Welcome

[Merlin Myrddin]

Ok, Kate and Gussie. You'll be posting here.

Gussie, you start and Kate can follow.

Best of luck!

[Bedwyr Bedrydant]

Gravel crunched beneath his booted feet as Sir Bedwyr strode into the tournament arena. Spectators hollered and whooped. Sometimes a name made it through the general raucous and Bedwyr smirked to hear the calls suggest that Lucan was a favourite to win this battle. He’d be sure to tease him mercilessly later that it was due to his being a sweetheart to maidens because he was blonde and pretty. Through all the hubbub the sound of metal against metal that reached his ear, as the chain mail of his hauberk rubbed against his shoulder protecting voider, was a comfortingly solid reassurance.

Under the watchful eye of many, Sir Bedwyr took his place in the centre of the tournament ground. He could smell iron in the air from blood spilled in the previous battle. He could smell the collective body odours of a mass of peasants and noblemen alike, crowded together in the stands. He could smell the foods they were passing around amongst themselves. And, as he passed his sword into the open hand of a servant and received from him his helmet, which he swiftly donned over his chain mail hood, his nostrils were filled with the scent of recently polished metal. He took his sword back and nodded his thanks to the servant.

A stillness washed through the crowd as the two men readied themselves for battle. Sir Bedwyr licked his lips and tasted the salt of sweat and the metal of his helmet. He let out a breath and felt the warm air rebound off the inside of his helmet, some condensing to make the metal damp, some bouncing back to warm his bearded jaw. He breathed in his own second hand warmed air through his nose and half wished to be unhelmed early in the fight just so he could take a fresh and cooling breath. Sir Bedwyr bent his knees and brought his shield into a defensive position before his body.

Ready to battle, Bedwyr raised his sword. He twisted the hilt in his palm, spinning the sword once, twice. He knew its weight and handling perfectly but there was some comfort to be had in what appeared to be a nervous gesture. He spun the sword a third time and inched forwards towards Sir Lucan. He could feel the weight of his shield, a heavy force on his left arm, heavier than the sword was in his right hand. He could feel the gravel beneath his boots, the imprint of each single stone as it put pressure on the leather of his soles. The tunic he wore was brown and adorned with the crest of Glywysing, his shield the red with three white, inverted v-shaped stripes of his forefathers.

Drowning out all sounds and smells, all tastes and touches, anything that posed a distraction, Sir Bedwyr locked eyes with Sir Lucan and grinned. He knew that the grin would carry, despite his masked mouth, through his eyes. It was a cheeky grin. It was a playful one. It was always fun to duel but even more so when it was against friends. He held no fear for his safety and no fear for his humiliation. He knew Sir Lucan would fight honourably and if he were to win, then he would win nobly. They were both Knights of Camelot and there would be no shame in a defeat, only a slight dent to personal pride. His helmet restricted his vision and helped Sir Bedwyr to focus on his target. It seemed he was too be offered the first chance at making a strike in this battle and he would be a fool not to take it. Sir Lucan, he knew, would be no easy opponent. He saw his moment and swung his sword up in an arc, the blade parallel with the ground and at shoulder level, the point aimed at the right shoulder of Sir Lucan. Sir Bedwyr masked his vulnerable right side, which he was leaving wide open with such a move, with his shield, as he threw his whole body forward into the strike.

[Lucan Beirne]

John was droning on about something or other, his deep voice rumbling through the colourful tent Lucan had been allocated as he loaded the last of the armour onto the young Knight. Lucan wasn’t listening, instead bouncing on the balls of his feet, testing the weight of the metal strapped to his frame. He was nervous. Bedwyr, although one of his good friends among the Knights, was more than capable with a sword, and uncommonly fast. Still, he was glad to have been pitted against someone he knew well – it took some of the pressure off. He didn’t mind loosing quite so much if it was against him.


“Here.”

Lucan looked up in time to have his manservant shove his helmet into his gloved hands. Glancing up to send the older man a sharp glare, the blonde managed to catch a flash of his reflection. His jaw was set, his foot tapping nervously against the worn earth, where the grass had been beaten to dust by hundreds of footsteps. His tunic, set over the subtle sheen of chainmail, was a dusty green, the crest of the fiery dog on yellow picked out over his heart. Lucan sighed, reaching up to scoop the metal hood over his golden head of hair, cardling the helmet under his arm. Finally, he was grasping the familiar hilt of his Father’s sword, and pushing the draping fabric masking the door to one side.

Stepping out into the tournament area was like walking into a wall of noise. Lucan did his best not to wince, lifting his gaze to the crowd towering up and around into the pale sky. Several faces stood out, but he turned away before he could really recognise anyone, diverting his attention instead to his opponent. He vaguely heard his own name ring from the stand and despite his nerves, felt his lips curl in a slight smirk.

Passing the sword briefly to the servant at his side, the young Knight slipped the helmet (recently repaired by Bree) over his head, dimming the persistent hum from the crowd and narrowing his vision. It was a relief not to be exposed to those hundreds of staring eyes, contained safely as he now was in the metal prison. At the same time, there was the familiar sharp smell of metal flooding his nostrils. The sword on his hand was heavy and comforting as he tested it, remembering the familiar weight and balance of the deadly blade. Lucan lifted his shield to mask his left side, rising his gaze to meet Bedwyr’s with the sound of the crowd still heavy on his ears.

There was a moment’s pause, when Lucan noticed the mischievous narrowing of his friends eyes, the warmth of a smile blazing behind the mask of the helmet. Immediately, he felt a lot better. It was just like training, he told himself, mirroring Bedwyr’s smile so it flashed wonkily over his features. Even though his current situation had managed to strip him of most of his playful immaturity, it was hard to let it all go. As soon as this was done they’d go and get a drink, throw back some mead with Taran and the others and go through the fight blow by blow, laughing and arguing until they either got thrown out of drank the place dry.

That in mind, Lucan pushed all other thoughts aside, forcing himself to concentrate in the heartbeat of silence that preceded the battle. His shield was a dead weight on his arm, and his old injury threatened to flare under the pressure, a ripple of pain spreading from his wrist towards his elbow. Lucan gritted his teeth. And in that moment Bedwyr’s sword lifted, flashing in the sunlight and aimed for Lucan’s broad shoulder.

Automatically, Lucan lifted the shield, sending Bedwyr’s sword bouncing off the wood and lunging with his own, forcing the blade towards Bedwyr’s abdomen and taking a step forward. Although the two men were close, Lucan held no fear of injuring the other Knight – you did what you had to do to win, and he had plenty of faith in the dark haired mans ability. As he moved, his actions flowing into each other, the blonde did his best to ignore his aching left wrist.

Taking several further strides across the dust, trying to force his opponent backwards, Lucan completed his first swing, quickly spinning the sword to the other side and trying for another. This time his attack was directed downwards, towards the other mans right leg, his shield falling for a second in the process.

This post has been edited by Lucan Beirne on Nov 10 2009, 04:47 PM

[Bedwyr Bedrydant]

The strike was met with a block from the shield. Sir Bedwyr found his sword high in the air, knocked up with the force of his parried wield. Elbows drawn in he pulled back and took care to step out of the way of the riposte. He swung his sword, blade pointed to the ground, and met Sir Lucan’s lunging thrust with a clash of metal that resounded. The sound reverberated around the stands and his arm shook within its gauntlet bands.

Heeding the wisdom of teachers past, trying to find the rhythm of the fight, trying to find the flow, control it, last the length of the battle, its breadth and height, Sir Bedwyr slid his feet one step back and one step left to the side circling in as he waited, and assessed, and waited. The second attack came and Bedwyr grinned. He blocked the swing with his sword and out rang the echoed chime of a metallic clang.

Expecting the riposte to come, Sir B. dipped his shield to cover his right most thigh. His eyes, glinting with fun, narrowed to see that he might miss; his shield remained too high. He dropped it further and stepped to the side, pushed the sword away with the crest of his shield but left his sword arm useless and wide. Sir Bedwyr stepped forward and with a kiss of shield against chain mail thrust his left arm up towards the lip of Sir Lucan’s helm.



His arm thrust up, with it the shield it bore, the markings of his house but not his home. His sword remained behind him, its arm sore from the shuddering strikes met to the bone. Sir Bedwyr stepped past Sir Lucan and turned on the spot, staying perpendicular. But now his sword arm was foremost and yearned for further use within this sword born spar. He feinted once left in this armoured dance. He feinted right and waited for his chance.

On the back of his neck he could feel cool air where the day’s gentle breeze met the sweat of his exertion and offered its tool of easing discomfort. His hair, where wet, was sticking to his helmet, his booted feet, uncomfortably warm, his mail chafing the skin at his neck and yet, at this meet, he felt none of it, cared about nothing but the thrill of the fight, the high, the buzz, the entertained crowds, their cheering, their fuss.

Nuances and rhythms of the sword fight. Things they had trained and perfected for years. Sir Bedwyr lunged forward with his sword, light on his feet, heavy in the arms. He hears the grinding sand and stones beneath his boots and takes his aim, his sword tip pointed to the right side of Sir Lucan’s armoured suit, to the chest beneath the sword armed arm, to voiderless mail and freshly darned tunic. He smirked to think of the hole he might nick.

[Lucan Beirne]

If it wasn't for the occasional roar of the crowd, Lucan could almost believe that he was at the training grounds. Bedwyr's eyes were dancing with barely disguised amusement as the two men circled each other, their careful footsteps lifting clouds of dust around their feet. All he needed now was Arthur to call him an arse, and he'd be right at home. The blonde sucked in a lungful of brisk autumn air, trying to slow things down for a moment. Lucan's mind skipped one, two beats ahead, planning out his strikes and blocks before they'd come into reality, turning over direction of the fight.

His second attack was met easily by Bedwyr, who dropped his sheild to mask his thigh and stepped neatly aside, leaving Lucan's sword flailing in thin air. Lucan would have scoffed, made a sarcastic remark, but his oppenents sheild was suddenly reaching up, right on course to smack Lucan straight under the chin. The younger man took a hasty step backwards, skidding a little in the dirt to avoid being completely knocked out by a glorified piece of wood. Still, the edge of the sheild managed to catch him slightly, jarring his chin so his teeth juddered and stars erupted momentarily before his eyes.

"Idiot," Lucan winced. Not that Bedwyr would ever be able to hear him over the clash of metal and roar of the crowds. (He swore he heard Taran's voice for a moment, screaming like a girl.) Shaking the blow off, golden hair threatening to fall into his eyes, Lucan found himself once again parallel to the dark haired man. His swordarm lifted of its own accord, coming level with his shoulder, the point aimed threateningly at his friend.

Bedwyr darted forwards before Lucan had the chance. He aimed for the weak spot in Lucan's armour, just below his right arm where the shield and heavy metal plating failed to protect him. Lucan spun away, turning on his back leg and lifting his sword slightly warningly, waving it in Bedwyr's direction as if scolding his friend. But he hadn't moved quite quick enough - he could feel the sharp throb in his side where the sword had nicked his skin and tunic.

Right. He'd get him back for that.

Lucan's sword flashed in the sun as he moved forward, powering the deadly blade forwards in one, two, three furious swings that crashed against the wood of his friends shield and juddered up his arm. Despite the pain in his weak wrist and side, he had to work to stop himself grinning behind the mask of his helmet.