Dot
The summer of 1451 has been an unusually wet one in the Forest Kingdom of Cormyr as sheets of heavy rainfall have pounded the countryside day after day for tendays on end. For most, the act of nature has only been a mild annoyance as well-traveled roads become thick with tracked mud and merchants tending roadside stalls are forced to double up on rain flies to keep their offerings dry but for others its a portent of doom and dark days ahead. Stranger still are the report that Cormyr isn't alone in the unseasonable weather as tales of flash floods in the typically bone-dry Anauroch to the north make their way through the kingdom.
Despite many of the local summer festivals being canceled or delayed in light of the inclement weather, the Ebonhawk tourney continues as planned. The three day tourney consisting of a joust, grand melee, and celebratory feast, has attracted a surprisingly large crowd as knights and sellswords from all over western Cormyr have come, eager to prove themselves. Relatively small and not as affluent as its neighbors, it's surprising to see such an event hosted by the Barony of Ebonhawk. In fact, it's been over twenty years since the tournament grounds have seen use.
As you wandered, you've found some success - fledgling demonspawn and wildlife corrupted by their spirits. Their deaths are a welcome balm for the vengeance that's wrapped its way around your heart but it's not enough. You wander further west, further from your ancestral home and the people that abandoned you.
Getting some distance allows you to clear your thoughts and the constant rainfall has turned the roads muddy in a way that reminds you of home. You encounter several travelers along the way. They're anxious at first but it passes quickly enough and you learn that you've crossed into lands claimed by Estelner Ebonhawk of the Ebonhawk tribe.
Two nights ago you took shelter during a particularly fierce thunderstorm. A fallen ancient tree provides the perfect base to build a simple lean-to, enough to keep yourself out of the worst the cold and rain had to offer. Sometime later a small group of human soldiers bearing Ebonhawk livery happened upon your shelter. Unphased by your appearance, they approach begging for protection from Meiliki’s pounding tears. Feeling some empathy for the soft-skinned warriors, you agreed to let them share the lean-to.
Your kindness did not go unrewarded. In the morning, after the worst of the rain had passed, the solider begin packing their things. One of them, barely more than a whelp from what you can tell, mentions the group is headed for their Lord’s castle to attend a joust and tournament being hosted there. Having little else to offer, he asks that you come with them as a guest.
As she read the parchment the room became uncomfortably quiet. Jarred by the silence, you put down the garrison report you had been reviewing and are about to inquire as to the contents of the missive when your mother sat upright and spoke.
“Our neighbor, the good Lord Ebonhawk, is hosting a joust and a feast to follow. It seems he wants us to attend”, she paused for a moment – something uncharacteristic for your mother, she always knew what she wanted. “It seems that if he has resources for an event like this we can only assume he has what he owes this house as well”.
Ebonhawk had fallen on hard times over the past few years. A series of accidents had ruined his spring crop, left his fields barren for almost a year, and his coffers empty. Your mother was swift to offer aid and loans when they were needed most.
“I suppose I will have to attend”, she continued with a sigh. She yawned slightly and stretched her neck in such a way that accentuated its length and sinews (making her appear quite serpentine). ”I would like for you to come along as well - after all, you arranged the terms of the loan”, she looked at you with that guilt-inducing motherly look. “We need to ensure that we are paid what we are owed and not a copper less”.
The following morning, despite the work that awaited your attention, you boarded a carriage with your mother and headed for Lord Ebonhawk’s keep. The weather was still dreary but the heavy rain had slowed to a manageable sprinkle. And, while your mother verbally assaulted the driver who was somehow responsible for the poor travel conditions, your thoughts became occupied the responsibilities ahead of you.
Before you can inquire as to the missive’s contents, he extended it towards you, his graying moustache arched in a slight grin.
Dear Sir or Madam,
You are cordially invited to attend a tournament joust and grand melee to be hosted by the generous Lord Estelner Ebonhawk. The event will take place in the tournament fields adjacent to Ebonhawk keep where, after the winner is declared, a grand feast will be held in the champion’s honor for all invited.Please return a letter with the messenger delivering this noting the number of guests attending and any special accommodations that will be needed.
“We’re hosting a tournament? It sounds like a splendid time”, you concluded handing the invitation back to your father. “But what of the coin we still owe to the Crownsilvers?”
“There is no need to worry about that. It took some time but I called on a few of the smaller fiefdoms that I was letting go lax on their tithes and they’ve paid what they owed, with interest. That’s why I decided to throw this tournament – it is a celebration of the brighter days to come”, he said tucking the letter away into a vest pocket. “Well, that and find you a wife.”
Recognizing your reaction, he hugged you. “I jest”, he teased before releasing the embrace. “Just promise me you’ll seriously consider things. Many of these invitations were strategic. Plenty of the women in attendance are perfectly eligible for marriage themselves”, he continued.
”Oh”, he adds while you're still busy processing his request. ”And I sent those invitations out three weeks ago. The guests are arriving tomorrow.”
Suddenly the door burst open and three men entered the inn. The first, an older man, was dressed in fine clothing and had a ornamental rapier at his hip – an affluent nobleman no doubt. The other two were younger and wore well-maintained chain armor with heavy crossbows harnessed to their backs. All three were drenched from travel in the rain choked streets. The trio approached the bar where the inn’s elderly owner was cleaning.
“Four days provisions for three and enough feed for our mounts”, the man declared.
The elderly innkeeper nodded in understanding and then tottered off for the kitchen.
“And do you have any entertainers in house? I’m attending a feast hosted by Lord Ebenhawk and I committed to bringing entertainment but my bard’s gone missing”, the man explained.
The innkeeper stared thoughtfully for a moment and then extended one rheumatism riddled hand towards you. The nobleman looked to you and the adjacent harp and then shouted with joy.
“Excellent! Tell me son can you play that thing well?” he asked while his guards were already busy picking up your belongings. “Well it doesn’t matter. When your turn to perform comes up everyone will be so drunk it won’t matter how well you can play!”
You sat in silence for a moment, unsure how to respond to the whirlwind of events that had just occurred. The innkeeper returned with a sack of supplies a moment later which one of the guards relieved her of. The grateful nobleman dropped a small pouch of silvers on the table and then beckoned to you.
“Hurry along boy, we have miles to traverse and the carriage can only go so fast in this rain”.
“Lord Ebenhawk invites any and all able-bodied knights to attend his tournament”, the courier explained. “House Hawklin's known for its fighters and you two would be welcome additions to the tournament roster”, he continued as he handed them each a folded piece of parchment from a bundle on the table. “The winner is to be honored in a feast following the competition”.
A few others were handed invitations either as guests or participants. Eventually, the messenger reached your table but immediately moved past it.
“Good day”, you called out making the young man halt in his steps. “I would like one of those invitations. I will be attending the event.”
Retracing his steps, he bowed deeply. “My apologies miss. I didn't recognize your house sigil. Where did you say you were from?"
You shifted your bundled equipment so that emblem painted across the front of your shield was unobstructed. "House Alliel."
The messenger cringes involuntarily and hesitantly extends one of the invitations as if you were a leper. "I look forward to seeing you there... Lady Alliel."
Guest.
The word for one welcome for a night. That was one of the common tongue Vess'Sothek knew. A bit of a misnomer for the language to him though, most lizardfolk neither spoke nor knew much of it at all. Over the seasons, he'd gathered a bit of vocabulary from the select elders and his mother. His recent run-in also helped a bit, yet the syntax was odd, the mercurial combinations difficult for him to comprehend.
Tournament.
This was a word he knew well, for a similar practice determined the leader of the Shadowscale tribe. The strongest led the group, and that strength would be found in one of two ways: a duel from a challenger in the case of a living chief or a tournament among contenders in the case of a chief having passed. The latter resulted in defeated survivors pledging fealty while the former resulted in death or banishment for the failed participant.
From the tales he heard, humans did not seem to choose leaders that way. What does the tournament do then?
Joust was a word he did not know. They have many, many words.
"You guessst I be." The words took him a moment, the accent heavy and the conjugation amiss. "Have a tournament ... why? What isss joussst?" The latter few phrases rolled from his mouth easier.
"The tournament is a celebration and an opportunity for all the lords and ladies to get together and watch their men compete. Most do it to honor their lords, others to prove their mettle in battle, some get in there and swing a blade to impress the ladies", he explains with a laugh while wringing out his socks fruitlessly. "Lord Ebonhawk is earning a lot of good will with this one. The rest of the summer tournaments have been getting canceled on account of the rain."
He stares at Vess for a moment, finally recognizing that Common wasn't his primary language.
"A joust is a battle between knights on horseback", the young soldier explains while fruitlessly wringing out his socks. "They charge at each other with lances and CRASH."
***
For most, the Ebenhawk tournament grounds are impressive. The majority of the space is dominated by three three colorful over-sized canvas pavilions, protecting the main fighting pit, stands, horses, and medical staff protected from the rain. Ringing the three large temporary structures, the tents of the hundreds of squires and servants in attendance with the visiting nobility pepper the land. A few hundred feet away, the stone walls of Ebenhawk Keep stand tall.
The grounds are buzzing with activity as knights and nobility chat excitedly about the competition to come and servants rushes to complete their tasks while avoiding the ever-present rain.
Inflections were more universal a language than syntax. This pup means me no harm.
Mounted combat. I see now.
The lizardfolk listened then shook his head. "Too heavy for horsssesss. And. Clawsss hurt them." He pointed down. A minority even for his kind, Vess'Sothek had powerful claws on his feet as well as his hands. "My land, tournamentsss for might. Ssstrongessst warrior lead."
Normally, it would be the subject of scorn to discuss the tribe's workings with outsiders. They should not have left me. I need a new tribe now.
This carriage is too small.
Crystal looks pensively out the window as her mother berates the driver for going over a pothole in the road, jolting the carriage as it moves. Her hand clenches briefly into a fist before she smoothes it out on her coat.
Lord Ebonhawk must be mad if he's this insistent on hosting a tournament in this weather--I can only imagine the knights and mercenaries in attendance will end up with rusted and squeaking armour by the end of it all. Heh. And Sir Theirin told me that wearing a leather coat would get me killed, even if it was lined with metal--at least my coat will let me move around well enough.
She gives her mother a silent glance, resting one hand on the hilt of the sword at her feet and another on the shield next to it before looking at the ceiling. I could be getting some work done instead of riding along in this rickety excuse for a carriage--
Her thoughts are interrupted by another tirade from Lady Drusilla that she's only half-listening to. Is she still going on about the poor driver? If this is his first day on the job, the gods must have a cruel sense of humour.
"So, Mother, once we've sorted out the matter of the money Lord Ebonhawk owes us, what else is there for us to do?" She asks in a transparent attempt to draw Lady Drusilla's ire away from the driver.
"Oh, I might have explained that poorly. The tournament is only for knights and noble-sponsored sellswords", the young soldier explains a bit awkwardly. "But it's fun to watch and there's lots of food."
***
Despite focusing wrath on the inept carriage driver, Lady Drusilla still manages to flash a disapproving glance at her eldest daughter each time she touches the hilt of her blade.
"We'll come home", the older noblewoman says flatly. "But I suspect it will take some time to get a moment with Lord Ebonhawk. He's likely quite busy with this tournament business."
Seeing your hand drift toward you sword again she audibly hisses. "Do not tell me you want to be part of this mummer's farce? When your father and I agreed to that training it wasn't so that you could roll around in the mud like a fool."
Food.
"I watch and eat food ... with you." The reptile blinked. He put a claw on his opposite shoulder. "Vess'Sothek, Shadowscale." The latter category was more a reflex than a reality. "Who are you?"
"Samuel", the young soldier says as he offers a gloved hand. "Samuel Forrester but you can call me Sam."
The rest of the soldiers say nothing or only half-mumble their names.
"Ah, don't worry about them", Sam says. "They're just grouchy because of this weather. It's got everyone down. You don't get to meet a troglodyte every day."
Lance hoists up the harp he was plucking and gets up bowing low to the nobleman. Looking at the innkeeper he says, "Provisions for four will be needed instead of just three, now that I will be traveling with Lord..." he looks inquiringly at his new employer.
He sighs heavily watching the pouring rain and looking longingly at the warm fire of the Wyvern Horn's Inn. He pulls up his cloak over his head and runs for the mounts following the nobleman and his guards.
During the long ride he wonders what the feast at Lord Ebenhawk's castle must be honoring and contemplates what he knows or has heard of the baron:
Lance recognizes the white osprey on painted on the guards' shield as the sigil of house Stoutbold, known for their seacraft and sailors.
"Sewart", the finely dressed nobleman answers with a distracted wave of his hand. "And you'll be riding in the carriage with me. I can't have my talent arrive at the tournament covered in mud."
It just so happens that Lance knows quite a bit about the House Ebonhawk.
The Barony of Ebonhawk holds the newly-created Warmshores, a hilly coastal country west of Suzail where the western edge of Cormyr meets the Dragonmere. The primary business of Ebonhawk is the growing of crops. The house's military forces consist primarily of a contingent of lancers led by the the house head, Baron Estelner Ebonhawk. Estelner was quite young when he took the Ebonhawk seat and is often seen as a bit of a dunderhead by other members of the Cormyrian nobility. He has been widowed for years and has one trueborn son, Ethaniel Ebonhawk.
The Ebonhawk lands fell on hard times recently when a rash of fires swept through and ruined hundreds of acres of the season’s yield. To make ends meet, Estelner had to borrow money from his neighbors the biggest of these debts being owed to the House Crownsilver.
"I just had the strangest dream Az'zel." Ethaniel yawns as he stretches out on the spot of floor of his bedroom where he fell asleep. "Downright prophetic really. If only we had access to the full capacity of your mind we might interpret it's meaning - although I do believe quite a grand bit of fortune is in store for the pair of us--"
"Fools!" chirps the small bird Ethaniel addresses.
"Indeed, a pair of fools. Anyways, as I said I was at the tournament with--"
"Fools!" comes another shrill chirp.
"No, no I don't know if my father hired any fools for the celebration. But as I was saying--"
"Fools!" Az'zel chirps again, this time more forcefully as though choking on something.
"Yes, I've heard enough about these fools, we'll just have to see when we get to the tourna-- Ah, the tournament is today!" Ethaniel springs up from the floor of his bedroom and makes a mad dash out the door in search of something suitable to wear. "What a fool I am! What ever would I do without you?"
As Ethaniel runs out the door, Az'zel finally manages to spit a completed phrase out. "Fools! Only fools trust dreams!" With a ruffle of his feathers, the thrush flies out after Ethaniel.
Well that's one cover blown. Ah well.
Thank you, sir. You are most kind.
Alusair's words drip with sarcasm before she rallies and says in a much more polite if formal tone. Drawing the man's attention back.
Wait, I should not be so unkind in turn.
She pauses, then continues, offering a small benison.
Be you well upon your journey, may your steps be only as dark as they must, your heart only as light as it must, and your road end as it must. Peace.
The messenger dismissed, she returns to her meal, considering.
The best laid plans. First the horse, now the alias. Ah well, I wondered where I was going to find a new horse, and then a tournament appears but causes me to drop my false name. Farewell Alustari Hamillia, we hardly knew each other. Welcome back oh nameless companion. Providence seems unlikely, but trouble, trouble you can trust, especially if you're an Alliel
She settles her bill, glancing at the other knights and memorizing their faces and the faces of their companion tables as she nods politely and leaves.
At least they'll be in attendance, and perhaps I can discover further clues to this cult. Joining would have been too easy anyways, it's more fun if they try to convert you. Perhaps some idiot will try to rob me in the market. It's that sort of day. Lovely weather.
Alusair wanders.
Crystal briefly closes her eyes and suppresses a sigh. "No, Mother."
Yes, Mother.
"But how do we know Lord Ebonhawk won't try to worm his way out of the bargain?" She turns to Lady Drusilla, her hand resting on the carriage window. She starts thinking to herself--How trustworthy is he?
Alusair's charms do little to mitigate the disdainful vibe the messenger is failing to mask.
She gets a solid look at the knights as they excitedly discuss the event described in their invitations.
***
"Ebonhawk's a fool but not so much a fool that he'd invite his debtors without intending to pay them what he owes and he's got too much honor to try something underhanded", she says mockingly. "That boy of his is just as bad. I pity him almost - only one heir and the boy's head is always in the clouds or buried in a spellbook. I suppose not everyone is fortunate enough to have productive children."
As the woman speaks she looks Crystal's way with the slightest glint of maternal pride in her eyes.
Lance recognizes the white osprey on painted on the guards' shield as the sigil of house Stoutbold, known for their seacraft and sailors.
"Sewart", the finely dressed nobleman answers with a distracted wave of his hand. "And you'll be riding in the carriage with me. I can't have my talent arrive at the tournament covered in mud."
"Thank you Lord Sewart, I am grateful to stay out of the rain."
Lance pulls on his dark green long coat embroidered with gold and runs into the carriage. He is not flaunting the Wyvernspur heraldry, but not hiding it either. He waits to see if Lord Sewart comments on the coat.
Once the carriage is on it's way Lance turns to the nobleman and engages him in conversation oozing charm and wit:
Once they are fully engrossed in light banter, "Lord Sewart the innkeeper may have confused me with a bard, but I am no thespian nor performer. I am however pleased to come to the feast and act the part when called to do so. This feast is a much wanted distraction from the dreary rain drenched days. I thank you for rescuing me from that. What is Baron Ebonhawk celebrating?"
Crystal briefly offers a half-smile before her curiosity gets the better of her.
"Lord Ebonhawk has an heir? I confess, I've been busy with work--who is he?" She finishes her question just as the carriage wobbles again, forcing her to grab onto the window to keep her balance.
The large hunter laughed, a frightening sound for those unaccustomed to it, bass and throaty. "Troglodytesss are bothers. Small. Weak." He smiles and looks at Sam. "Sam. Funny."
Sam's companions seemed to be uneasy, but Vess'Sothek was taking well to Sam, becoming more comfortable with him the more they spoke.
Ethaniel barrels back into his bedroom, still wearing the clothes he fell asleep in. He tears through various piles of dampened and muddy clothing, desperate for something to wear. "If only all the staff weren't at the tournament! I'd be lucky to find even a single clean sock right now." Finally his eyes come to rest on the spellbook lying open upon his desk.
"Perhaps a little luck is what I need..." He rushes over and begins flipping through to a worn and heavily annotated page bearing the titled Az'zel's Numerological Reality Sculpt. 15 minutes and several unnecessarily complicated diagrams later, Ethaniel completes the spell and runs off in search of some new clothes, emboldened by his successful casting.
Lance's effort's yield results as Sewart becomes more and more comfortable in his company.
He frowns when Lance makes his admission and strokes his silver whiskers in thought.
"To be honest, I doubted you were a professional but now you tell me you're no performer at all. That's unfortunate because we're already late and I haven't time to stop at another inn. I suppose we'll have to make due", he says with a shrug and a boyish grin. "As long as you don't utterly humiliate me it shouldn't be a problem. You seem like a learned boy. If you can't pluck a string why not weave a tale?"
The question of Ebonhawk's good fortune sets the older man to shaking his head as he fills two glasses with pungent brandy from an ornate decanter.
"I'm afraid I know about as much as you do. Ebonhawk's never been a wealthy man but there's whispers he's recently come into some coin."
***
"He does. A boy a few years younger than you. He only started living in the keep a handful of summers ago. From what I've heard Lord Ebonhawk kept the boy the away out of shame on account of him killing his mother when he came into the world. I can't say I blame the man really", Drusilla explains casually.
***
"Oh, sorry. You're a dragonborn? skum? saurial?"
"Give me a hint", Sam says after he realizes he's not getting any closer.
***
"I will not embarrass you Lord Sewart. I will just strum the harp while I tell a tale of love, loss and tragic death. It will not be a memorable performance, but will certainly entertain the crowd."
As the subject turns to the Ebonhawk's recent good fortune, "Well I am pleased that their recent good fortune is being spent to entertain us all. I do imagine that the baron's creditors will demand repayment now as well; House Crownsilver will surely be in attendance..."
Lance is subtly trying to learn new rumors about the families and by dropping the Crownsilver name wants to see how Lord Sewart will react and if he has any more gossip to share:
Crystal's face falls. "Oh."
...not what I expected.
That last bit of information appears to have sated her curiosity, for better or worse. Crystal looks back out the window of the carriage and remains silent until the keep comes into view.
This carriage is too damn small.
”Excellent”, the older nobleman says before sipping at his brandy. ”That’s all people want at these sorts of things, a fanciful distraction from the tedium of their own lives.”
”I cannot imagine Ebonhawk invited Crownsilver without intentions to repay his debts. Lord Ebonhawk may have been a bit of a dunderhead in his younger days but there is no way he’d be so foolish as to offend the Crownsilvers. Lady Drusilla is vicious enough on her good days. I’d hate to see her as a neglected creditor. Gods above, I hope she does not attend. That woman is not good company.”
***
Lance sips his brandy putting on sagely airs, "Well I will make sure to stay out of her way if she is in attendance..."
He again checks his memory for any stories or tales he knows about the Crownsilver family:
He will stay quiet for the rest of the ride to the Ebonhawk's Estates.
***
For most, the Ebenhawk tournament grounds are impressive. The majority of the space is dominated by three broad brightly colored over-sized canvas pavilions, protecting the main fighting pit, stands, horses, and medical staff protected from the punishing rain. Ringing the three large temporary structures are the tents of the hundreds of squires and servants in attendance with the visiting nobility. A few hundred feet away, the stone walls of Ebenhawk Keep stand tall as if shielding the event from some unseen danger.
The grounds are buzzing with activity as knights and nobility chat excitedly about the competition to come and servants rushes to complete their tasks while avoiding the ever-present rain. Last minute arrivals continue to trickle in even as the games' opening announcement begins, with noble guests being directed to their tall padded seats far above the muddy earth below.
"Welcome one and all, friends, allies, and honored guests", Estelner Ebonhawk announces as he steps out into the center of the arena. "Thank you for coming despite the troublesome weather to our long due summer tournament. With us, from across all of Cormyr, are some of the bravest and most noble knights to battle for honor and glory and to celebrate the bright summer months ahead."
Lord Ebonhawk laughs as he finishes and the crowd joins him.
"The winners of which will be honored at tomorrow's victory feast within Ebonhawk keep's very walls. Now please join me in welcoming the Ebonhawk house castellan Davos. He'll be explaining the rules for today's tournament."
A tall bony man enters alongside Lord Ebonhawk and bows to the crowd before unfurling a scroll and reading the tournament's rules aloud...
Here comes the usual 'at great risk to themselves' speech. I suppose the seats are good, and no surprise, Thomas of Elba is competing. Brave man at sixty eight, but he still has a steady seat. I wonder where his daughters are in their merchanting that he's managed to enter. Ah well, he's so heavily armored he couldn't hurt himself if he tried.
Alusair is comfortable in her seat, if formally attired. She spends some time simply observing the area, noting familiar faces, then concentrates for some minutes sweeping her divine senses across her section of the stands.
Not that there's likely to be a demon in the stands, but still, a mild paranoia prevents acute wound care as Ellen used to say.
So much talk!
Everywhere he turned, the hunter heard chatter. While he understood a fraction of it, there were three main topics he could surmise. First, the tournament itself. Words for fighting carried easily across tongues as they were often accompanied with gestures or inflections in such a place. He picked-up a few. Impale, that is what our murkdivers do.
Next, there was talk of the various families of the participants. They have many tribes here. They show their scales differently with their bright colors, but they really are here to represent their tribes. Maybe we aren't so different after all... However, there were so many names and symbols, Vess'Sothek could hardly keep track. He did note Sam's finery though. If his wins, maybe I can get a place for myself here.
Lastly was the boasting. Always the boasting. But about what? The laughs and jibes were clear to the lizardfolk, but he failed to get many jokes. For their tribe, diminuitive phrases regarding one's prowess in battle or physical might fit the bill. Here? Why does the warrior dislike his mother riding donkeys? It didn't make sense.
The atmosphere made plenty of sense though. Palpable anticipation was in the air. The moist conditions only helped for Vess'Sothek - after all, that was every day in the swamp. They avoid the mud, but it is home for me.
He cast his eyes to the sky, seeing what the next day would bring.
The towering reptile approached Sam after looking about. "Your tribe win much? Many warriors here fight every season."
Though they give him a wide berth at first, the laborers and servants that are Vess's neighbors in the crowd quickly get accustomed to the towering lizardman's presence.
Sam laughs in response to Vess's question. "I'm afraid not. Lord Ebonhawk's been too busy to groom a champion. I think he was hoping his son learn the lance like he did but that won't be happening any time soon. Ethaniel knows his way around the saddle but his frame's all wrong for swinging a sword, ya know?" The young guard explains with a gesture up at Ethaniel in his seat.
Aaah! The sweet smell of anticipation mixed with a little fear and lots of ale! Despite the weather Baron Ebonhawk is pulling off a successful tourney. I wonder who all are in attendance...
Lance roams around the grounds mingling with the various servants and guards of the nobles and knights in attendance. He makes small talk with each group, commenting on the weather, inquiring about any difficulties encountered on the road and picking up gossip and rumors about each lord and their expectations of the festivities.
He will also look for any of his extended family to see if he recognizes the Wyvernspurs in attendance. Finally if there are any outlandish (Vess, monstrous humanoids, etc.) or foreign visitors (Sembians, Dalesmen, etc.) he will take notice and try and determine their place in the festival:
I would not have believed that slip of a girl could lift that hammer had I not seen it myself. Must be some elf blood there.
Ethaniel, now dressed in slightly rumpled and mismatched finery, sits next to his father. He occasionally tilts his chin downward and whispers something, as if talking to a very small man contained within his pocket.
"You really should've woken me up earlier Az'zel, think of all the fun that could've been had if I'd prepared my spellcasting! Enlarging the horses, greasing up the battlefield..."
Taking a peer at this Ethaniel, the tribesguard pointed let out a scoff. "Him?! You are stronger! Why not you fight for him?"
Maybe they only let the chiefs' sons fight. That would explain how they have all these weapons and armor.
Crystal sits quietly in the stands, hands neatly folded in her lap like a proper lady. She takes a look around the stands, her eyes briefly lingering on the young man seated next to Lord Ebonhawk.
...is he talking into his pocket? Crystal purses her lips and looks away. And he looks like he just rolled out of bed. Unbecoming of an heir to the Ebonhawk name.
She looks around again, this time noticing that there's a lizardfolk near the tourney grounds. Her eyes widen in surprise. NOW I've seen everything. I didn't think the guards would allow one into the keep...
She sneaks a glance over at her mother while waiting for the knights to arrive.
Lance finds the commonfolk friendly and attentive and it seems Lord Ebonhawk's tournament, despite the weather, has done a great deal to bring his people together. The two topics that seems to come up the most are the knight most favored to win the competition, Sir Luke Goldfeather, and the presence of Lady Drusilla Crownsilver and her eldest daughter. Many seem to think some sort of marriage is in the works.
The crowd looks to be largely composed of humans of chondathan descent with a sprinkling of half-elves, dwarves, and smallfolk. A few creatures do stand out, a powerfully built lizardfolk seemingly friendly with one of the Ebonhawk guards, a male copper elf swordsman in full battle regalia, and a hulking bull minotaur sporting an Ebonhawk guard tabard.
***
Alusair finds her neighbors to be polite but not especially chatty compared to the rowdy commonfolk below. She catches a few awkward glances her direction but the ever-present formality keeps anyone from getting overly nosy with her.
***
"All that magic and Az'zel couldn't teach you a spell to keep your clothing in order", Lord Ebonhawk laughs once he reaches his seat alongside his son. "Just promise me you'll have the servant prepare something for in time for the feast tonight."
***
Samuel chuckles and offers a shrug. "That's not how things work around here. I would fight to protect young Ethaniel if it was necessary but I'm just a house guard. Only knights can fight in the tournament."
***
While most of the nobility seems to be attentively listening as the rules of the tournament are described in detail and each knight is announced, Crystal finds that her mother's attention is wholly focused on the crowd.
She glances at Crystal with a knowing look in her eye and leans over ever so slightly to speak in a whisper. "We certainly are in eclectic company. Lord Ebonhawk looks to have invited half the kingdom."
Alusair watches the crowd as well, her eyes drifting over the Ebonhawks and the Crownsilvers, then smiles slightly. He gaze catches on Drusilla's, and she adopts a puzzled look at that fierce glower. She then turns to her neighbor breaking eye contact, resuming her discussion.
I'm sorry, thought I saw an old friend. Did I hear your son was riding today? What are his colors?
The lizardfolk let out a sharp exhale through his teeth, clearly unhappy with the response. "Rule is dumb." Then he thought a moment. "You not a knight? You look like knight."
After Sam's response, he gave him an close once-over before moving to do so with the nearest knight. What is the difference?
"Indeed." Crystal whispers back. "Is that before or after you include the lizardfolk on the grounds?"
She takes another look around, briefly noticing a lady in the crowd who jerks her head away, looking at her neighbor. Crystal's hand briefly clenches into a fist before she relaxes. She has the look of a knight about her.
She finds herself growing impatient as Castellan Davos goes through the rules of the tournament. She starts tapping her foot.
Lance is fascinated by the 'dangerous monstrous humanoids' in the service of Lord Ebonhawk and will make discrete inquiries amongst the 'normal' guards, asking questions like:
"Will the hulking bull minotaur or the powerfully built lizardman participate in today'a tourney? Have they somehow been knighted for services performed for Lord Ebonhawk? How long have they been in service for the Lord? What do they call themselves?"
He also makes inquiries into the copper elf, and Sir Luke Goldfeather. Are the rumors that Lady Crownsilver plans to marry her daughter to the knight who wins the tourney or something completely different?
"He is" Lord Thaddeus Blester says in reply. "But I can't say I expect him to go very far, he's nearly blind in one eye!" the enormously fat man explains with a laugh that sets his chins jiggling. "But it makes him happy so who am I to discourage it. That's him there, dressed in green and gold. Keep your lance up boy!"
He pauses to consider the young woman he's chatting with. "I'm sorry miss, I don't recognize your colors. What house did you say you were from?"
***
Sam thinks long and hard for a way to explain nobility to his reptilian guest. "Knights are men with noble blood - like royalty. My father's a fisherman and my mother's a seamstress, I can't be a knight."
***
"You're right, half the kingdom and a chunk of the stinking swamp", she says with a bit of a smirk at her daughter's correction.
***
Asking around Lance learns that none of the three obvious outsiders are participating in the competition. The bull minotaur goes by the name Brox and is actually the master of Ebonhawk's house guards and years-long companion of Lord Estelner himself. He's known for his fierce sense of honor. How the bull and Lord Ebonhawk met remains unknown. The lizardman is named Vess and is the guest of one of Lord Ebonhawk's guards, Samuel.
The joust has wrapped up, with Sir Luke emerging the victor, by the time he manages to learn anything about the elf and even then it's only that his name is Zael'anis.
***
A few hours later the joust is over and Sir Luke Goldfeather emerges the victor. He does a victory lap around the increasingly muddy arena while the audience cheers. He ends his circuit in front of the stands below Alusair and extends a blood red rose up to her on the tip of his lance. The gesture makes the audience's cheering instantly double in intensity.
Jugglers, acrobats, and fools emerge to entertain the crowd as the equipment used for the joust is disassembled and removed from the arena in preparation for the grand melee.