It looks as if there are eight knights. The brothers from Gallerneault, Armand, Borsard, Cyon and two of his handpicked men from Mirvil and an eighth, a knight errant who has asked the time-honored courtesy of keeping his identity secret so as not to draw upon himself the sin of vanity for his deeds.

After close consultation, the herald finally steps forward and announces, "The leaders of the two teams are Borsard de Veraux and Cyon de Soncerre! Sirs! Pick your teammates one at a time, beginning with Count de Soncerre!"

"I kept some for m'self..." just a handful, but it felt like the right thing to do. But he changes the subject, gesturing towards the Count de Veraux, "That's the House...isn't it?" He recognized the standard immediately..."He's the head of it?"

Taking a couple moments, the Count de Soncerre quickly inspects the possible choices. Finally he lifts a hand and points at one of the men he brought from Mirvil. He choose him once, and chooses to keep the men he can trust close by.

Melisse is distracted a moment by the naming of the captains and misses much of what Tibault says. His gesture catches her eye, though, and she turns to look in the direction of the Count de Veraux. "What house?" Then something dawns on her and she looks as if she was suddenly enlightened. "Oh ... yes Tibault. It is." The Countess doesn't dwell too long on the Veraux contingent though, she's more interested, at the moment, on the selection of the teams.

Borsard, for his part, inclines his head gracefully to the herald. On the other hand, as he studies his choices, he wears a disdainful look. After some consideration he nods to one of the Gallerneault brothers. "You there. The taller one."

Cyon doesn't hesitate in taking his other man from Mirvil as his second choice.

The other Gallerneault fellow, Armand and the knight errant wait expectantly.

Little surprise there. Borsard snorts loudly at Cyon's choice, and walks over to study the anonymous entrant. "You will do, I suppose. We are only fighting Mirvil, after all," he comments, glancing toward Cyon and his contingent with that same disdain.

The a murmured buzz sweeps through the crowd. It looks as if the de Mirvil contingent will be forced to chose a knight loyal to Chaveaux.

Joanna leans closer toward Alain as the selections begin, speaking to him discreetly.

The Count of Veraux shakes his head just slightly at his elder son's comment, but whatever he might have said is drowned out by a fit of coughing. Alain is caught mid-reply to the Duchess and turns instead to attend his father, who waves off his younger son's worrying irritably.

Cyon offers the tiniest of smirks and a dark glance towards Borsard. He doesn't offer a comment in reply though. He may be slightly surprised at the remaining choices, but it doesn't show in his face. He takes a moment to inspect each of them quietly, and then raises his hand, finger aimed at Armand.

Tibault leans close to Melisse, his clothes smelling very much of the taverns he frequented during the evening, "He doesn't look well." Hazel eyes remain on the Count even though the melee choices are going on on the field.

Throughout this entire exchange, Durand remains silent, standing amongst his small crowd. Their gasps of astonishment at having to take a Chaveaux into their midst is audible. Cries of "False!" are quickly hushed by the Duke, turning a scowling face upon his court members. At Cyon's point, Durand hollers, "Good choice, my Lord!" The men of Mirvil...whether standing with Cyon, or surrounding Durand, all smile...rather arrogantly.

Melisse keeps her eyes on the field, a somewhat concerned expression on her face. Her lips half-frown and her brow furrows for while her men fight together, the Duchess' brother might fight with Mirvil. So lost in the choices on the field is the Countess that she forgets about the Count de Veraux. "They all look well, Tibault, or else they would not be foolish enough to take the field."

Joanna, whose attention had been turned toward the Count as well and worriedly so, diverts her gaze at the outcries and blinks, nearly dropping that golden baton in her fingers as she look in the direction Cyon is pointing. A smile is conjured, but it seems...a trifle constrained.

Spurring his charger lightly, Armand makes his way over to the Mirvil contingent, the crowd gasping at the turn of events. Of course, they love surprises, so a crazed cheer goes up. Armand keeps a rather neutral expression on his face, nodding in silence to the Count as the other Gallerneault brother joins his sibling, Borsard and the knight errant.

The teams having been chosen, another fanfare is heard and the knights are asked to assemble on either side of the field, Borsard's group to the north, Cyon's to the south. An official near Joanna whispers to her that, once the men are in place, she should wave the baton to start the melee.

For the first time, Borsard de Veraux shows some emotion. A grin, directed to Cyon. "If you wish to saddle yourself with a boy..." he murmurs, nodding to the other Gallerneault. "My Lords, may the god shine his favor over us," he says to the men assembled. "To the greater glory of the god of battle and Avanne!" he calls, lifting his sword in salute.

Armand de Chaveaux stiffens visibly in his saddle when called a boy. Then, after a moment of stillness, he spurs his horse a bit harder than necessary, taking up a place on the southern end of the lists, and drawing his sword.

Biting his lip, Tibault hesitates only a moment before he gets up and begins to move towards the Veraux contingent, his target being the Count. He's ill...there may never be another chance for this...and he has to know. Hopefully, with all that is going on below he won't be apprehended.

Cyon shakes his head slightly at Borsard's words, standing tall and inspecting the two teams for a moment. "Good fight, sir." Is all that Cyon offers to the loud knight and he turns with his group towards the southern end of the field, left hand falling on his sword hilt and pulling it loose.

Looking one final time at her brother, Joanna smiles more broadly and raises the baton so that it glimmers broadly in the daylight. "Make ready, good warriors all," she cries out to those on the field, "and show the honor and skill that brings glory and pride to Avanne."

All on foot, the men of Borsard's team take their places at the northern end of the field, the others drawing their swords and making ready to go on the attack. Borsard holds himself calmly, his broadsword held before him with seeming casualness.

As the baton is waved, a cloud hurries past the sun and the yellow metal gleams brilliantly for a moment. The crowd goes into a hush as the thunder of hooves fill the air, the two teams charging for each other.

As Justien of Gallerneault joins his brother they engage in a bit of shoulder slapping and laughing before following their captain for the day.

With the blue and silver stag of Mirvil emblazoned on his chest, Sir Rabel of Meadowdowns turns on his horse and follows his Captain to the southern end of the field. The massive knight, first chosen of the Mirvil warriors, rides by Cyon's side, speaking to him of strategy over the crash of hooves on the wet ground.

Joanna mumbles, as she lowers the baton, "Armand, if you break so much as a fingernail I will have your guts for garters."

It seems Armand has a bone to pick. As his chocolate charger races across the field, its hooves throwing up great globs of mud, the teenager makes a straight course for the opposing captain, Borsard. His sword is raised to make a sweeping cut if he can get within striking distance.

Cyon takes little time to be on the move when the baton is waved. He is the only member of his team on foot, and he jogs forward, eyes on the opposition. When he nears, he slows down and makes it a walk towards the others, letting the other Mirvil men ride in to engage the combat fully.

Borsard seems almost amused by Armand's charge, and he stands his ground, waiting for the young Chaveaux to reach him before making his answering blow. The others of his team fan out to draw the charges of the opposition.

Armand closes with the knight from Veraux, his blade arcing through the air to come crashing down toward the much larger knight, his horse never losing speed. An audible growl can be heard from the Duchess' brother, signaling the force of his attack. Unfortunately for the young man, Borsard meets his blade with his own and turns it neatly and both lord and horse fly by, neither man wounded.

Joanna lets out an audible sigh of relief as Armand makes good his first pass, closing her eyes as she sags backward on her seat. She seems, by and large, a bit grayer than she did the day before, perhaps owing to the fact the event is decidedly more dangerous than simply shooting at targets.

If he's not stopped, Tibault pushes his way towards the Count de Veraux and gives a bow, "My Lord...may I have a word with you, please?" The accent is a little less obvious as he makes a conscious effort to control it this time.

Cyon lines himself up with the unidentified knight and quickly moves into range and an efficient attack pose. The Count is smooth on the battle field and his balance is precise. He controls his blade easily and attacks left handed. He engages his opponent quickly with some questioning slashes, not offering any openings.

The knight Rabel motions to the fourth Mirvil warrior, indicating a charge at the two flanking Chaveaux soldiers. Leaning forward on his prized horse, the greatly sized Rabel spurs his mount forward towards his hated enemies. It has been decades since the borders between Chaveaux and Mirvil were taken away by the crown, and equally decades since the two Duchies were allowed to war with each other. Thus, it is with great enthusiasm that the two clash at tournaments, and mock combats, seeking to slake their inhibited bloodthirst. Rabel, standing in his stirrups, brings a huge sword down upon his Chaveauxan opponent, who deftly counters the blow with his shield. The unnamed Mirvil soldier does not do nearly as well, forced down to the earth by his erstwhile opponent, and made to yield at sword point.

Justien, the larger of the two Gallerneault brothers begins his celebration at the fall of the Mirvil combatant. Shouts of "Chaveaux!' are heard, mostly from Justien, while the other half of the family duo, Marcin, reigns in his horse and turns, preparing a second attack against Rabel. As Rabel did, he rises in his stirrups and raises his sword. Rabel counters and deflects the blow with his shield, but with considerable force behind it that Marcin is taken by surprise and sent tumbling to the ground. Amidst groans from the stands, and yells from Justien, Marcin yields to the Mirvil knight.

Ah...the clash of steel, the pound of hoof, the flying mud...and best of all getting to see those noble types whack each other in the name of chivalry...the crowd is loving it! They gasp, cheer, bemoan the fallen and generally make their presence felt as another imaginary, communal knight on the battlefield...sometimes fighting for this side, sometimes for that. After half an hour of intense and fierce battle, only two are left, however.

Of the remaining knights, Armand manages to get a yield from Justien after the unfortunate Gallerneault slips in the mud. Cyon, for his part, looks evenly matched with the knight errant for a long while. Eventually, however, the Count's endurance prevails, and the knight errant, wishing to survive uninjured for the joust on the morrow, yields. Borsard for his part, has made quick work of Rabel in the intervening time, Leaving only he, Cyon and Armand, who has been knocked from his horse, on the field. Armand studies the situation for a long moment, then goes to touch the fence, disqualifying himself and leaving only the captains on horseback to finish the melee.

The crowds reaction to Armand's withdrawal is mixed. Half seem to think it the honorable and chivalrous thing to do...and cheer that the man should have such honor as to allow the captains their moment of solo glory, to fight man on man. The other half seem to think it craven and hiss the young de Chaveaux for abandoning his teammate on the field. Cries of "Treachery!" can be heard from this faction.

There is a momentary cheer from the Gallerneault contingent as Justien unseats a Mirvil, but the groans quickly follow as Marcin is toppled, and then his brother. Angry shouts come from some of the Gallerneault guards as Armand forces the second brother to yield. "Traitor!" is shouted in the heat of the moment from one man, and then a second.

Treachery? Joanna, who has like many risen to her feet to see the remainder of the combat with trembling excitement, glares in the direction of the crowd at these slanderous remarks. "No disgrace lies in fighting honorably, for they are all men of Avanne," she notes before turning back.

Borsard, meanwhile, salutes somewhat stiffly the man he must now face, his expression stony and his manner determined. If, that is, he can be said to have so strong a visible emotion as 'determination'.

After facing a fair opponent in the unidentified Knight, Cyon takes a moment to catch his breath and watch the action quickly unfold around him. He watches Armand take himself out of the contest with a neutral expression, but when he catches the man's eye he gives him a small nod. He lifts his sword again and slides back into an attack pose, tipping his sword slightly downwards in a salute to Borsard and then advancing with surprising quickness.

The bloodless Snake of Mirvil, throughout the entire competition, has remained quiet and still, once again assuming his pose of the emotionless serpent. His hands clench the fist, as he watches each move with the eye of a trained warrior. Unlike the crowd, he does not take this competition as merely a game. It is a war, with political moves inside political moves. The rest of the Mirvil nobles roar with each success, and cry foul with each defeat, but Durand continues his quiet vigil, until the last moments of the fight.

Melisse remains on her feet, giving applause to her cousins even though each has yielded in the melee. "Well fought!" she cries, trying to drown out the angrier shouts from some of her guards who feel that Armand should not have forced the yield. They appear more caught up in the war of the duchies than the simple sport played out today.

Armand seems neutral to the reaction of the crowd, and unlike the man with the broken leg, survives for the passage of arms on the following day. Exiting through the northern gates of the palisade those seated highly enough can see his squires come to attend upon the young man and begin unfastening his armor.

The nobles are too caught up in the fight to notice Tibault's bow, so he remains by their pavilions, alternately watching the melee and the Count de Veraux. Why anyone would want to beat themselves senseless is beyond him...at least archery is about skill.

The blade of Borsard is raised and meets with the oncoming attack from Cyon. The two make a handful of careful slashes at each other, and then the sword play starts to pick up. The Count is fast on his feet and keeps his eyes locked constantly on his opponent, his sword dancing easily to stop all attacks, and they striking back at the Knight. It is an impressive show, but it doesn't last long. Cyon nearly makes a mistake and just gets his sword down to block a blow to the body from the night, but he recovers quickly and drives his blade against Borsard's sword hand. The weapon soars into the air and hammers loudly against the fence. The Count steps back and lowers his blade towards Borsard, accepting his withdrawal.

The crowd cheers loudly for the puissance and prowess shown by the Count, many clambering to their feet despite their feelings for his liege lord. Those who support Mirvil anyway are especially clamorous in their exultations, stomping their feet whistling and generally showing their approval in the noisiest possible ways.

A bright and trilling fanfare signals the end of the event and the tournaments two grand martial walk quickly out to the field, approaching Cyon and asking him to step before the Duchess to receive his prize.

Joanna cheers as well, no matter from whence comes the victor. She waves the baton again, calling for a halt as the trumpets sound, then exchanges baton for prizes as she awaits the arrival of the victor. And this time her smile seems unrestrained, genuine too.

Melisse remains on her feet even when Mirvil wins the day. While she doesn't join in with the boisterous cheering of some of the other spectators, she does applaud the Count's skill. When Cyon steps forward to receive his prize the Countess ceases her clapping and waves her two men over to offer congratulations of her own, though without any tangible prize such as coin or ale.

As Joanna decides to be magnanimous, so does Durand. While the collective Mirvil nobles cheer and holler for their champion, Cyon de Soncerre, the Duke applauds as he would a proud champion, not showing a trace of smugness. He crosses the field, escorted by a few guardsman, even at this moment, and awaits to the side of his cousin, to congratulate him once Joanna has finished with him.

Removing his helmet and sheathing his sword, the Count gazes briefly around at the cheering crowd and acknowledges them with a nod of his head. The man even wears a rare smile. He turns and strides towards where the Duchess waits, showing no signs of the fevered combat he just took part in. He bows when he arrives before Joanna. "Your Grace."

"Your Excellency," iterates Joanna gently, "accept from me these humble tokens of our esteem for the prowess exhibited today on the field of combat. Surely the hearts of Avannais are the stouter for knowing such skill and honor stands ready to defend what is right and true, not only in your acknowledged prowess but in the strength of those who have fought equally bravely and stalwartly at your side this day." She leans forward and touches a gentle kiss to either of Cyon's cheeks, then presents the prize.

Still damp with the sweat of the battle, but having been relieved of his armor, Armand has made his way around the outside of the lists to appear just behind his sister in her appointed place of honor. He offers a nod of respect to the leader of his team as Joanna speaks with him and bestows the bag containing 500 silvers and a small chest in which are enclosed the 5 golden medallions commemorating the victory.

A final round of cheers is offered up into the sky, now free from clouds, by the citizens of Gesarien, noble and commoner alike. Cyon and Borsard receive great attention in particular as flowers of great variety are thrown onto the field. The former, in particular...perhaps for his comeliness, or perhaps because he seems the less stern of the two can turn and make eye contact with many a maiden in the stands, willing to lower her veil and try her charms on such a good catch as a brave count.

"The entire team was brave, as was the opposition. It was an honor to represent." The Count accepts the prize, and gives another bow to Joanna and a nod to Armand. "Well fought." He offers. He then steps away, but not far to receive the greetings of Durand. The prize and medals will surely be distributed soon.

As there is no further activity planned for the lists, the crowd begins to disperse with much noise of merrymaking. The will pour back into the town proper where the streets are packed with a variety of entertainers, merchants and less virtuous sellers of wares. And so the great party continues, perhaps the wilder for the realization that there is only one final day of revelry to be had after this.

Borsard is a gentleman about his defeat, of course, a good sport and noble knight, and perhaps the dark smile he wears on his way off the field of combat is simply indicative of his typical mood and not representation of his reaction to Cyon's victory.

With an open hand, Durand once more greets his cousin, this time as the day's champion. "Cyon, that was brilliant work you made against them. It was quite impressive, quite impressive indeed." The words are overly formal, almost ritualized, as the Duke congratulates Cyon on his victory.

A couple of the Gallerneault guards approach the brothers, stuffing a few coins in their hands and clapping them on the shoulders. "You'll get them next time," she heard quite often as the men discuss which bars to visit and how much ale they'll need to drown their disappointment. Melisse watches them go, giving Justien, the closest to her, an brief pat on the arm. She follows soon, but not to the taverns. Her only destination is her home, with handmaids in tow.

Cyon accepts the hand of his Duke and Cousin, nodding his head. "Too kind, your Grace. But, we had a strong team and did what had to be done." His words are also quite formal, and are punctuated as he reaches out to catch a flower which was thrown down from above. "Never see anything like this after true battle, though."

A more genuine grin finds Durand's face, as he looks down at the flower in Cyon's hand. "No, you would not. Either the wounded tent or the treaty table would be your prize. Flowers don't come for weeks after your war." Leaning forward, the Duke places a friendly hand on Cyon's shoulder, and says, quietly, "See that you enjoy yourself, tonight. It may be the last time for celebration that we may have."

Joanna watches the two men of Mirvil from a few paces away, tapping her cheek pensively with one forefinger. Her mind is either upon what has been discussed close by with Cyon and Durand or a thousand miles beyond. Either way, she stands near Alain and remains silent.

"I'm afraid you may be right. But, I will see to having a good night." He hefts the prize winnings. "And I'll see about passing these out so the others can as well." The often solemn Count is smiling as he watches the last of the public disappear into the streets, then glancing around to see where the other team members have disappeared to.