#ive always loved jousting and this gave me an excuse to watch 7645 hours of jousting videos. best day ever

[enchanted-prose]

#2 Joust

I’m so sorry I didn’t post on Friday! I had it finished, I was waiting on an editor and then went out. Anyways, here is my second piece: Joust

Word Count: 4,859

Characters: Roden, Mott, Jaron, Jolly (Original Character), Merry (Original Character), Lord Feall (Original Character)

Notes: Edited! This is a continuation from #1 Can’t Believe You’ve Made Me Do This and from here on out, all fics will be probably continuations and interconnected. Enjoy!

Drylliad usually welcomed high ranking visitors with a beautiful celebration, thanking the Saints for a safe arrival.

But it wasn’t every day that a king visited, even if he did answer to a higher power.

And it wasn't every day that a king's visit fell upon a festival date.

In the streets of Drylliad, streamers fluttered from windows. Lines and lines of short banners on ropes zigzagged across buildings and houses. Poles covered in flowers had been set up, ribbons hanging down from their tops.

Tents housing food from all over the realms.

Tents boasting the best imported weapons.

Tents hiding the prettiest men and women from the public eye.

It wouldn't be long before Chaos flooded the marketplace.

Children would chase stray dogs through the festival, and occasionally, drag their favorites home to become pets. Troubadours, dancers, fire eaters. There’d be massive stages built for elaborate puppet shows.

Roden couldn't deny how excited he was to see it all.

As a child, he'd enjoyed festivals. He insisted on dragging Latamer, his childhood friend, with him to see the jousting knights and fire breathing dancers. They never missed a single one, even when Latamer was convinced that he carried the plague.

Latamer was always hanging around in the back of Roden's mind.

He should've been strong enough to save his friend.

At that very moment, he was awaiting orders from King Oberson, leader of Dinwallis, one of Bymar's kingdom states, and from Jaron.

He stood in the castle's great hall, Bymarian knight Lord Feall to his left, and Mott to his right. Behind Roden stood a small company of guards.

Just enough to keep the peace, but not enough to distract from the festival.

"King Jaron and I have been discussing the attack on Lord Feall," Oberson said. He scratched at his patchy beard, "I have decided to keep my personal guard with me, though the Lady Amarinda has reassured me that there is a slim chance of another attack."

"You don't know the Faola like I do," Feall placed an armored hand over his chestplate.

"You're right, but I do trust Lady Amarinda's judgement and her husband was very insistent that the bandits who attacked you have ulterior motives," Jaron crossed his arms. "However, Lord Feall, I advise you to take care in the streets. The Faola haven't resurfaced since their attack, but it did seem that at least one of them wanted you dead."

Ah, the short bandit.

It wasn’t very often that bandits and thieves managed to escape Roden.

He was talented at his job, his drive for justice was a fuel nobody else could really understand.

The short bandit and the Faola would be apprehended eventually.

Roden remained silent as he pondered the situations that could arise. There were guards stationed in the woods at various locations, the company of guards behind him were to patrol the outskirts of the festival, and he and Feall would be keeping an eye on the festivities in the center of it all.

He didn't want to admit that Tobias was right about the Faola.

That they did end up redistributing the goods they'd stolen.

Saints, his inability to catch them made him tense with frustration.

There were better ways to go about delivering justice to the unfortunate. It didn't require breaking the law.

"I only hope that the Faola don't try to ruin this festival," Feall joked.

"As do I," said Jaron. "Roden, I trust your plan to work, you can send your men out as soon as you feel ready."

A small grin crept across his face.

There was no way Roden would say it aloud, but hearing people tell him that they ‘trust’ his plans was beyond invigorating. It was simply proof that he was an efficient leader and a capable captain.

Jaron arched an eyebrow.

Ah, Roden was still grinning.

He forced a scowl on his face.

“We’re ready to deploy.”

Roden glanced at Mott, who cleared his throat, "Will you be alright without us, Jaron?"

"I'll have you know that I don't require a governess to watch my every move. I won't get into trouble."

Nobody said a word, as nobody dared inform Jaron that despite his efforts to avoid causing a ruckus, he tended to attract danger.

Jaron threw up his hands, "Imogen's going to be with me! Is that enough reassurance?"

"I suppose, though sometimes I believe Imogen encourages your antics," Roden teased. He turned around, ordering his men to their positions before Jaron could protest.

"Do you have a backup plan if they do decide the festival's too boring for them?" Mott asked quietly, following Roden out of the great hall.

He shrugged, "I predict that Jaron is going to disguise himself, Imogen and Amarinda will follow suit, and they'll avoid Tobias as if their lives depend on it."

Mott chuckled, "He's quite the mother hen."

"It's inconvenient at times."

The image of Tobias frantically searching through the streets brought a grin to Roden's face. Tobias would probably try to enlist the help of the royal guard, insisting that something was wrong, only to find the trio laughing at him from the safety of a tent tavern.

"Have you any word of the Faola?" Mott asked. He pushed the castle's front door open, and didn't wait for Roden as he walked down the steps. "Have your scouts found anything?"

"Not exactly," Roden confessed. The morning sun already beat down on him. He'd chosen the wrong day to wear a full suit of armor. "There's a friend of mine who may have a few words to share, but I don't even know if he's here."

The last of the guards crossed the castle bridge, split into two groups, and left for their posts. Mott squinted at the towering poles bedecked with ribbons and flowers, "Ah, he's the troubadour you were telling me about the other day."

"The one and only. Last I heard from him, he was busy in Mendenwal."

"Let's hope he makes an appearance today."

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Hours passed, but still no sign of anyone remotely resembling the Faola. Roden, Mott, and Feall rode together through the streets, doing their best to avoid the unlucky few who were already succumbing to alcohol.

"Ah, day drinking," Feall chuckled. "I understand their reasonings behind that all too well."

A smirk crossed Mott's face, "I can't deny that I've considered smuggling a flask into meetings with regents."

"I have smuggled a flask into meetings with regents," Roden chuckled, but he had no intentions of trying any kind of drink anytime soon. He had a troubadour to find. "Have you seen anything Feall?"

"Not since you asked me twenty minutes ago."

"Have you seen the Faola before?" Mott asked, wrinkling his nose at the sight of a woman waving at him from a scarlet tent.

"I have, their leader is Bymarian," Feall explained. "I don't know his name yet, but I have suspicions. I think he comes from the kingdom of Idunn Craich, but I can't be sure."

"Another kingdom state," Roden noted, still scanning the crowd for his contact. "I know of two. Bultain and Dinwallis."

"Idunn Craich is a kingdom state too, so that's three."

"And the other two?"

Feall grinned, "Ulster and Midhe. Congratulations, captain, you've learned all five Bymarian kingdoms. Would you like a medal for that?"

Roden's cheeks burned, but he didn't say anything.

Despite his actions during the Avenian War, he still had to struggle with the education he'd been denied.

Noblemen within the military ranks adored pointing it out.

"Any sign of the troubadour?" Mott shielded his eyes against the blazing midday sun.

"Not yet," Roden said. "He goes by the name Jolly, he typically prefers bright colors. He's Bymarian, if that helps."

"Ah," Mott nodded. "Find a place to keep the horses. Does he differentiate between men and women? Is he a gambler?"

"He's, ah, definitely the life of the party. Why?"

Mott dismounted, gesturing for Roden and Feall to do the same. He then tipped his head in the direction of a massive building resembling a castle, "I think I know where he is."

"Even if it isn't him," Feall said as he led his horse to a post. "This seems like the area he'd be in."

"Do you know Jolly?" asked Roden in surprise, resting his hand on his sword hilt.

"I do, as a matter of fact. He's a favorite of Queen Danika."

That didn't bring any surprise.

Though Jolly didn't remain in Carthya for long increments of time, he visited often, and he always brought tales of his escapades with whoever he chose. Often, his visits ended in a bar fight or running from a disgruntled spouse.

Life was never boring with Jolly.

As they approached the temporary castle, Roden caught himself walking as slowly as he could.

Dear Saints, there was just so much to take in.

So many people hawking their wares.

Entire suckling pigs roasting on spits.

Jesters swallowing swords, fire, and many other things that would definitely kill the inexperienced.

To Roden's embarrassment, he had to jog to catch up to Feall and Mott, his armor smacking together with loud metallic clangs.

"Don't worry, you can have your fun soon," Mott said, clapping Roden on the shoulder. "You're the one who wanted to do this."

"I know, and you're right, I shouldn't get distracted," mumbled Roden as they stepped through the castle's threshold.

The scent of cooking meat wafted through the temporary castle, accompanied by the spicy aroma of spilled wine and abandoned sweets.

Despite the magnificent exterior, the temporary castle looked like any other tavern. The walls were made of stone, the floor being the trampled grass, and the windows consisting of several sticks and a gap between stones. Tables bore broken legs and chipped surfaces. A staircase led up to another floor, guarded by pockmarked women in ragged dresses. Kegs lined the back wall, a bar as long as the castle's width stood in front of them, and various sorts of mugs and cups hung from the ceiling.

A grin spread on Roden's face.

He was certain that this place was a site for enjoyment.

"There, at the back," Mott said, tilting his head towards a large crowd of men and women near the tavern's keg wall.

"That can't be-," began Roden, but he knew Mott was right the second he caught a flash of a peacock green jerkin.

Feall whistled, "That's definitely Jolly."

At the mere mention of his name, Jolly stood up, a dimpled smile breaking across his chiseled face, "See? I told you they'd come!"

The grin on Roden's face instantly melted into a frown, "This isn't going to be good."

"Do we-," Mott started, but he was cut off the second a group of tavern patrons shoved them all forward.

"Captain Harlowe! It's been far too long!" Jolly exclaimed, lithely jumping from the countertop he'd been standing on. "How are you? Still pursuing that one minstrel? Saints, can't remember her name. The one with the-"

Jolly held his hands out a fair distance from his chest, leaving Roden to uncomfortably clear his throat, "I need to ask something of you, Jolly."

"Ah, anything, but then I need to ask something from you," Jolly swayed on his feet, and would've toppled over if it weren't for the woman who caught him. Jolly patted her cheek, "I knew you cared about me, love. What, or who, can I do for you, captain?"

"Have you ever heard of the Faola?"

That was all it took to force Jolly to straighten out. He frowned, "Why?"

"They're here in Carthya," explained Feall. "King Oberson of Dinwallis and I were attacked several days ago by them."

"They're in Carthya?" Jolly shot a look at the woman at his side. "Shoo, Merry, I have to talk business."

The woman, Merry, scowled and yanked Jolly's full tankard from him as she walked away.

"We'll talk later?" called Jolly.

Roden almost didn't catch the fact that Feall's eyes were glued to Merry's leaving figure.

There was something in Feall's eyes that couldn't be placed.

"Right, the Faola," Feall said, jolting himself back into the conversation. "What do you know?"

"Ah, ah, ah," Jolly waggled his finger as he simultaneously smoothed out his jerkin. "Captain Harlowe, I desperately need your help before we do any talking about a subject that'll definitely get me into trouble."

It wasn't the first time Jolly had asked for help. Typically, he asked for assistance in escaping somebody he'd crossed, or needed help paying off a tavern bill. The chances of anything being different were slim.

He trusted Jolly.

Roden nodded, "It's alright, you can tell me later, I promise I'll help you in any way that I can."

"No, Captain, I don't think you under-"

"Tell me about the Faola, please."

For a moment, Roden worried that Jolly would remain silent.

Was discussing the Faola truly that bad?

He tried not to look relieved when Jolly finally nodded.

Jolly cleared his throat, and looked over both of his shoulders to his drunk companions, "I've had a few run-ins with them, not terrible company, if I do say so myself. There are worse bandits that I've had to deal with, but still bandits."

"What do you know of their leader?" asked Roden, holding out a hand the second Feall tried to interrupt him.

"Bangol Bandir?" Jolly chuckled, his eyebrows rising in the process. "Absolute cheater at cards. I wouldn't want to expose him, though."

"Bandir's not very big. . ."

"We must be thinking of two different Bangol Bandirs because the one that I know could crush your head between his thighs, Captain."

Mott smirked, "That description matches the bandit we're looking for just perfectly."

"Ha," Roden didn't bother hiding the annoyance now throbbing through his head. "Your jokes brighten my day."

"No, no, no," Feall blurted out, speaking before Roden could get him to remain quiet. "I'm Lord Feall, a member of Queen Danika's court, and while traveling here I was singled out by a bandit much shorter than you. It could've been a woman."

"Couldn't be Faola then, Bandir doesn't employ women for thievery. He uses them to poison enemies too strong to challenge in battle," he turned to one of his friends. "Can you find Merry? I want my drink back."

"Tobias insisted that the bandits were Faola," Mott scratched his chin, a thoughtful expression cemented on his face. "Perhaps the bandit who attacked you, Lord Feall, wasn't a leader at all."

"Impossible, there's no way a single bandit could-," he began, but he never finished his sentence.

"By the Saints! Lord Feall? I know you," Jolly burst, a new drink in his hand thanks to his crowd of followers. "Haven't seen you in years, has your inheritance been resolved?"

"Inheritance?" Echoed Mott and Roden in unison.

Feall's face darkened, "I was set up to inherit Idunn Craich, but the, ah, rules of inheritance have become muddled. Idunn Craich's throne was left to a disgraced family, but as Queen Danika sees it, there is more to the story. Idunn Craich will be mine someday, but that's beside the point. You'll have to forgive me Jolly, we rarely conversed."

"Ah, but that doesn't matter, I heard everything about you from court," said Jolly as he took a prolonged sip from his tankard.

"Anyways," Feall cleared his throat. "Have you any idea who could've led the attack?"

"Possibly. But what's in it for me?"

Roden kept his mouth shut as both Feall and Mott looked to him. He scowled, "I already promised you that I'd assist you. What more do you want?"

"I- I just," Jolly stuttered, and he wiped his hands on his tunic.

Jolly. . . Nervous?

A rare occurrence indeed.

"What do you want?"

"I bet against that table over there, regarding the, uh, joust this afternoon. . . And the man I bet on. . ."

Oh no.

That's what Jolly meant when he asked for help.

That's why he wouldn't speak until he knew that his request would be fulfilled.

He needed to know that there would be somebody to ride in the jousting tournament and win for him.

"That's too much to ask, Jolly," Mott was dangerously calm. "There's not enough time to find somebody to ride in the place of your failed man."

"It's going to cost me money," Jolly wailed. "It's going to tarnish my reputation!"

"We'll pay you the money you lost for the information," Feall offered, his eyes blazing with determination.

"You should understand the importance of a reputation, sir!"

"We'll pay you double! Triple-!"

"That's enough," Roden held up his hand, and a light smirk crossed his face. "I'll ride in the joust, but I'll only do it if you tell me what I need to know. Can you promise me that, Jolly?"

"You? Joust? Captain, that's absurd. You don't-!"

"You'd be surprised at what I'm capable of, my friend."

Roden shrugged once he realized that Mott and Feall were staring at him. He'd practiced on his own time, there was a large array of perks that came with being able to use a lance on the battlefield.

Now he'd have the chance to ride in a tournament.

Granted, it was his first official tournament, but Jolly didn't need to know anything about that.

"Alright, fine," Jolly looked over his shoulder again, and then gestured to a broken table in the corner. "I'll tell you what I know about the Faola."

"Thank you-," Roden began, but Jolly shook his head.

"I'm trusting that you'll win the tournament, Captain, otherwise. . . Things will no longer continue to work in my favor. Shoo! Go away!"

Jolly continued to wave off his companions as they approached the table. They soon lost interest in him, and turned to harass the poor minstrel in the corner.

"Right," Jolly rubbed his hands together. "Now, there's rumors following the Faola like nobody's business. I've seen sections of them working in Bymar and Avenia, so they're not just exclusive to Carthya."

"Bymar, that would line up with why they'd attack Feall but not King Jaron," Roden noted, wishing he had something to write down everything Jolly said.

"Could the attacker have been a woman?" Feall asked, his brow furrowing.

"Hush, let the man speak," Mott held up a hand.

Feall shut his mouth.

"Thank you," said Jolly. "It's entirely possible you were attacked by a woman, but I doubt it, Faola women are much smarter than the men. They'd administer poison to you in doses till it seemed like you died of natural causes. They're all quite dominant, too, frightening once they get you tied up and-"

"Jolly. Remain on the subject."

"Sorry Captain, where was I? Ah yes, potential identities. Several members of the Faola adopt names that aren't their own, some use it to instill fear and others use their stolen names to justify their causes. Notable aliases include Veldergrath, Bevin Conner, Mireldis Thay, Joth Kerwyn, King Eckbert himself. It's a way of being able to hide the fact that they work with bandits."

"I recognize Mireldis Thay," Feall murmured, but he couldn't remain quiet any longer. He smacked the table, "She's what stands in the way of Idunn Craich."

"It would be idiotic for Lady Thay to use her first name while fighting as a bandit," Mott pointed out.

Jolly nodded, "And then attack you. Besides, I know Lady Thay, she's far from here. It's just somebody tarnishing her name, just as the bandits who sport Lord Kerwyn's name are trying to do. No, no, I suspect that you're dealing with somebody else. Have any details I can go by?"

"Nothing, aside from the height," Roden said. "He, or she, was short, a little bit shorter than the average woman."

"Perfect!" Jolly exclaimed, standing up as he did so. "I'll see what I can do about finding your mystery bandit. And don't forget to win that tournament, Captain, I highly suggest that you don’t lose."

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"I'm beginning to worry that you haven't gotten anything keeping you away from making stupid choices," Mott said, tapping Roden's head. "Jaron's rubbed off on you."

"Ah, well, I need to learn all that I can about the Faola, and Jolly is our best bet," Roden said, strapping a plate of armor to each of his legs.

The tent he and Mott were sheltered in was blindingly hot.

The armor Roden put on made the heat nearly unbearable.

"You're sure you're going to be alright?" asked Mott as he shoved a helmet in Roden's direction.

He shrugged, "There's danger in everything I do."

It wasn't his first time using a lance, he'd trained for several months after he realized the value in being able to wield a lance while in a battle. Roden knew the risks and he knew the rules.

But a splintering lance was far different from a sword.

A splintering lance might not hit you directly, but chances were high that a piece of wood could lodge itself in your face or neck.

Not an enjoyable way to die. . . Not that dying is something to be enjoyed.

Roden pulled the helmet on over his head, and slid the visor up, "Would you give me a favor of yours to carry with me?"

"No."

"Please?"

"Absolutely not."

"Please remember my name if I fall on this lovely afternoon," Roden joked, slamming the visor over his face.

Mott scowled, "You're not going to die, and if you do, it means you're awful at jousting."

"I suppose I have to win now so I can prove you wrong."

"I'm concerned, were you not planning on winning in the first place?"

"There's always a chance at losing, but I try not to let that be an option. This will be over soon, my friend," Roden's voice was muffled behind the helmet. "We'll meet at the tavern this evening, Jolly said he'd be waiting there."

The sound of trumpeters shook the summer air. Mott frowned, and held the tent flap open for Roden, silent and disapproving as he almost always was. However, he did clap Roden's armored shoulder and whispered a few words of luck before he made his way to the stands.

Children waved multicolored flags at him, Roden waved back.

Ah, how he'd dreamed of taking up a lance.

Jolly's rider, the man Roden was replacing, was an older knight named Cronnach Nyrsate. Sir Nyrsate's coat of arms had been painted onto a wooden shield and leaned against the judges' box. . . Which usually sat Jaron, Imogen, the Prime Regent, and three other guests.

It was a surprise to see Jaron holding Imogen's hand in their seats and not off causing trouble. Harlowe sat next to them.

Saints, it would be humiliating if Roden lost in front of his father.

Sir Nyrsate's horse was supposed to be ridden for the match, but Roden had just enough time to pull enough strings and get his own horse armored and ready to go.

That would give him a slight advantage. His horse, a gift from Bymar, was massive. Bred specifically for war. It made the rider taller, never stopped, and brought a crushing power that rivaled all other warhorses.

It was a little frustrating, however, to see Roden's horse bearing the Nyrsate coat of arms rather than the Harlowe coat of arms.

Roden swung up into the saddle. . .

And finally allowed himself a look at his opponent.

He didn't recognize the coat of arms, nor did he recognize the horse. All Roden saw was a large man in battle scarred armor, which would've been painted black at one point. A red plum erupted from his helmet.

Definitely more than a little intimidating.

Jaron stood up, and raised his hands out to the stands full of festival goers. Roden was too far away to hear anything.

Not that he would've been able to hear anything anyways.

He was far too focused on his opponent.

"Sir! Sir Nyrsate!" Bellowed a flock of snot nosed teenagers, street rats, and esteemed young heirs to noble houses.

Roden waved a hand at them, he couldn't speak now. He needed to focus.

"Ah, good sir!" Shouted a man over the roar of the crowd. Jaron must've said something funny. The man waved his hands. "Sir!"

Roden squinted, Jolly was there to see him off.

"Good luck," called Jolly as he launched himself over the barrier keeping the viewers out. A girl followed behind. "Me and Merry came to give you a send off, and the kids of course, you simply have to let them send you off."

"A favor for you, sir knight," Merry bowed deeply, retrieving a dirty blue scarf from the front of her gown as she did so. She tied it to Roden's right wrist before stepping back to help several members of Roden's screaming fans over the side of the fence.

"Remember, if you knock him off his horse, it's an instant win," Jolly patted Roden's thigh, and hefted a lance over to him.

"I know the rules," Roden huffed as he tucked the lance under his arm.

A page stepped out from Jaron's box, holding out a flag like a sword.

The flag went up.

Roden charged forwards, a small band of children howling as they chased him and his horse for several feet.

All he had to do was aim for the center, lower the lance, and hold firm.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The crowd began to scream the second a lance cracked-

Stars blurred across Roden's vision.

He missed!

Saints, he hoped Mott didn't see that. Jolly's concerned face from the crowd didn't help, Merry was the one to get him a new lance.

Flag up, screaming children, crowd cheering.

Roden missed again.

It took three points to win a match. Points were earned when a lance was broken or a rider was toppled. One point for each broken lance, and so far, Roden hadn't broken any of his.

He was two points down.

One point away from losing.

Anger burst through his lungs.

How could he have been so stupid!? Signing up for a joust! He'd never ridden in front of so many screaming civilians before!

The children who'd been chasing at him clamored for his attention, but they backed away the second he didn't say anything.

"Lean in the saddle," Merry said as she handed Roden a fresh lance. She patted his horse's shoulder, "I know you're fierce, unhorse him and that's a match."

"I've never done this before," Roden confessed, unsure if she'd heard him over the roar of the crowd.

"You've done it twice just now, third time's the charm. Go on, don't let Jolly down. Or me. You're wearing my favor, and everybody in town knows that it's mine. You'll damage my reputation."

"I'm so sorry about your reputation."

"As you should! Be more sorry about your reputation, sir knight!" Merry shot back, her hands on her hips. "Are you so quick to give up?!"

The crowd screamed, Roden jolted to attention.

His opponent charged early, ready to finish the match off.

Merry cried out, and slapped out at Roden's horse's flank, causing the mighty beast to rear up.

Roden shouldered the lance, forcing the horse in a straight path down the arena.

Lean in the saddle

He could hear Merry's words ringing in his head.

Time seemed to slow around him as he blocked out everything save for the man barreling towards him. The crowd's screams were muffled.

Like they were shrieking underneath a pond's surface.

Lean in the saddle.

The rider was coming closer and closer to him.

Roden gripped the lance and-

Wood splintered.

The unmistakable sound of metal colliding with the solid ground cut through the muffled noises.

He was still in the saddle, holding a shattered lance.

Roden was still in his saddle.

He'd made a hit!

Instantly, Roden turned his horse around itself, and held up the broken lance to Merry and Jolly. His opponent was being dragged out of the arena by his foot. Pages chased the runaway horse. Mott was standing among the crowd, his hands above his head.

"That was amazing!" Jolly shrieked as he ran to Roden. "Knocked him clean off!"

A trail of all sorts of children, the ones who'd chased Roden down the arena, came flooding, waving their banners and shouting for "Sir Nyrsate's" attention.

"You better pay up," Roden said, tossing the broken lance to the ground.

The children all scrambled for it.

"Oh, I will, I promise I will," Jolly vowed, grabbing Merry by the shoulders to plant kisses all over her face. "Dear Saints, I've won too much money."

"Don't gamble on drunks ever again," Merry snapped as she shoved Jolly away from her.

"Oh, I won't, I promise I won't."

Roden was certain that he and Merry were thinking the same thing: Jolly would certainly go on to bet on more drunks.

But perhaps it was worth it.

After all, Roden received his chance to ride in a jousting tournament.

And he'd guaranteed an opportunity to learn more about the Faola.

It wouldn't be long before he caught them.