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.