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