verlox2
09-08-2008, 12:15 AM
The first part of my story
The Lost Kingdom: Part 1
It had been a day of pomp and splendour as the Mercians of Sanguine held their annual Midsummer Fair. Jugglers, actors, merchants, peasants, nobles, all mingled together on the fairground not far outside the cities walls. In the center of the ground, a tourney field had been constructed, not only to provide the people with smashing entertainment, but also for the nobles who enjoyed to partake in the most celebrated event during fairs, the Joust. Knights from all over Mercia had made the journey to Sanguine to test their mettle against those of equal thought and arm. And as the peasants cheered, the gallant cavaliers charged each other again and again.
Eventually, as the sun was starting to set, two knights remained on the field, having triumphed over all their opponents. On one side of the field was Sir Bran Courtenay, a knight from up near the Morak border. He wore his customary scarlet and cobalt colors over his mail hauberk that glittered in the sun. He was a dark man, with sun browned skin, black hair, and the deepest of green eyes. He stood at six feet and three inches, dwarfing lesser men, and had hands that could have shaped mountains. Complementing his strength and size, he had the unique ability to make those of the fairer sex swoon over him if he just walked by, and many women had been rendered speechless that day as he asked for tokens.
Opposing this pinnacle of chivalry was Sir Owain Lygarch. Owain was the third son of a family that hailed from a fief near Aincourt that was given to them by the King of Mercia. He stood at five feet and ten inches, and had short, honey blonde hair and light blue eyes. Over his hauberk he wore green and gold, and on his shield was painted a golden hart on a green field. During the entire course of the tournament, he had asked for no tokens, and had rebuffed one group of women so viscously that he had been avoided by most of the fairgoers throughout the day.
The sun fell lower in the sky as the two knights maneuvered their mounts into the starting position, facing each other across the bare tiltyard. This being the last round, the spectators were laying huge bets on either of the two knights, and the king himself even watched with anticipation as these, the two most skilled knights in his realm, glared at each other through narrow slits in their great helms. The warriors’ squires handed their masters their lances, the scarlet and cobalt, and green and gold pennons fluttering in the wind.
The trumpet flared, signaling the start, and both knights spurred their chargers forward. Bran leveled his lance at Owain’s chest, looking to unhorse his opponent quickly. But Owain had other ideas. Twisting in the saddle, Owain brought his shield up as Bran’s lance splintered against the hard wood, leaving Owain still on his horse. The crowd cheered as Bran was awarded one point by the herald, and the two knights moved back to their side of the field.
“Damn me but that man is skilled,” said Bran to his squire as he took off his helm to accept a drink of wine.
Bran’s squire tightened his master shin-guards, all the while listening as Bran went on about how he could use on method or another to unhorse his rival. “Of course, I could just aim for his head, but that would be dishonourable.” The trumpet sounded, signaling for the two knights to take positions. Again it sounded, and the two men charged each other again. This time Bran sought to hit Owain’s shield, confident that their was no good way to defend against that. He knew that it was unlikely to unhorse him, but it would at least gain him another point.
It was at the last moment that it happened. Owain had remained uncommitted to a target for most of the charge and it was thought by many that he was going to leave the list, but instead he did the unthinkable. Owain, taking advantage of Bran’s well-known sense of honour, aimed his lance straight at Bran’s head, and when it hit, the people gasped, and Bran was sent flying from his horse, smashing to the ground with a resounding thump.
Owain hastily halted his horse and dismounted, dropping his splintered lance and shield to draw his sword. But this was not needed. Their was no cheering or clapping for Owain’s victory, only stunned silence that he would resort to so craven a tactic. Bran had yet to move, and soon Bran’s squire was running out onto the field, shoving past the man that had defeated his master.
“My lord? My lord! Oh, Morgaine…” The young man began to notice the blood that was seeping out of his lord’s helm, and he hastily removed it, only to be sickened at the sight of Bran’s mangled face. He checked for a pulse, finding none, and then began to wail. “Murderer!” The squire stood and began to pound on Owain’s mailed chest, “you killed him! You killed him!” The crowd was still silent as the young boy slammed his small fists again and again against the stunned Owain. All failed to notice the guardsmen that began to flood the field.
“Sir Owain!” The knight turned towards the voice, seeing a burly man coming towards him. “Sir Owain, you are under the arrest for the killing of Sir Bran Courtenay. Surrender your sword and come peacefully.” For a moment, the guard feared that Owain was going to attempt to escape, for he raised his sword as if to strike out. But the blow never came. Instead, he turned his sword and, hilt first, offered the weapon to the guard.
“I will come,” Owain told the guardsman in a choked voice, “I will come.”
The Lost Kingdom: Part 1
It had been a day of pomp and splendour as the Mercians of Sanguine held their annual Midsummer Fair. Jugglers, actors, merchants, peasants, nobles, all mingled together on the fairground not far outside the cities walls. In the center of the ground, a tourney field had been constructed, not only to provide the people with smashing entertainment, but also for the nobles who enjoyed to partake in the most celebrated event during fairs, the Joust. Knights from all over Mercia had made the journey to Sanguine to test their mettle against those of equal thought and arm. And as the peasants cheered, the gallant cavaliers charged each other again and again.
Eventually, as the sun was starting to set, two knights remained on the field, having triumphed over all their opponents. On one side of the field was Sir Bran Courtenay, a knight from up near the Morak border. He wore his customary scarlet and cobalt colors over his mail hauberk that glittered in the sun. He was a dark man, with sun browned skin, black hair, and the deepest of green eyes. He stood at six feet and three inches, dwarfing lesser men, and had hands that could have shaped mountains. Complementing his strength and size, he had the unique ability to make those of the fairer sex swoon over him if he just walked by, and many women had been rendered speechless that day as he asked for tokens.
Opposing this pinnacle of chivalry was Sir Owain Lygarch. Owain was the third son of a family that hailed from a fief near Aincourt that was given to them by the King of Mercia. He stood at five feet and ten inches, and had short, honey blonde hair and light blue eyes. Over his hauberk he wore green and gold, and on his shield was painted a golden hart on a green field. During the entire course of the tournament, he had asked for no tokens, and had rebuffed one group of women so viscously that he had been avoided by most of the fairgoers throughout the day.
The sun fell lower in the sky as the two knights maneuvered their mounts into the starting position, facing each other across the bare tiltyard. This being the last round, the spectators were laying huge bets on either of the two knights, and the king himself even watched with anticipation as these, the two most skilled knights in his realm, glared at each other through narrow slits in their great helms. The warriors’ squires handed their masters their lances, the scarlet and cobalt, and green and gold pennons fluttering in the wind.
The trumpet flared, signaling the start, and both knights spurred their chargers forward. Bran leveled his lance at Owain’s chest, looking to unhorse his opponent quickly. But Owain had other ideas. Twisting in the saddle, Owain brought his shield up as Bran’s lance splintered against the hard wood, leaving Owain still on his horse. The crowd cheered as Bran was awarded one point by the herald, and the two knights moved back to their side of the field.
“Damn me but that man is skilled,” said Bran to his squire as he took off his helm to accept a drink of wine.
Bran’s squire tightened his master shin-guards, all the while listening as Bran went on about how he could use on method or another to unhorse his rival. “Of course, I could just aim for his head, but that would be dishonourable.” The trumpet sounded, signaling for the two knights to take positions. Again it sounded, and the two men charged each other again. This time Bran sought to hit Owain’s shield, confident that their was no good way to defend against that. He knew that it was unlikely to unhorse him, but it would at least gain him another point.
It was at the last moment that it happened. Owain had remained uncommitted to a target for most of the charge and it was thought by many that he was going to leave the list, but instead he did the unthinkable. Owain, taking advantage of Bran’s well-known sense of honour, aimed his lance straight at Bran’s head, and when it hit, the people gasped, and Bran was sent flying from his horse, smashing to the ground with a resounding thump.
Owain hastily halted his horse and dismounted, dropping his splintered lance and shield to draw his sword. But this was not needed. Their was no cheering or clapping for Owain’s victory, only stunned silence that he would resort to so craven a tactic. Bran had yet to move, and soon Bran’s squire was running out onto the field, shoving past the man that had defeated his master.
“My lord? My lord! Oh, Morgaine…” The young man began to notice the blood that was seeping out of his lord’s helm, and he hastily removed it, only to be sickened at the sight of Bran’s mangled face. He checked for a pulse, finding none, and then began to wail. “Murderer!” The squire stood and began to pound on Owain’s mailed chest, “you killed him! You killed him!” The crowd was still silent as the young boy slammed his small fists again and again against the stunned Owain. All failed to notice the guardsmen that began to flood the field.
“Sir Owain!” The knight turned towards the voice, seeing a burly man coming towards him. “Sir Owain, you are under the arrest for the killing of Sir Bran Courtenay. Surrender your sword and come peacefully.” For a moment, the guard feared that Owain was going to attempt to escape, for he raised his sword as if to strike out. But the blow never came. Instead, he turned his sword and, hilt first, offered the weapon to the guard.
“I will come,” Owain told the guardsman in a choked voice, “I will come.”