For months now, since midwinter eve, news has spread and excitement has grown across the realm. King Haldric will host a royal tourney at the bridge and village of Hesards Ford. All lords and ladies of the land are invited to celebrate the Kingdom and put petty differences aside.
In every town, village and where people meet the news in the past few months has focused on little else.

Knights, warriors and archers will head from far and wide to test themselves in competitions of archery, athletics, horsemanship and combat. The King, the rumour has it has put up the biggest purse ever to be had at a tourney. The prize for the winner of the mass melee is the famed relic, the holy blade of Saint Akturian

Blacksmiths, labourers and merchants have traveled from Albion, and afar, to the Fair. Three days of celebration are promised to mark the end of Spring and start of Summer.

The choice of Hesards Ford is no accident, the tiny village lies close to the powerful Osterley Abbey. To the south are the lands and estates of Earl Montombre, while to the north-north east lie those lands of his rival and enemy at court, Baron Aldred of Gorburne.
The King, with the backing of Cardinal du  Varegine has called the tourney to bring an end to the near endless skirmishes between Aldred and Montombre, to feed the desire of the young and bloodthirsty for combat, and to decide once and for all on the tourney field a victor.

OOC: Those of you hailing from Albion would know that, the land is dangerously close to all out civil war.
The freshness of Spring is absent and across this green and fertile land, a palpable tension exists. The uneasy peace between feuding nobles and landless knights is close to an end. Border skirmishes are increasing, travellers can no longer travel in peace on the Kings Road. Deer and boar are hunted in the Kings Forests. Robber knights and barons prowl the land seeking easy prey. They only law that is respected is the long steel arm of the church. Cardinal du Varegine has carefully built the church and and it’s paramilitary force, The Knights Cataphract of Faith. It is the abbot of the Knights has gifted the sword to the King as a tourney prize.
Peasants and serfs are hoarding food, evident at less stock available at markets and fairs. People up and down the land are once more fearful of strangers.

Against this background of strife, both peasant, freeman and lord are looking forward to the tourney with a sense a hope and anticipation.

The roads to the Ford are busy for days, as you arrive you see a tiny village with a bridge over two rivers. To the south of bridge, the fairgrounds spread out, with stands for the nobles, forges for armouries and blacksmith, stables, and tents of nobles and merchants alike.

Please feel free to describe your arrival at the tourney, and we will take it from there

From the woods step two figures, the taller and boarder of the duo in leathers and mail, his steady scowl sweeping from the festival green to the bridge. His hair is cropped to a shadow, his face a day off shaven. None might be sure if the man is without Thuland blood, but he holds himself with Albish authority, as any enforcer of the king's law might. With a double handed sword across his back and one thumb tucked into a board buckled leather belt, he strides forward, hushed as he murmurs to his companion from the corner of his mouth.

‘And here we are. If you happen to see anyone in the market to part with some decent throwing axes, I’d replace the ones I saw buried with poor Lord Aelfrid. We are still blessed he left us his noble blade as a dying token.’ The big man nudges his chin at the hilt of the heavy blade. ‘Pretty sure it’s the only thing the church didn’t fleece, to be honest. It’s been a long road. What say you? Thirsty?’

Sir Brenton's tall broad build towered over the citizens of the ford. He'd been in the town for a few days his squire Oswald had been pleasant company on the road, the lad was raw but would one day become a competent knight, Sire Brenton just hoped he was up to the task of teaching him to be that person.

He strolled down the road looking at the stalls as they set up for all the people that were arriving for the games and he also hoped he'd make it through to the finals. He'd watched the opposition and some of the knights were well know and far more experienced than him but then one of those legends had been his teacher, mentor and father so he felt he'd be able to hold his own and not let his family down.

He looked down at the young man at his side, "So Oswald what do you think of your first tourney?"

His diminuitive companion looks up at him, tangle of long black hair tied back with a strip of rough-spun grey wool.  Her dark eyes followed his line of sight.

" Axes. Got it."

" As long as its sweet I'll drink it.  Your buying?"

She leaned on her staff and drew her ragged cloak around her over her padded jacket.

" I've never had anything to fleece......well, that was mine originally...", she patted the scuffed arming sword at her side as she grinned.

"It is quite the spectacle, Sir." Oswald gazes with some wonder around him at the stalls and the competitors preparing themselves. "I have never seen the like."

He omits mentioning that he has seen a few fairs in his time, which perhaps have the same feel of crowds and stalls, but the comparison seems somehow disrespectful. The scale is different, and the calibre of the attendees. And the number of weapons. He takes note of the other squires, looking for mannerisms and norms that he too should adopt, the better to avoid disgracing Sir Brenton.

'Aye, yes, I'm buying,' Balavan smirks despite himself. 'Let's see what we can see.'

In reply to Oswald Godloefson (msg # 5):

Sir Brenton looked at his young squire and noted he was studying the other squires and smiled "Oswald do not fret over what others do, you are a good man at heart and that makes you more a Knight now than some that will take the field today. Be true to yourself, follow your lessons and never let an unjust action be taken towards you or those you swear to protect and never ever do what you see others do just to try and impress me..... All I want is an honest man at my side I can trust and bedamned what others think.... It is what I think that only matters" with that he lightened the mood by buying two mutton pies hot out of the oven and passed one to his companion

Rinan plopped off the backboard of the hay cart he had ridden in to cover the last 20 miles to Hesard’s Ford. He landed with a grunt and quickly brushed off the hay and looked around to make sure no one of importance had seen his less than heroic arrival at the tourney.  The farmer had been all too happy to let him bunk a ride, not willing to argue with the large Mercanian offering protection along the road for the entirely reasonable price of a ride. These Albion seemed a docile lot.

A warrior should never walk when he can ride. He should save his strength for battle and…other things.

Rinan smoothed down his luxurious horseshoe shaped moustache and strode boldly down amongst the stalls, looking for meat and ale whilst secretly cursing the lightness of his purse.

Surely amongst all these great and powerful attendees there must be someone in need of a strong arm and a sharp axe?

"Thank you, Sir." Oswald accepts the pie gratefully. "I will do my best, Sir." Mindful of Sir Brenton's lesson, he tries to focus less on the other squires. This, at least, is easy while he has the pie in hand to concentrate on.

After a moment, he adds hesitantly: "I have never been to a tourney, before, Sir. What exactly will we do here?" He has some vague idea of jousts and combats, but now that he is easier he realises that he has no idea how this all happens in practice, and he is rather embarrassed to ask whether the knights just go up and start challenging each other, or if there is something more organised...

"they differ from tourney to tourney, it will not be a chaotic free for all we are after all knights" he chuckled a for a moment " there will be rounds and each round knights will yield and be removed from the competition until only two remain the winner of those two is the champion of the discipline he or she is fighting in."

He finished his pie and took a cloth out to wipe the gravy off his hands before offering it to his squire to do likewise.

"my job will be to keep my head on my shoulders and yours will to support me in that endeavour or to find my head if I loose it" this time he laughed out loud at the look on the young man's face " do not worry I have yet to loose my head and I do not intend to do so today....after all your father would not be happy with me if I were to make you an orphaned squire before you have even learned to polish my armour correctly" he added but there was a sly smile on his lips when he said it

" Lead on then. Must be at least one of these hairy metal-bound oafs with lands that need tending.", Arielle grinned as she surveyed the scene.

She'd forgotten how bad humans in numbers smelt...

Rinan rubs a meaty hand across his eyes. What strange faerie magic is this. A comely lass from his dreams here, in the flesh. Surely an omen from the gods?!

Smoothing down his magnificent mustache, Rinan quaffs his ale, hitches up his belt and strides boldly over to where he sees the pretty lass chatting with a knight and squire.

“Well met my good fellows and sweet fair maid! That was some fine ale. What brings you all to Hesard’s Ford?” Rinan pronounces as he approaches.  He finishes with a cheeky wink at the red haired woman.

Balavan notes the subtle wrinkling of his companion's nose as they venture on.

'You're not wrong,' he muses, wolfish eyes sweeping the festival. 'Oh well, not as bad as a town I suppose.' A Big shouldered shrug. 'Could be worse.' A sideward glance to Arielle as he steps over dung. 'Not by much though.'

They make their way into the festivities, Balavan using his size to lead them wherever crowds formed.

Oswald accepted the rag. With a grin, he noted: "I will do my best to keep a good track of your head, then, Sir. Wherever it should end up."

Having recently graduated from his military training, Dursturm Ironguard is excited to hear about the tourney. Despite his inexperience, he is eager to take part in the event, perhaps to learn and hone the little he knows.

Clad in his mail armour and holding a sword and shield, Dursturm cuts and imposing figure with his broad sholders and powerful limbs. As he enters the field, he looks aroud, hoping to see what interesting things he can find.

A lanky young woman, wrapped in a long green traveller's cloak surveys the bustling market, so many people in one place, more than she has seen before, and barely resists the urge to turn around and walk straight back to the abbey.

"Just what have I talked myself into?" she ponders quietly to herself, masking her anxiety by leaning on her walking staff and looking over the scene with a serenity she does not feel, her curiosity and frankly her hunger eventually winning out over nervousness.

A small lithe creature emerges from a fold of green wool about the woman's neck, a russet furred ferret, sniffing the air cautiously. "Might have known you'd wake up at the smell of food." the dark eyed woman mutters as she strokes the top of the tiny predator's head.

"Earning before eating." she concludes sternly, and looks about for a less intimidating person to ask directions of, spotting a young woman with the air of a hawk about her in conversation with several men, some in armour.

Gathering her courage to her, the nervous woman tucks the ferret back in her hood, along with a stray lock of dark auburn hair and walks up to the group nearby. She asks the hawkish woman "Excuse me for asking a favor of you, lady, but could you tell me where I might find the tourney field?"

Arielle took measure of the much taller woman, flicking her eyes to Balavan  momentarily.

" The tourney field?  Yer best bet is to follow the smell of sweat and wet sheep."

She glanced around for the nearest man in maille or plate, " Hey! Yer Lordship, Where are the list fields?"

In reply to Arielle Wood (msg # 17):



The inquiring woman seems amused at this as she smiles and says "Those are fair directions, but I fear they might lead straight back to me at the moment." then lifts a still damp fold of deep green woolen cloak to show a reassuringly empty right hand, and a sheepskin tabbard beneath them.

She adds in a more serious tone "Thank you anyway. I am Lay-Sister Alfrida, of Saint Frida's." then falls silent as she respectfully awaits any further directions.

Arielle gave her an experimental sniff, " Eh, still better than this mob.", she said waving her hand vaguely in the direction of literally everyone else.

Devotion and commotion

Away from the food and drink stalls and tents you all hear what appears to be the peal of church bells and the song of plain chant. Many revellers begin to move in the direction of the noise.

You see a retinue of mounted Knights Cataphract of the Faith, resplendent in crimson and grey tabards over heavy armour.
Big men, mounted and all armed with their feared weapon, the morningstar. There must be 50 at least, all chanting in perfect unison to the glory of god. At the centre, on a magnificent chariot is Cardinal du Varegine. The most powerful man in the church, tall with a hawkish nose and the complexion of one who is not Albish. Mounted before him at the front of the chariot is the famed red blade of Saint Akturian - the prize blade for the victorious warrior on the final day of the tourney.

He smiles and offers blessings to the crowd. All the knights are chanting as they control their mounts and survey the large crowd of thousands.
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:30, Tue 07 Dec 2021.

Balavan inclines his head so Arielle knows which way he's going to press through the crowd, continuing to make a brief path. He is aware Arielle has picked up a stray, and seems fine to beat a path for both ladies, though he remains stoic and silent.

Balavan presses toward the noise and to get a closer look at the blade of Saint Akturian. His eyes casually sweep the closer pressing bodies for any sign of mischief as he eases forward.

In reply to GM (msg # 20):

Rinan looks at the resplendent procession with a mix of awe and curiosity. He pulls at his magnificent drooping moustache as he ponders both the challenge of axe against morning star and what sort of delusional thinking would drive a red blooded man to give up the pleasures of life for a life of service to some strange and weak god…

Arielle motioned to Alfrida to follow, " This is Balavan.....he's my...boss? Sort of..."

'We will assist you, Lay-Sister Alfrida of Saint Frida's,' Balavan adds over a big shoulder, signalling three fingers to the closest barkeep. 'We're no strangers to escorting law abiding folk such as yourself.'

He pauses and turns then, eyes piercing, jaw grim-set.

'What brings you to the festival without an escort? The roads aren't always kind to lone travellers.'
This message was last edited by the player at 23:06, Fri 10 Dec 2021.

Alfrida watches the procession with keen interest, but an even keener eye on the crowd that watches with her, pondering their reactions to those who go so well dressed to war, even an apparently friendly one.

A pair of beady eyes and a tiny pink nose bewildered by so many scents at once also observes the scene, a ruddy ferret's face briefly peeping out from the hood of the Lay-Sister's dark green cloak, visible only to the quick of eye.

"Beautiful, but a dangerous sort of beauty..." she says quietly to Arielle, noting the arms carried by the resplendent warriors are not what she would call friendly. Alfrida regards the Bishop in respectful silence, but her eyes linger longest on the blade said to have once been of a saint.



Afrida nods in assent, follows, and politely says "Pleased to meet you, Mister Balavan." with a hasty bob that might be intended as a bow in crowded circumstances.



"Thank you." Alfrida replies politely, then adds calmly "You are correct, but I did not travel alone to Hesards Ford." with a leading glance to the traders already hawking their wares about the place, and the farmer's carts awaiting the parade's passing to unload their produce.

She continues aimiably "And there are few who can be spared from Saint Frida's for a task that may take as long as mine yet might. I am a healer of sorts, but I am also charged with collating an index of the collective knowledge of Albion."

In reply to GM (msg # 20):

The mounted Knights Cataphract proceed slowly forward toward the tourney field. Masterfully they hold rank and edge carefully through the crowd of festival goers, warriors and ne’er doer wells.
Resplendent in crimson tabards, with banners and pennants fluttering in the Spring breeze the canting knights nod at the crowd.

The mounted Knights Cataphract proceed slowly forward toward the tourney field. Masterfully they hold rank and edge carefully through the crowd of festival goers, warriors and ne’er doer wells. Resplendent in tabards, with banners and pennants fluttering in the Spring breeze the Knights barely acknowledge the crowd. Meanwhile at the centre of the procession, Cardinal du Varegine waves and smiles toward the assembled crowd. “Welcome, in the name of the Church, welcome good people. Go with God and enjoy the bounty of this festival. Go with God my children.”

Two fields separate the festival village (where the Knights currently are) and the tourney field.
A covered dais, presumably holds King Haldric and his retinue. The Lion Rampant banner is flanked by the snake of Earl Montombre and the hound of Aldred of Gorburn.
Scores of pennants for minor lords and knights surround the tourney field.


“REPENT, heathens repent. Blasphemy, SPAWN of the devil.”
You witness an old dishevelled monk, white hair with a stubbled tonsure, travel stained brown cassock. The crowd parts as the old monk screams at Cardinal du Varegine and the retinue of Knights. The gathered crowd seems nervous, then angry, booing and shoving the old man
“This is blasphemy, fighting and carousing for a CURSED BLADE.
REPENT, aaauughh . . . The nearest Crimson Knight casually smashes a morning star into the back of the screaming monk. Without so much as missing a step, the retinue of Knights and the sacred blade continue the procession toward the King and the opening ceremony.  It is like as if nothing has happened. The old monk lies in the gutter of the procession, forgotten by the revellers.

Dursturm hears the monk screaming and turns to watch. He is horrified by the knight's casual blo. When the retinu has passed, he approaches the monk and sees if he is still alive.

Even though he is somewhat used to brutality amongst his harsh and warlike people, Rinan’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the casual violence dealt out by the mounted knight.

He notes that as a heathen and warrior he can expect no quarter from these knights if this is how they treat one of their own so called holy men.

Rinan follows the group he had joined as they head towards the tourney field, a wry smile on his face as he recalled the beautiful woman’s smile he was so recently favoured with.

Balavan scowls at the act of casual violence, but remains silent. He nods in satisfaction at Alfrida's response to his question.

Finally he shoots Arielle a subtle glance, as if to invite her thoughts on what has just transpired. Though to outsiders Balavan might seem like Arielle's custodian or captain, the truth between the two is more a story of mutual respect and shared hardships.

" Old Bugger should have seen that coming...."

" If that cracked a few of his backbones he's not walking again."

" Helping hims not going to increase our job prospects....."

In reply to Dursturm (msg # 27):

The old monk has taken the brunt of the blow to the back of his neck and left shoulder. He appears to be in a bad way gasping for a dying breath.

Oswald watches the retinue with interest, then puzzlement at the Monk's shouting - and finally alarm. Accustomed to being an outsider, his first thoughts are for the injured man, and he has hurried forwards to help him, arriving just as Durstrum does.

"Is he alright?" He asks Durstrum feebly, when the answer is so obvious.

It is only then that he remembers his master, casting an uneasy glance backwards at Sir Brenton.

Alfrida frowns at the old man's words, but her expression turns to fury when she sees him struck down for no crime she can see but for being a hothead running off at the mouth.

"Go with God, he said, not send 'em to meet God in haste!" she says, loud enough for  Arielle and Balavan to hear the disappointment behind the remark as she stands up, and swiftly moves to the injured man.

Seeing others also moving to help the bloodied madman lying on the ground, she quickens her pace.

The sight of the wound brings only a mutter of "Frida help us..." then a more frantic plea of "Don't move him!" as she pulls off her cloak.

"Not yet." she adds then points at Oswald and Durstrum as she passes the cloak to the nearest man "Slide that under him, gently, start from the feet and move up."

Her own hands rapidly move to support the choking man's neck, gently feeling for the bones out of kilter as she tries to keep him in a position that will allow him to breathe easier, murmuring "Hold still, or you'll only make it worse."

Dealing with a blow from a tree branch falling after a storm is not the same as a morning star's bite, but bones are bones, she reasons, whatever breaks them as she carefully puts them back in place.

Alfrida also does what she can with a word of HEALING under her breath and 1MP to keep him from dying of HP loss. The blood, the crush and noise of the crowd and the general chaos should help cover up anything untrained eyes and ears would notice. Improvised head support and bandages will hide any signs of unnaturally fast healing for now.]

In reply to Alfrida (msg # 33):

As you move in to assist Dursturm, the old man passes away as you make him comfortable.

In reply to Oswald Godloefson (msg # 32):

Oswald makes the sign and mumbles a prayer over the late man, then looks across at Durstrum.

Alfrida watches the light fade from the old man's eyes, and gently pulls the lids down over them with a sorrowful look on her face.

The tall woman in a sheepskin tabbard wipes her hands on the cloak, turns to the two men who tried to help a dying man and asks "Sirs, might I beg of favor of you? There's a church not far from here, back over the river. Help me get him there, and off the road?"

Balavan casually leans next to Arielle, watching the scene without expression.

'Bad luck to kill a monk, I reckon,' he finally rumbles to her under his breath. He glances the other way to see if their drinks are closer. 'Let's wash the bad taste away and be on with our day.'

Arielle hesitates looking back and forth between Balavan and Alfrida, " Should we leave her alone with them?"

Oswald nods, immediately, glancing again towards Sir Brenton in case the knight disapproves. This seems like the right thing to do. "Yes. Of course." Oswald turns towards Durmstrum. "Shall I take the head? I'll get his shoulders."

It quickly becomes apparent, however, that this will be a difficult job for Oswald. His right arm is stiff, and the fingers of his right hand clearly don't flex properly. He uses his left hand to clumsily try and jam his right under the dead monk's right shoulder. He closes his fingers weakly, then takes a firmer grip with his left hand.

He looks nervously across at the others. "Right. Whenever you're ready."

OOC: Oswald has a strength of 4 (largely reflected in his damaged arm), but whether that is enough to lift the old man, I don't know! This may be embarrassing for him! xD

Rinan snorts through his horseshoe shaped moustache and mutters “He’s food for the Ravens now. But a brave or mad old bastard! I cannot tell which! I’ll help you carry his corpse. I have a soft spot for loud mouthed fools!”

Balavan raises one brow at Arielle and almost grins. 'Please, lead on.'

Arielle gave Balavan an embarrassed shrug, then marched over to the dead man.

Running her eyes over the group she grimaced and made a beeline for Oswald.

" Pardon me, yer Lordship.  Perhaps with your...uh...noble bearing....and..uh...commanding presence, you might be best to be clearing a path for us what are carrying the old bugge....fellow.  Make it easier for everyone, you catch my drift."

If he aquiesced she took his place at the shoulder, wiry arms gripping tightly.

"Thank you, sir." the tall woman replies in a quieter voice than she used a moment ago, then adds "Whoever he was and said in life, that's no reason for him to be left lying dead in the gutter."

She looks to the other man and says "My thanks to you as well sir." before turning back to Oswald and realizing that the task he has taken on may be a bit more than his body is capable of, no matter how willing his spirit.

Fortunately for the now taken aback at her own forwardness Lay-Sister, help in the form of Arielle is already on her way.



The tall woman nods in quick agreement with this suggestion, trying not to bite her lip in sheer nervousness as she looks from Arielle to Oswald.

The big fella approaching, with whiskers a walrus would be proud of seems an unlikely angel by appearance, but any help is better than none, so she smiles at him as he moves towards the group around the body.

"Oh, er, yes." Oswald replies, sheepishly - though clearly glad of the opportunity not to embarrass himself. "I'm not a Lord, Ma'am, but I'm Sir Brenton's squire." He waves across in the direction of his Master.

He duly lets Arielle take the shoulders and moves to the front. As the makeshift procession set off, he duly hollers in front of them: "Stand aside, please! We are bringing  the dead for burial!"

For all that his arm is weak, Oswald's voice, at least, is strong - a lifetime of compensating for his poor strength through sheer bravado. And he remembers what Sir Brenton taught him of annoucing the Knight's presence... the importance of sounding confident above all...

Dursturmnreplies to Oswald telling him he knows not the old man or what he refers to but he would like to bury him as he seems a brave but foolish man. If others help he will move the man to a place to prepare for burial.

Running a scowl over the crowd as if daring anyone not to heed the squire's call, Balavan steps in just behind Arielle to help she and the others lift.

'See my face,' he mutters to Arielle, hoisting the corpse so her burden eases to almost nothing. 'This is my trusting you face.'   He says no more as they head off, and doesn't yet bother to greet any of the strangers beyond a stoic nod.

Oswald leads the group, of largely new acquaintances, through a throng all heading in the other direction. Following the Cardinal and the relic to the tourney field and the awaiting King.
Oswald leads the way, commanding the crowd:
"Stand aside, please! We are bringing  the dead for burial!"

Dursturm, Rinan, Balavan, Benton, Arielle and Alfrida all follow.
The old dead monk is very slight and needs barely two sturdy folk to carry him.

The crowd seems blind to a group carrying a dead man away from the festival. As you approach the bridge that is Hesards Ford,you see  a tall clean shaven slim man, sitting on a white horse. He wears a dark green tabard over chain, with no insignia that you can see.

The horse stops on the bridge.
“You man, where you taking the monk?”

His voice is calm, firm and carries, while not load.

Oswald looks up at the man, and replies evenly: "To the nearest Church, sir. We could not in good faith leave a dead man by the side of the road without a proper burial."

He tries not to let his fears show. Is this man friend or foe? Internally, he prays to Gatanedes for guidance... and protection.

In reply to Oswald Godloefson (msg # 49):

The rider smiles at Oswald, not a friendly smile.

“Ha, best of luck with that lad, you will find no church to take him. Bartelemy has been defrocked. Heresy. Now, clever fellows have no truck with heretics. Not with the Cardinal around. So you are heretics or just not that clever.
Now move aside if you please, there’s a sword to be won.”

Looking in the direction of Sir Benton, Dursturm and the other warriors, he calls out, laughing,
“Gents, the field of battle lies behind you, please tell me you are not fleeing already? Why I trust I have the pleasure of your company in the lists.”

In reply to GM (msg # 50):

Arielle stayed quiet and tucked herself as low as possible, this man was much more like most of the men-at-arms she had witnessed in the past.  Which meant any eyeroll or muttered comment would likely get her...and Balavan...killed.

So she silently seethed and kept her eyes lowered.

Alfrida says nothing, and keeps her eyes nervously on the horse after an apparently confused glance at the man astride their back's advice.

Her confusion is genuine, as is her nervousness that the price of knowledge may yet be higher than she had anticipated.

"Thank you for the warning, Sir. Oswald nods, thinking better of trying to do anything but acquiesce. "You have saved us a wasted journey. Still," He turns to the others. "Still, heretic or no, we cannot leave a body lying around in the way of the honest folk."

"Aye, milord." Alfrida says in a diffident tone, but with fear in her voice as she offers "Begging your pardon, sir, 'tis an unhealthy thing to give the scavenger beasts a taste for manflesh, let alone a heretic's flesh."
This message was last edited by the player at 04:19, Thu 23 Dec 2021.

Arielle looked concerned, recalling peasant tales of folk buried outside holy ground coming back from the grave......though in truth she wasn't sure what exactly 'holy ground' was or what difference it made...there had been no chapel in her tiny settlement and the mendicants that past through had all been more interested in drinking or getting their end away than answering a childs questions.

“Agree even heretics should be buried and not left lying around. Can we find a plot of land for heathen to bury him or shall we try to see if the church is willing to bury him? Dursturm asks his new friends.

'I only stopped because that mouth had its horse in the way,' Balavan shrugs a shoulder, causing the corpse to lean and settle. 'Everyone wanted to do the right thing before, let's keep doing that.'
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 11:42, Fri 24 Dec 2021.

“Aye he speaks the right of it. Let’s get this brave fool buried and see about some food and drink. Lugging dead bodies around gives a man a thirst!”

"Yes, I certainly agree! A good drink after the labour. Lead on guys!' Dursturm says.

"Need a burial place, and words said over him." Alfrida says quietly, then looks to Balavan as she offers an opinion of "Highway is King's road and King's land, not Church's land."

She adds in careful thought "Ground would be easier to dig a bit further back from the road. Need a shovel. Stables might be best bet to borrow one."

The tall woman looks less confident as she looks to Durstrum and asks him "Would they welcome a stranger in their burial grounds?"

In reply to Alfrida (msg # 60):

'Makes sense,' Balavan nods to Alfrida. As a forester he ponders the legalities. 'Makes good sense.'

As they move he is looking for signs of digging tool, preferably where an owner might be about so as to obtain said digging tool lawfully.

As the green tabarded warrior rides on toward the tourney, you stand at the bridge. Behind you are thousands of revellers from far and wide, enjoying the opening ceremony of the largest tourney in all Albion, for many’s a long year. Before you is the stone and wooden bridge over the mighty Hern River, cascading below the bridge.

To your right you smell the ditch and latrines. Over the river to your right lies Jewelspider Wood. Across the bridge is the small hamlet of Hesards Ford.



The immense noise of revelry is only broken by the peal of what sounds like a church bell, coming from the direction of the tourney field.

The warriors amongst you would know that to tonight is acts as a deadline for those wanting to enter competition on the first day tomorrow. You will need to find the tent of lists in order to enter competition.

In reply to GM (msg # 62):

" In the woods then? I wouldn't mind being laid to rest in the green myself."

In reply to Arielle Wood (msg # 63):

'Plenty of miles left on you 'afore you're bones,' Balavan muses to Arielle, eyeing the ditch and latrines direction as they veer for the woods.

'If anyone sees a shovel or two...' He lets the words trail off.

The tall woman looks embarrassed at Arielle's remark, as her own gaze turns back at the mounted knight in the green tabbard on the road for a second look.

"Odd. Gentle born manners in that mouth, yet no charge to be seen but a green field." she says, wondering at the heraldry, or rather, the lack of it.

"Worth a look." Alfrida says, following the musing look of the forester with one of her own, and then follows her nose, paying careful attention to where she steps.

It strikes her that despite the sheer number of people nearby, few among them would be paying attention to one small group, even one carrying a body.

So one person looking about latrines for a shovel, or someone with one who might agree to briefly loan it for a penny is unlikely to be noted either.

The burial of the heretic

A spade is easily found at the latrine trenches and tents. While they are busy with folk relieving bladder and bowels following celebration, nonone bats as much as an eyelid as a stranger takes a spade from a heap of earth.

You head over the bridge encountering small groups of festival goers coming in the opposite direction. You are met with cheers and helloes but no one acknowledges that you are carrying a dead monk. That might have something to do with the fact that The Walrus and Balavan lok like people you’d rather not mess with.

It is only when you enter Jewelspider Wood that you appreciate the size of the festival. The edge of the vast forest is at a raised elevation compared with Hesards Ford. Stretched out before over three large fields to the south east is that festival of the Kings Tourney. It is only by standing apart that the wall of noise and the spectacle of pure revelry and debauchery can be appreciated.
The nearest field is the one where you have come from - that is full of tents with folk selling all kinds of refreshments, booze and food. There are entertainers, tricksters, mummers and games of chance. Wild women and men compete for the attention of punters.
The middle field houses the knights and lower nobles, there is a medical tent, tents for those needing confession, benediction and the last rites. The final field is the tourney field with a covered stand at the end for the high nobles - beyond which are the large tents of the nobility and royalty. None of you have ever witnessed such a grand event, no one in Albion has. People will speak of this tourney for generations to come.

The monk, Brother Bartelemy, has two possessions on his person. A set of stone prayer beads and small prayer book of the True Faith.
Inside the cover there is an inscription written in the Classic script.

“To my dear friend, Bart. The truth is not always the faith, Go with God. Gerard of Erinchester.”

The monk is buried in the rich moist soil of the forest and you begin to make your way back. Tonight is one of celebration, starting with a high mass and blessing (conducted by the Cardinal). Following that a night of carousing and fun awaits before the warriors and athletes pit themselves in competition from early morn.

Arielle took pains to sweep the path behind them to obscure their footprints as they left the greenwood.   She did not want old smelly priests following her....dead or alive.

" So where to now Balavan?"

“Digging ditches isn’t warrior’s work except on the battlefield but I suppose the old bastard deserved some burial for his bravery.

Shame monks are so poor though -except in their churches.

Now who’s ready for a little bit of fun before we all go to meet our god or gods eh?” Rinan finishes with a lascivious wink at the group.

Balavan presses a few florins to Arielle's hand, 'Beer, my shout as agreed.'



Balavan frowns as he eyes the Mercanian axe-man and the rest of the group. 'My round for all who are thirsty. You did a kindness, one and all, right or wrong, gravedigging is thirsty work.'

He gives Arielle a couple more florins in case the fair has bumped up prices, and tells her quietly. 'I'll return the shovel and catch you up; we've taken hands for pettier thefts.'

With that he makes haste to take back the shovel and catch back up with the group.

By the time you finish burying Brother Bartelemy and make it back over the bridge tonthe tourney fields, the time is approaching late afternoon. A Spring sun sets over the field. A variety of open sided tents sell refreshments. Each taverner differs, ranging from a basic stall selling cheap liquor to peasants and the undiscerning. Closer to the fighting field the tents are more salubrious, hosting knights, nobles, high born ladies and high ranking clerics.

A herald in the Kings colours of the lion rampant parades up and down the lanes ‘teeen tents proclaiming
“LISTS, LISTS. Come one, come all. Noble, freeman, knave or peasant. Try your luck in games of skill, sword, foot and horse. Lists make your way and sign your mark.
Great purses and greater fame to be won in the lists. Let’s be having you lads and lords, sign for the lists and make your name and fortune. Nothing like a champion lads, to steal a kiss from a noble lady or lowly slut. Sign at THE LISTS.”

Arielle headed off and purchased enough ale for everyone carrying it back awkwardly.

She pressed a tankard into Balavan and Alfridas hands, " Thinking of entering Balavan?"

" Would they take me, do you think?"

'Their loss if they didn't take you,' Balavan's eyes are genuine.

'I'd gladly watch those entering any and all events.' He tips his cup and nods to all gathered. 'To your good fortune and victory.'

Alfida's eyes widen at the sight of so many people in one place. This is no small farmer's fair, but a veritable city sprung up overnight. The plan that seemed so simple back in the abbey library now seems foolish and ill conceived, a child's fancy without substance.

Pride and curiosity wars with despair and outright fear in her, then caution postpones any decision to slip away from this errant madness until the ill fated Bartelmey is properly buried.

She tries, not particularly successfully, it must be said, to not think about the knight in green, and his scornful words that seem to be more helpful than their scorn would indicate.



Alfrida looks over the prayer beads and book, and ponders if it worth the risk to steal from the dead, even if destroying a book is akin to a sin as well. She also ponders who Gerard is, and where Erinchester might be.

So many questions, and yet the one that burns like a peat fire in the back of her mind is a more complicated one involving the nature of heresy and piety, sadly one beyond her to fully answer.

She shrugs, and leaves such matter to the Pancreator to sort out and simply says "Go with God, Bartelmey." over the forest grave, then hurries away, curiosity winning this time around.



Alfrida stops still, aghast at the risk she has apparently taken so casually, but after a few moments of the ground stubbornly refusing to swallow her up and save her from dying of embarrassment, looks from her feet to the forester and meekly says "Found it in a pile of fresh dug earth. Fourth row back from the road, third hole from the bridge."

She then lapses into silence, deeming it wiser than anything else she might say at this moment, other than "Thank you." for the offer of a drink for digging.





Alfida pauses, mid-way to taking a sip from the tankard she's been handed to offer in agreement "Herald didn't say anything about women entering the lists, but he didn't say anything about them not entering either."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:39, Sat 08 Jan 2022.

In reply to Alfrida (msg # 73):

'You looked worried at my words back there, sister,' Balavan says to Alfrida. 'No need to be troubled, if I noticed your eyes true. The shovel was commandeered by law if necessary, I'd have vouched for us. Not an issue unless it didn't make its way back.'

Stern, to Arielle: 'If you do enlist, never forget you served as Forester's Scout better than any lad or man I've had sworn on. Our lord knew it before his time ended, rest him. Any event not requiring you to be knighted aught to let you in. You know I'd always argue for you as a hand of the king's law too, if push came to shove.'

"That's good to know." Alfrida says quietly, looking slightly less nervous as she adds in a more confident tone "Whoever owns it doubtless has plenty of work to do, so they'll be looking for it soon enough." with a glance at the teeming mass of humanity all about them.

Arielle beamed at Balavan, drained her tankard dry and ran across towards the stewards to sign up.

A slightly too childish skip in her step betraying her age despite her best efforts.

After burying the priest, Durturm follows his friends and gets a drink. Hearing his companions talk about joining the list, he is also interested.

"Besides Arielle, anyone else wants to join? I am also interested in gaining some experience," Dursturm says.

Wiping the ale from his moustache with the back of one meaty hand Rinan lumbers to his feet.

“Well now, I don’t like to work up a sweat for nothing. Although these soft Albish lads won’t be hard work. My purse could use fattening and glory does seem to win the wenches.  So let’s have at it then.”

Rinan wanders over to the stewards muttering about a man needing meat and mead before a good fight….
This message was last edited by the player at 01:42, Sun 09 Jan 2022.

“Yes the money too!” Dursturm says to his friend before approaching the stewards to sign up for the event.

Alfrida considers her chances as she says "I'm not much good at fighting, but I suppose that 'games of skill' may not always need a warrior's skills." then finishes her ale.

'Aye you speak the right of it,' Balavan replies to Alfrida.

He finishes his drink and tails Arielle at a more leisurely pace, keeping her in sight as best he can.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:33, Mon 10 Jan 2022.

A few rounds of drinks and merriment see’s much of the evening pass into night. The fine Spring day has turned to a clear night. The mass of people, fire pits and braziers turns what would be a chilly evening into a fine toasty night.
Singers, entertainers, chancers and rogues abound. Knights, fine ladies, free men and peasants all abandoned to joyous merrymaking. After having your fill, you gradually move toward the Listing Tent, where those seeking fame and fortune in the lists are signing their name or making their mark. Being late at night, there are but a few souls coming to add their names to the list. You look to be the stragglers of what is a small queue.

A big man, clean shaven with salt and pepper shoulder length hair, sits behind a desk on a raised dais in front of an impressive open tent. Two large fire braziers stand either side of the desk illuminating the desk.

“For the lists, we’ll ye’d wanna be hurrying on. Tis close to the top o’de night. and Infancy some fun before the night is out.
He wears a tabard bearing the kings sigil of the Lion Rampant, over a fine spun cloth trouser and good strong tan boots. A simple short sword splits the grass by the seat he has risen from.

“Well friends, whose game? I have spaces left in archery, single combat and jousting. The mass team melee is closed. Tell my men, what have you?”
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:34, Thu 27 Jan 2022.

Alfrida parts with coin of her own for bread and cheese, but shares it around. Even the smallest of the band gets a sliver of cheese and rye bread, not much for a man to chew on, but a fair sized portion for a small ferret.

It is difficult for her not to gawp like a child in wonder at all the sights of the gathered assembly about her, as she looks to each new novelty in some delight as well as confusion.

When the Lists tent is reached however, she listens carefully to what the lion chested man says.



Alfrida glumly considers her lack of bow or arrows, required for the one event she might stand a chance in, but shrugs off the regret and finds a spot nearby to stand out of the way of those who have better skills.

“Anyone wants to sign up for archery and single combat with me?” Dursturm asks

“I like to see my opponent afore I spilt him from crown to crotch!” Rinan boasts, giving his brutal long handled axe a reassuring pat.

“Just the single combat for Rinan the Walrus!”

With much bravado and bluster he proceeds to draw a grinning skull with a distinctive horseshoe shaped moustache.

In reply to Rinan The Walrus (msg # 85):

The man behind the table soams his hamd diwn, a big smile on his chiselled fave.
“Ha, good man Rinan Walrus, I like a man who backs himself. The crowd will want blood and laughter in each measure. Good luck my man, and my your blade be as sharp as your tongue and your moves as swift as your wit.

Looking at Dursturm,
“You big man, whats your name and whats your claim?”

Looking at the last of the crew, “Well now, who else ‘fore I close the list . . .”

In reply to GM (msg # 86):

'Combat,' Balavan taps his chest. 'Mark me Balavan Forester.'

"Dursturm! Archery and combat!" Dursturm cries.

In reply to Dursturm (msg # 88):

“Dursturm is it, the storm? Your parents Kurlish then? Well, lets be hoping tis you bringing thunder.

Balavan, forester. Cant say Ive seen you around. Mmmm, the Kings Forests, or one of these other rogues He says with a wink.

“All right good people, if thats all then the lists be closed. For theres a flagon of cider with my name on it, and Im feeling frisky He says winking at Arielle and Alfrida.

In reply to GM (msg # 89):

Arielle raised an eyebrow, " Before you close them. Put me down for single combat........can I use a crossbow in the archery contest?"

In reply to Arielle Wood (msg # 90):

The look on the Master of Lists fave changes from jollity to one of shock and horror.
“ Ah now lass, you be having a laugh surely. You’re but a slip of a thing. Surely . . .
By god girl, too many of the men who enter this are murderers. Those fuckers from North of Clennor are here with their mastiff hounds. God Almighty tell me this is a joke now,
 I’ll not have a young lass lose her life ‘cause I turned a blind eye. Ye can enter the archery but never have I heard of a girl wantin’ to fight in the lists.”

Overhearing this as he waits with Sir Brenton, Oswald waits til Arielle has finished speaking with the man. "Pardon me miss, but I have a bow you could borrow for the archery if needed."

In reply to GM (msg # 89):

“Aye! I certainly hope I do turn justice and bring honour to my clan,” Dursturm grins.

Having already signed on and stepped aside, Balavan has his back to the Master of Lists as the man makes his rejection speech to Arielle. Half way through, Balavan's head drops slightly and he lets out a quiet breath that lasts as long as the waffle continues.



'You will need to reconsider,' Balavan turns and subtly leans over the Master of Lists. 'Once I offer the facts you may not have considered.'

The braziers cast a little hellfire into Balavan's relaxed green gaze.

'As an enforcer of the king's law, I hand pick my men. This man, Arielle has lopped hands and skinned men my size for poaching deer and worse. Arielle enforces the law of the crown, and since signing on thus, must be legally considered male. Arielle isn't just a man by law, they are my best man. You speak of murderers and of hounds, Arielle here is permitted to sniff out and savage the worst of them, wolf and wolfshead. And if you're wise, you'll wager a florin or ten on my best knifeman tomorrow. Your purse will swell. With these new facts laid out plainly,' Balavan rests a thumb around the bone-handle of his dagger, 'I'd ask you to reconsider your options. You weren't to know, but now you do. Let's amend the situation so you can get over to that flagon of cider with your name on it.'

Balavan lets his eyes rest on the man's Lions Rampant sigil. 'Being a man respecting of the king's law yourself, I'm sure we can find common ground without a fuss.'
This message was last edited by the player at 10:13, Wed 02 Feb 2022.

In reply to Balavan (msg # 94):

Arielle declined her head as Balavan spoke.

She tried to hide her grin....but a little of the wolf leaked out.

" It is so."

In reply to Balavan (msg # 94):

“Well Balavan Forester, fair play to ye. Well spoken and clearly understood for my own part. I give you my word as the Kings Champion that I’ll do my best to ensure that this young LAD is entered to the lists. I’ll not promise ye good news, nor certainty but I will have an answer to ye before the competitions begin. Thats the best that I can do.”

With that he holds out a hand to Arielle first, and then Balavan.
“I’m Stephan de Montfort and pleased to meet you, Kingsmen. I do not know yet, whether tis bold or dumb you are. We’ll find out I guess.”

OOC: the name Stephan de Montfort is one of near legend. He is the Kings own champion and has fought on three crusades. The last one he saved a legion at a hospital fortress single handedly by holding the gate against hoards of infidel until reinforcements arrived. Story had it that once the siege lifted, a gully of 18 infidel warriors lay dead at his feet.

In reply to GM (msg # 96):

" My name..for the present..is Ari Green, most please to meet you, Sir de Montfort.", Arielle said as she clasped his hand.

'An honour,' Balavan takes the hand firmly and shakes. 'Your further consideration is greatly appreciated.'

Hearing the name of legend, Dursturm lets out an involuntary whistle. So this is the great man i aspire to be someday, he muses.

Sir Brenton dropped his coin on the table just before the lists closed " single combat please" he said in a low voice.

He turned to Oswald " we can't let them have all the fun can we and sadly we missed the mass combat thats always works up a good sweat"

Before dusk, Dursturm will call upon his control over the magical energies to detect magic. He will then rest for the night to prepare for the next day.

In reply to Dursturm (msg # 101):

Arielle called it an early night, retreating to the bedrolls she and Balavan had set up and inviting Alfrida to join them.  She tucked a dagger underneath in case she had any night visitors.

In reply to Arielle Wood (msg # 102):

Balavan mirrors Arielle, dagger and all. He'll spend some time laying back listening to the distant revelry, but ultimately he'll drift off, confident they are concealed and removed from the casual wanderer or roving eye.

In reply to Dursturm

Dude turn sits down on his blanket roll. Balavan has picked a secluded spot in the woods at the edge of the tourney carnival.
To all intents and purposes Durstum appears as if he is praying before settling down for the night.

As you have been though by your master, you seek that space between the noise of everyday life, listening and feeling for that ‘other feeling’

"No, sir!" Oswald agrees, glancing around at the other entrants and wondering what the combat itself will entail.

In reply to Balavan

Balavan leads Arielle, Alfrida and Arielle to the secluded space he spied earlier. Close to the first edge and about as far from the edge of the carnival as you can get within the three great fields of the tourney. Durstrum, the tall rangy warrior settles down to pray before sleep.

The strong  barrel chested man with drooping moustache remains behind, as do the knight and his squire.

The noise of the festival gradually diminishes to a more acceptable hum, as the consequences of a days drinking and carousing takes hold. The party atmosphere, while remaining is now much more forgiving of those seeking sleep.

Sleep comes easily.
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:10, Sun 13 Feb 2022.

With a glint in his eye that spells mischief you bid good night to your new friends and head into the depths of the carnival. Well past night and before the sunrise you are at a table drinking with a landless knight, back from the crusades named at Petyr. A middle aged man with thini g brown hair and a a clean chin.
 Like yourself he is a hard drinking man with an appetite for mahem. Well inebriated and long past time when his talk makes any sense, he is slumped over a near empty tankard. No one else remains in the tent of The Red Barrel Inn.

Staring into the pre-morn haze, you see young man dressed in priest cassock strideing across the drinking tent with a crazed look in his eye Petyr has his back to the cassocked priest.

He quickens to a run and raises his left arm, a long bloodied dagger clenched in his fist as he closes in on you both . . .
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:23, Sun 13 Feb 2022.

In reply to Oswald Godloefson (msg # 105):

As Oswald and Sir Brenton make their way from the listing tent, you pass the stabling area. The normal smell of hay, manure and horse sweat intermingles with another scent, more acrid. Like smoke or a smouldering fire.
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:48, Sun 13 Feb 2022.

Dursturm tries to determine where the magical energies are concentrated at.

In reply to Dursturm (msg # 109):

Minutes pass, you  discern that the energy is close by..

"Oswald do you smell that?" said the knight as they passed the stables " that does not smell of horse and I should know let us check that all is well" with that the large man headed towards the stable doors

In reply to GM (msg # 107):

Rinan surges to his feet and hurls his tankard at the approaching madman’s head to gain some time to draw his great axe.

He roars “C’mon you bloody god-bothering bastard!  You’ll make a nice appetiser before the main course is served!”

GM please advise if you want me to use the die roller to roll for a missile attack.

In reply to GM (msg # 107):

Rinan surges to his feet and hurls his tankard at the approaching madman’s head to gain some time to draw his great axe.

He roars “C’mon you bloody god-bothering bastard!  You’ll make a nice appetiser before the main course is served!”

GM please advise if you want me to use the die roller to roll for a missile attack.

"I do, sir. Burning?" Oswald follows the knight towards the stable door, mumbling a prayer to the Lord to warn him of him danger. Sometimes, just sometimes, he hears back...

OOC: Oswald will use Premonition - 37% chance of detecting danger in the stable.  I believe the GM rolls? 

In reply to Rinan The Walrus (msg # 113):

Happy for Rinan to roll for missile attack. Please deduct 2 from your attack roll due to the nights drinking.

An image flashes into Oswald's mind, and he hesitates, then blurts out: "Sir... I think it is a fire starting... we need to put it out before it gets out of hand..."

OOC: AM I with anyone now? Or alone when i detected magic

You are with Alfidia, Arielle and Balavan.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:24, Wed 16 Feb 2022.

"Oswald quick wake the neighbours if it is a fire as we fear it could quickly get out of hand and threaten this side of the city. I will go find the fire and see if it can be contained" shouted the knight as he ran towards the stables

Arielle woke,not looking at all well rested, her hand was gripped around her dagger.

" Morning folks. Did we sleep well?"

In reply to GM (msg # 115):

11:36, Today: Rinan The Walrus rolled 14 using 1d20-2 ((16)) vs his Attack of 15. So hopefully a hit subject to range and movement and awkward tankard etc etc

Hopefully even if it’s a close miss it will put the attacker off his game enough to delay a stabbing so Rinan can get his axe out and move to block and enter melee
This message was last edited by the player at 01:39, Thu 17 Feb 2022.

In reply to Arielle Wood (msg # 119):


Alfrida, half awake, blearily looks at Arielle with an odd mixture of relief and wariness on her face, and replies "Sleep? Yes. Well? No. Too much going on my mind for that last night. None of it makes much sense to me yet. If there is anything to it at all..." as she sits up and reaches for her backpack.

Her expression turns to one of curiosity as she looks at the dagger in Arielle's hand as she asks "Who were you planning on stabbing with that then?"

Alfrida offers her a chunk of leftover bread and cheese as she adds in weary tone "And if it's me that you want a sharp word with, can it wait 'til after breakfast?"
This message was last edited by the player at 06:49, Thu 17 Feb 2022.

In reply to Rinan The Walrus (msg # 120):

Rinan rises pushing the table over, beer spills and tankards crash to the grassy floor. Petyr the drunken knight is jolted toward a moment of sobriety as he immediately fumbles to grasp his sword handle.


“C’mon you bloody god-bothering bastard!  You’ll make a nice appetiser before the main course is served!”

Rinans tankard flies through the space between him and the priest, before hitting the knife wielding friar in the right shoulder with some force.
He slows up to a stop with a dazed and confused look on his face. He drops the bloodied knife in his left hand and grabs at his shoulder almost instinctively, then stares at Rinan.

“Aggghhh, . . . . . What, where. Who are you?” His voice is soft but he appears completely surprises but what is happening.

Petyr looks around at the priest

“Whats this”?
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:49, Thu 17 Feb 2022.

In reply to Sir Brenton (msg # 118):

OOC: this message is to provide context for Sir Brenton and Oswald in terms of what you are facing. It is a in lieu of an actual map (which I do not have).
The stables are at ‘border’ between the first and second fields. It runs along the eastern and southern corner of the field. Arielle, Alfridia Balavan and Dursturm are resting in a wooded are near the north eastern part of the field - close to where you all met the knight on the bridge.
The latrine area is all by the mid section of the eastern border of the field.
Over the Eastern wall, is the mighty River Hern:
 The temporary ‘town’ is in the first field, while a tented village housing the great and good is in the second. The border is an old dry stone wall with plenty of gaps. However it has been re-purposed as a stables. Sections are roped off for horses to be tethered, there is straw, oats and water troughs. Much (though not all) of the area is covered by tents that are  supported by stakes.
Squires, hands and stable boys sleep near the horses. There could be several hundred horses. There are a few dozen young men and boys sleeping across the stables. You can see no fire but you do smell acrid smoke. Faint at first but building. Many of the horses are quiet, some near the old wall are whinnying.

Hope this helps.
 

In reply to GM (msg # 122):

Rinan will grab the addled friar by the scruff of his cassock and interrogate him eye to eye, blustering and bellowing, half drunk and irritable as a bear woken from a cozy slumber.

“What bloody murder have you just done priest? Why were you fixing to stab this man in the back next? Did he spurn your advances eh?”

You grab the priest by his cassock, with the light of only fire braziers you cannot tell the colour, black, grey, brown. However your hands feel wet as you grab him. His cassock is sodden theough with a sticky wetness.

“What? . . . Murder. Not I sir. I am Brother Gerard out of Erinchester. I’m here for the tourney and to see the, the re . . ., the famed sword. Murder, what?”

The intensity of his stare broken by your attack, the cleric now looks utterly confused. His eyes keep darting between you and Sir Petyr and around.
Mtye knight grabs the bloodied knife, brandishing it in Gerards face.
“How do you explain the bloody knife then. You’re no holy man.” His voice and movements are surprisingly sober and calm for a man who seconds ago was dead drunk and nearly dead.

Oswald nods at Sir Brenton's instructions, and make his way to the nearest people he can rouse. He does not wish to start a panic by calling "Fire", so instead will focus on rousing the nearest stable hands by shaking them. "Have a care, lads - there is smoke here in the stables - we must get the source doused as quickly as possible. Have we a bucket at hand?"

He will look around for a bucket or anything that might hold water - preferably something with water already in it. He glances up at the sky, and prays that the Lord would make it rain...


OOC: Is the River Hern high enough that water could be scooped from it at the banks? Or is it so mighty that that would invite being swept away?

In reply to Oswald Godloefson (msg # 126):

OOC: the Hern (just over eastern wall can be reached by a steep path down). It is fast moving with plenty of white water and rapids at this section. However, as this is a stable there water troughs and plenty of wooden buckets scattered about.

I will wait to post until after Sir Brenton posts.

In reply to GM (msg # 125):

“Well Brother Gerard, why are you soaked to the skin and brandishing a bloody blade? I thought you muttering monks were more fond of letting others fight for you?”

Rinan will thrust the priest to the ground in disgust and glance sideways at the knight, curious about his miraculous recovery given the blacksmith who seems to be hammering in his own head after the night’s drinking.

“Attempting murder before midday? Butchery before breakfast? It’s enough to give a man a thirst!”

apologies for the delay

Sir Brenton quickly went among the stable hands waking then with a quick kick " UP, UP tend the horses there is a fire gather them and take them to the tourney field quickly before they bolt in fear."

With that he moved on in the direction of the smell

Having roused what stable hands he could, Oswald grabs a bucket, fills it from a trough, and sets off after Sir Brenton.

In reply to Oswald Godloefson (msg # 130):

The hands, many of whom are young teens and judging from the stench of alcohol had a good day of revelry begin to rouse from their slumber. Slow at first until they hear they hear the word fire, and like a clarion call they immediately race for buckets and water. Others check the horses.

After a shirt few minutes while folk do what is called, a bald ugly man shouts at Oswald and Sir Brenton. He wears inly a leather pair of trews. He has shaven head, stubble and scars all over body and head. He carry's a cudgel in his right hand and looks like he knows how to use it!

“Oi, you. Whadafuq are you doing worrying my ‘orses.
Yeah you cripple. Where’s this bloody fire, boy? You best speak boy, or I’m gonna beat you seven shades of black n’blue.”


A small blond haired lad runs to him,
“I cant find the fire master Hob . . .”“Dats cause there aint no fire lads, these boys here, Mr Cripple and Mr Bloody Knight, are upto no good lads.”

In reply to Rinan The Walrus (msg # 128):

“Its, its not me, not me. I swear it by God, its that thing. Its poisoned you all.”
With that Brother Gerard runs out of the tent and off to your left.

Rinan looks at the fleeing monk and decides that running before breakfast would be I’ll advised as well as undignified for a great warrior.

With a loud belch he looks around for some water to douse himself in to wake himself up for the battle ahead.


“What an odd folk you Albish are…mad monks and knights who don’t get drunk!”

Oswald looks distinctly terrified by the figure before him. He swallows uneasily, shifting his bad hand unconsciously at its mention. "There was smoke, Sir... over by the old wall. Something was happening... I thought it was fire. I came to help." He is suddenly uncertain of himself. Has he misinterpreted what he saw? The visions have never led him wrong before, but that doesn't mean he interpreted them correctly.

In reply to Rinan The Walrus (msg # 133):

Petyr looks at the brother, sharply exiting the scene. Looking at Rinan, he belches a beery belch.
“Well Walrus, are we going to finish him, or finish these?” pointing at the tankards spilled everywhere.

“My good man, what ever are you on about. Can you not smell the fire. The air is thick with its stench. I know not what game you are playing, but we are undertaking an act of merciful charity in waiting these lads and saving these fine beasts. What sort of man would walk on by, ignoring what is so plain. You are in danger, now get a move on a grab some buckets of water.

The knight, calmly challenges the angry man with the cudgel in hand.
“Oswald, lead these lads to the where the smoke is, lively now lad. No time to waste.”

In reply to Sir Brenton (msg # 136):

The bald mans face twists, almost comically into a violent visage
“I’ll no be talked down to by likes o’you. Maybe you are a knight, but these days t’wouldn’t be beneath the likes o’you to stoop to horse thieving. My stables, my horses. These lads ain’t yours to order.”.
Starting to march toward Sir Brenton, and without flinching hurls the cudgel directly at the knight.
The twisted ugly staff flies perfectly through the air hitting Sir Brenton squarely in the upper torso . . .

Dursturm tries to sleep but it seems hard to fall asleep.

OOC:
07:22, Today: Dursturm rolled 8 using 1d20 ((8)).

Obeying Sir Brenton's direction, Oswald makes his way towards the old wall where the horses were winnying. He is intent on locating the source of the smell, and does not see the cudgel being thrown, instead pressing on towards his goal...

In reply to GM (msg # 135):

“I’ve fighting to do today. It upsets a man’s rhythm to be chasing another man unless he means to split his head like a melon. The monk was clearly mad - gods touched maybe. Best count yerself lucky I’ve a good aim with a tankard eh?!”

The humour leaves Rinan’s face as he continues “But a man does start to pondering why he chose you ter be sticking with his dagger? And it’s awful early to be a pondering…”