Warhammer

Bjorn Steelheart blinked heavily, his vision clearing for an instant, the girl was standing right in front of him, an easy target for any Warrior with half a brain;
But... She had sheathed her weapon...

Releasing his grip upon the haft of him Hammer, The Steelheart let his own weapon fall to the ground, before straightening himself with an effort back to a standing position, shaking his head as he did so, like a Wolf trying to clear its ears of water...

"Aye lass,"
The Norscan rumbled in reply,
"I'll live, draw yer blade an' lets finish this...!"

Overhead, the sorrowful cry of a lone Raven could be heard once more as Bjorn stooped to retrieve his Warhammer...

Hefting his trusty weapon once more, The Jarl seemed to find new strength as the Bretonnian stands exploded into a storm of booing, the Norscan merely grinned...

"When yer ready, Lass,"
He told his opponent with a nod of respect,
"This old War Dog ain't done yet."

Wheeling high overhead, the raven swept over the melee ground, its wings spread wide to catch the warm currents of rising to meet it as below, the two combatants squared off once more, the jeers of the crowd ringing in their ears...

Luxa Got back down into her stance, if he said he was ready then she would come back as hard as she could, but she had to let him make the first move. She had no idea what happened to him he really could have been faking just to make Luxa try to finish the fight quickly and he'd come back and win right away. She began circling again then she stopped when she was in range to roll and grab her other sword.

Bjorn shook his head again as he circled to match his opponent, stumbling slightly once again as he did so, prompting another loud storm of jeers from the Bretonnian nobility...

"Gah!"
The Norscan wrenched his head from side to side, gritting his teeth, Bjorn began to suppress the rising nausea in his gut and the leaden feeling within his limbs with a supreme effort of will...
Brows furrowed, The Steelheart locked eyes with his opponent once more...

Oblivious or uncaring to the sudden hostility of the Bretonnian crowd, with the possible exception of Sir Alis, Bjorn also did not turn his head to spot the looks of concern etched into the faces of his Huscarls as the bold Norse Warriors looked on in genuine shock...

A faint smile twisted the corners of one mouth as grey eyes twinkled in triumph.

Up above, The circling Raven cawed loudly once more...

With a roar of frustration, apparently driving back his intoxication, Bjorn Steelheart entered the fray once more, this time thrusting the steel spike that adorned his Hammers head straight and true at his opponents chest...

Luxa did a fancy spin that was bound to wow the crowd. She stopped her spin when his hands were fully extended were she grabbed his arm and tried to slam her elbow into his straightened elbow joint.

Bringing his arm up swiftly, Bjorn turned his wrist within the girls grip and pushed down sharply, breaking the grasp upon his arm...

Bending his knees suddenly and twisting his upper body, the Norscan came back up suddenly with a surprise left upper cut, looking to catch his opponent flush upon the chin and lay her out for the 'count'...

Suddenly all Luxa saw was the sky, sand all around her. She looked around and saw her father's smiling face off in the stands. He gave her a nice wink and she closed her eyes again this time truly knocked out. Alexander walked out onto the field, lifted the girl up and carried her back over to the stands. Her eyes were already fluttering open. By the time they were back across the thresh hold of the gate. Alexander set her down by some guards just to be safe and went off and got some wine for her. Soon he was back and she was feeling much better back to her smiling self. "How do you think you did Luxa." Alexander asked "I could have done better." She replied. Alexander smiled, "Obviously you could have won if you cheated, but this is sport and you don't cheat in sport there is no reason to do so." Alexander decided to thank a god that the man's attack with his spike didn't hit or he would be extremely pissed. He decided to thank the chaos gods, for he knew that it wasn't any of their doing, but he certainly wasn't going to thank the Lady of the Lake. Soon he was back to warming up for his fight against the lady who was terrible at archery, but looked like she was a capable fighter. He sure wasn't going to lose in till he got to fight Bjorn.

Br'nard Even'star, a towering, blonde, broad shouldered Hurscarl and Stormcrow, Bjorn's grey haired, steel eyed Thane both strode out onto the melee field to help their Jarl back to his feet;

Bjorn Steelheart, having landed a sturdy, gauntleted punch upon his opponents jaw, had promptly sunk to one knee as the Knight had collapsed, to be removed byy her farther.

Now, Stormcrow and Br'nard each took one of Bjorn's arms and heaved the Barbarian back to a vertical stance.

"Are ye alright, Jarl?"
Br'nard asked as the three began to remove themselves from the field, Bretonnian jeers still ringing all around them as missiles and rotten fruit began to fly...

"I'll be fine,"
Growled Bjorn, as a rancid cabbage landed at his feet, followed by a hail of stones,
"Fine enough tae slay all these arrogant little Southlings and offer their Skulls to the Blood God!"
He spat, raw hate building within him as another hail of rotting missiles pelted the Norsemen.

"They will learn to fear us once more!"
The Steelheart promised as the Warriors Three removed themselves from the field,
"Yet I could barely lift my Hammer out there!"

"Fatigue!"
Br'nard growled,
"It makes cowards of us all, we shall have our revenge, Jarl, do not worry!"

With a grunt of fury, Steelheart shrugged off the helping hands of his Shield Brothers,
"I do not worry!"
Bjorn growled;
"Something out there did not sit right, an' If I find I was betrayed or bested by some common trick, I shall see the man responsible suffer a death so brutal that even Khorne would turn away in disgust!"

"These Southlings see us as mere mortals now,"
Stormcrow put in, speaking for the first time,
"We must strike hard and fast if any hope of honour is to be regained!"

Bjorn nodded wearily at his Thanes words,

"Yer council is wise as ever, Crow,"
The Jarl rumbled, meeting his Sword Brothers steely grey eyes as he spoke,
"This whole land stinks of cowardice and treachery... An' I shall see it all burn..."

High above The Steelhearts vengeful oath, a Raven did cry...

The Herald blew his shwam once again! A new one that a servant had come to fetch for him, "Well Ladies and Gentlemen! I never thought I would see the day when the defeated of the melee was in better shape then the winner!" He said laughing at the foolish barbarian who had earned the Lady's Ire for daring to lay his hands on a faithful servant, "Well, that was a good fight, and the winner is Bjorn!" He left out the part of him being a smelly, hairy, dirty, barbarian but that went without saying.

He paused only for a few moments allowing the two to leave before announcing the next fight, "Next we have.. Sir Richard!" He said again pausing as he did not enjoy announcing the goats name, "And Sir Keren!"

Bjorn Steelheart dunked his head into the large water butt, letting the ice cool liquid soak his face, beard and hair, reviving The Norseman somewhat from his stupor...

Tugging his head from the barrel, The Jarl shook it from side to side, spraying droplets in all directions and cursing loudly all Southerners and their poisons!

Outside the 'Long Tent' Br'nard Even'star, the towering blonde Huscarl and Shield Brother to the Jarl, stood guard, massive arms folded across his broad chest, legs planted firmly apart, The Warrior kept a keen lookout, glowering at all who strayed too close.

"How is he?"

Br'nard turned his head to see Stormcrow, his Thane, striding towards him, a goblet of mead in one hand.

"Ach how would ye be?"
Br'nard grunted as Stormcrow stepped up beside him,
"Poisoned by Southlings and made to look a fool in front of the entire, weak little race?!"

"Hmm,"
Stormcrow nodded, taking a sip from his cup before offering it to Br'nard, the Huscarl accepted the proffered drink and took a long swig, before handing it back.

"Soon as we find the coward who saw fit to drug our Jarl..."
The blonde Warrior rumbled.

Stormcrow nodded again, steely eyes flashing,
"Poison... The weapon of weaklings and women... Not that it narrows it down much in this land..."

"Aye... Wait..!"
Br'nard blinked suddenly, staring hard at Stormcrow...
"Women?! Didn't that Witch with the Horns share a drink with The Jarl before he went on the field?!"

Stormcrow's face was suddenly a mask of practised astonishment,
"Did she?"
He frowned,
"You think she could have slipped something into his flask..? She is a favourite of The Duke, I hear..."

"What?!"
Br'nard glowered,
"That proves it! Clearly the mutated bitch is working on her lovers orders..!"
The Huscarl hefted his axe in two massive fists...
"I'll offer her head tae the Skull Throne myself!!"

"Patience!"
Stormcrow cautioned, placing a hand on his comrades shoulder,
"Your duty is at the Jarls side, you are his Shield Brother... Remember your oath!"

Br'nard frowned, furious though he was, no true Norseman would ever break an oath to a brother...
He nodded, hand absent mindedly straying to his belt as he did so...

"Aye I'll stay at my post an... Damn... I've lost my damn knife!"
The Huscarl growled in added frustration, patting his broad leather sword-belt as he did so...

"Probably dropped it at the Tourney ground,"
The steely eyed Thane replied,
"I'll fetch it, you remain at Bjorn's side and do not trouble yourself with the Horned Bitch...
I am the Jarl's Sword Brother,"
Stromcrow continued, stepping away,
"Leave her to me."

With a nod, the two Warriors parted ways, Br'nard back towards the tent to check on his Jarl and Stormcrow striding briskly away across the field, tucking something bright and metalic into his cloak as he went...

Keren looked into the water's reflection. She touched her horns and stood. Her name was called and her mother rested her hand on her head. "You will do fine." She told her and smiled.

"Of course." She grabbed her double voluge and strapped it to her back. She walked out to the field and looked at all the cheering Westerners. They were sickening. She narrowed her eyes and waited for her opponent to show.

Sir Richard walked into the pin raising up his sword and shield and giving out a loud yell to the adoring fans. This was what it all was about, showing ones superior skills against a demon! This is what he was born to do! Grind half-breeds into the mud. He swung his sword in his hands getting a feel for its weight and balance, before falling into a defensive stance, raising his shield in front of him, lowering his body to get better protection, and keeping his sword to his side ready to lash out when needed.

He needed a few moments to best decide how to deal with this... strange weapon. It was like looking at a Glaive.. only with two side.. and with a much longer blade. Richard began to circle her trying to gauge the reach and how she would use it.

Keren spun the foreign weapon in one hand, watching the man. The man was nothing compared to what she's faced before. These Westerners were stupid to even believe they were strong.

"Tell me... How do you expect to win against me? I'm faster, stronger and I have a weapon you've never seen... What chance do you have..." She said, loud enough that only he heard her. "Hit me if you can, oh mighty sir Richard" she mocked, grinning

Richard ignored her, an old enough campaigner to have discipline. He had faced orcs, and compared to their strength, she was nothing, just a filthy half-breed, but he would not make a mistake like the barbarian from before, so he continued to circle ignoring the world around him and observing her. How she held her weapon, how she stood, how she moved, every little detail a seasoned warrior would need to win a battle, let the foolish little half-breed waste her breath on words. A seasoned warrior controlled his breath and wasted no energy.

Kere laughed. "Ah, so you're not one to be baited... Shame... Everyone fights their best in blind feelings." She said, waiting for him to get right where she wants him. A couple of steps and she'd strike. For now she'd attempt to distract him, maybe he'd break form for a second, one she could exploit.

Just by watching her, he could tell it was a two handed weapon, one that could be swung one-handed, but would be incredibly ineffective, so he advanced straight for her, keeping the shield a wall between them. The shield was a powerful defensive and offensive tool, only fools discarded them. When he got what he believed to be the extent of her reach, he dashed in aiming to surprise the younger warrior with the change of pace. He kept his shield in front of him intending to ram her full on, if she stepped to the left, he would bash her with his shield, and to the right, he would gut her with his blade.

When he had stepped into Keren's range, she struck at him, with a simple jab. It wasn't extended enough to hit him, just warn him that the reach was longer than anticipated. She pulled back and took a hop back, going back to spinning the double headed spear. She watched him, smiling. "This will be an interesting fight..."

The jab did not phase him as it pinged against his shield, and he continued his charge relentless. Such a weak blow such as a jab would not stop a fully armored knight charging with his shield up... but it was almost amusing she would attempt such a thing.

Keren watched him and slowly a grin crept up on her face. She saw her opening. With a calculated step, she stepped to the right, holding up her double voulge. She kept it spinning, even as she moved, as if the weapon was just an extension of her hand.

The spinning weapon was no threat, just more theatrics. When she stepped to the right, Richard slammed his left foot down and swung with all his might aiming at her right hip intent on cutting her in two with one mighty sweep.

Keren used the spinning to deflect the sword, pushing it into the dirt. She stamped her foot down and shoved the tip into the dirt, lodging it there for just long enough to swing at the human's head

It was at these moments in which a shield becomes so useful. Reflex honed by years of training had him lifting the shield to protect his most vulnerable spot, his head. The blade bounced harmlessly off the metal shield. Yanking his sword out, he pivoted and swung the heavy shield at Keren intending to bash her with the sturdy shield.

Now she was serious. Keren easily dodged the large shield by stepping back and letting it hit empty air. She dashed behind him and swept at the man's feet, hoping to knock him off balance.

Richard used the momentum of the missed bash to pivot himself around. He saw the blade going for his legs, and ignored it. His plated grieves would protect him, so instead he used his own sword to make a quick thrust aimed at Kerens throat.

Keren's blade bounced off the grieves and she had to bend back to avoid the blade going for her throat. She kicked the sword out of the way and sprang up, the staff part aimed at his head.

The wood shaft met a metal helm which made a loud ding sound, and the pain of the sudden pod noise, not to mention the force, stunned Richard.

Keren smirked and swept at the man's feet, knocking him down on his back and pointed the blade at his throat. "Do you concede?"

Richard blinked behind his helm not sure what happened, but none the less, he was veteran to know he lost against the monster, but it did not matter. She would not win in the end, she would lose.. no monster could best the Grail Knight, "I Yield." He spat bitterly.



The Herald nodded grimly once, saddened that the half-breed demon bitch had gotten through again, "And the winner, Keren Chaikin!" He waited patiently for the boos and cheers to end before introducing the next fight, "Now finally we have once again a true fight between knights, I give you, the young and beautiful Knight Errant: Joan!" He waited patiently as the cheers roared then slowly died away before continuing, "And a veteran of the fights, Knight of the Realm: Balin!"

The two knights entered, Joan had an open-faced helm with heavy chain-mail armor plates tied in here and there. She carried a longsword and that was it. Balin on the other hand was much heavier armored. He wore a thick breastplate, grieves, and metal braces over light chain-mail. In his right hand was his shield, and in his left was his longsword... They both entered, and bowed to each other, but as soon as Balin looked up Joan was upon him swinging her blade in fast precise cuts aiming at overwhelming a surprised Balin.

Like most knights, Balin instantly moved to use his shield catching blow after blow from Joan, but one managed to get through slicing at him and leaving a long scratch on his breast-plate. Both fights took a step back to gather their breathes and review what they had learned. Joan was fast... Balin had to give her that, and she had a surprising ferocious streak. They charged the same time, Joan striking low, but she gasped in surprise when she realized Balin had dropped his blade and instead grabbed the small girls wrist stopping her cold, and before she could wiggle out, Balin turned his hip and smashed his hip into her flank sending her reeling then crashing onto the ground.

Joan turned red with both embarrassment and anger, how dare he! Balin paused to pick up his sword and give it a practice swing, before turning back to her. Noticing she was still down, he stabbed his blade into the earth and bent down to offer her his hand. Joan made to grab her sword, so she could accept the offered hand, but she 'accidentally' kicked up sand with her hand... and the sand just happened to fly into Balins eyes sending the older knight stepping back trying to clear his vision, and then Joan jumped to her feet and ran forth striking like a viper, smashing the hilt of her blade into Balins nose causing blood to splutter out. Any success he had in getting dirt out of his eyes was undermined by the flash of tears that comes only form having ones nose smashed.

Balin stumbled and fell to the ground, his sword still stabbed into the earth and his shied long discarded in his attempt to regain his vision. Joan placed once powerful kick at the side of Balins head knocking him unconscious... The herald stood baffled for a bit not quite sure what had just happened, before regaining his wits, "Winner: Joan!"



He once more waited for people to carry Balin off to one of the damsel healers present, and for Joan to leave before introducing the next fight: "Now we have something truly worthy of today: I give you a living saint, Sir Tristan! A Grail Knight!" The people truly roared this time as many of them had never even seen one of the living saints... but all knew of them. All children all over bretonnia had heard of their tales. They were beings of legend, each and everyone of them.

"And his brave opponent: A Knight of the Realm: Sir Flinn!" The young knight entered the pen and bowed to his elder knight. Paying homage before the fight began.

Tristan came in his worn and battered plate-mail that he had worn since his early years, his sword was likewise covered in nicks and scratches, the handles worn leather had long since started to come off. Sir Flinn's armor was the opposite. A perfect shine of steel with gold embroidery running across the plates and his families Heraldry stamped into the shoulder. Flinn's blade had a beautiful handle that had a large ruby set in the handle, and a fine leather handle.

The two warriors began with a brief exchange of blows, but any experience warrior would see that Tristan was only doing so to not shame the younger knight and allow him to show his skills to his friends and family. They went for awhile, swords clashing against swords, shields against shields, and once or twice, Tristan even allowed for a smash against his helm or shoulder, but it had to end sooner or later, so Tristan surprised Flinn with a flurry of blows, before sliding his leg behind his, and smashing him with his shield sending him tumbling to the ground. Tristan lowered his blade to Flinns throat, and at once came the shout of, "Yield!"

Tristan helped the younger knight up and smacked him on the back before giving a simple compliment, "Well fought, Sir Flinn."

The herald clapped with the crowd as they clapped and cheered, "Well fought indeed Sir Flinn, for a moment there, I thought you almost had him!"



Once again there was a wait as people screamed and shouted... they had to die down before the herald could introduce the next fight, but eventually they did, and the herald started the next introduction, "Now, we have our own Duke Byron!" He proclaimed, his people cheering for their hero lord. In his youth, Byron was a mighty warrior who had defeated various foes like a large force of Dark Elf slavers saving hundreds of his people from their grasp, "And his opponent, a Questing knight: Lena!"

The Duke entered wearing a simple suit of plate-mail lacking any descriptions and carried a simple longsword in his right hand and a battle-axe in his left. The Duke was smiling from beneath his helm as he saluted his people with a flourish of his blade. The Questing Knight entered, and the Duke turned to face his opponent. Lena was in her late thirties, her face that would probably have once been handsome was now covered in scars. Her left eye was gone, covered in a black patch. She wore a suit of glittering scale-mail, and had a long greatsword that was nicked and scratched up from having seen far too much action for any one knight.

When the fight commenced, Lena gripped the handle with her left hand and kept her right hand on the blade itself which would allow her to do quicker but less powerful strikes. The Duke moved forward intent on using his superior speed with a fury of blows swinging the sword over and over again, and using his axe to cover and holes he had in his defense. Lena shored remarkable skill with her large blade, parring each blow before delivering a quick 'hack' at the duke, who dutifully blocked it with the axe intending to trap it, but Lena raised the pommel and nearly smashed the Dukes helm in, but once again experience had him moving just out of range.

In this way the fight continued... five minutes passed... ten minutes passed... and these two veteran warriors went at each other, but the difference in age was showing. The Duke was limping as an old wound on his left hip started to act up, but Lena showed no such weakness. She quickly switched her grip and swung one powerful blow which the duke used both weapons to block in an attempt to stop the power, but his hip gave out, and he felt himself falling to his knees.

He attempted to stand despite the biting pain in his hip, but to his surprise, Lena knelled and laid her sword across her lap, "You were a worthy opponent Duke." She said simply, and the Duke smiled underneath his helm. He knew when he was beaten, "As were you.. a shame I got old. I yield."

The Herald gave a quick salute using his shwam, "Wonderfully done, my Lord Duke. Wonderful." The people cheered for their stubborn and skilled lord, but also for the grizzled knight who had shown both mercy, respect, and honor to a defeated foe... so far she and the grail knight were the favorites.

"Without further ado, it is time for the next bout." The Herald said, "A newly appointed knight of the realm, Sir Alexander, and he must face the... Ogre.. I mean Knight Errant" He corrected himself with a cough: "..'Lady' Lera!"

The group of Huscarls who had taken up prime position in the stalls front row of the melee, whooped and jeered loudly as the fights continued, passing mead back and forth, the Norscans seemed intent on enjoying themselves and making as much noise as possible in anticipation for their Jarl returned to the field.

There revelry increased tenfold as Stormcrow stepped from the crowd to join them, clapping comrades on the back while laughing and joking with the Warriors, The Thane stayed in plain sight as he joined the revelry and drinking of the Norsemen ...

Bjorn Steelheart pushed aside the flap to his tent and stepped out into the fresh noon air, the Norsii Knight had removed his heavy plate and instead now clad himself in more traditional Northern armour, fur boots, tanned mammoth hide leggings and a thick leather belt complete with loincloth and gut-plate protected the Warrior's stomach, while his barrel like chest was worn bare, broad shoulders and thick, muscle bound arms stood out in sharp relief, a sign of the Norseman's power.

Bjorn shook his shaggy head from side to side, the worst of the nausea appeared to have passed, but he did not trust this sensation, his reactions seemed slow, his reflexes dulled and perception off... Someone had most definitely drugged him, but the Norscan would be dammed if such a petty Southern trick would keep him from the field!

A loud snore drew Bjorn's attention to the sprawled from of Br'nard, the massive blonde Huscarl was laid flat out and spread eagled on the grass, apparently drunk as a Dwarf and dead to the world..!

"I was only in there ten miniutes!"
Bjorn grunted, kicking his Huscarl hard in the foot, Br'nard merely smacked his lips and rolled over, continuing to snore...

A sound behind The Steelheart made him turn, the camp-site was deserted, with everyone, Knight and Peasant alike at the Tourney ground watching the melee, Bjorn had thought himself alone save for the snoring form of his Shield Brother...

... And the half dozen cloaked and hooded figures who detached themselves from the surrounding tents and made their way swiftly across the clearing towards Bjorn, the Jarl could see flashes of chain-mail and the tell tale glint of sword hilts beneath their cloaks...

The Steelheart frowned as the figures spread out into a line, placing his hands upon the heads of the large, Norse War-Axes sheathed at his belt, Bjorn watched as one of the cloaked men stepped forward...

"The hell is this..?"
The Norsecan growled, by way of greeting...

The figure bowed its head,
"Compliments of The Realm."
It said, before driving an armoured fist hard into the Jarl's gut..!

Alexander awkwardly adjusted his armor then began walking out to the field. When he was at the center of the ring he gave a small wink to Keren, a form of congratulations. Then he stood waiting for his opponent. Lera had spent most of the time ignoring the other melees and instead trying to calm herself. After making such an embarssement out of herself earlier, she needed to redeem herself in something she was good at. Melee combat. She entered the ring wearing plate-mail with a full helm, and carrying a large mace and shield. She smacked the mace onto the shield as an expression of readiness. Alexander drew his swords and gave a bow to the young lady, then he started to toss the blades between hands, they crisscrossed back and forth almost hypnotizing. He normally would make the first move, but he decided to let the girl make her move first. Lera rolled her eyes at the childish display. What point was there in that? Well, if he was too much of a coward to charge then she would do so. She stepped forward... and then stepped again moving the range between them closer and closer. She was large, so she had the farther reach and when she got close she did a simple swing of her heavy mace, swinging it from her right shoulder to left hip making sure to keep her shield close to her body. Alexander blocked the mace with his long sword, then stabbed his short sword towards the edge of her shield in hopes that her shield would turn to the side and allow him to stab into the slot of her slightly exposed shoulder.

Lera turned her shield to deflect the short sword as she pulled the large mace back to her side getting it ready to strike again. Alexander recovered quickly from the block. He followed his failed sword strike with a kick to the girl's knee, if the kick landed he would hit her on the head with his long sword for the final blow. The second he went to kick, she swung her mace at his hip hoping to catch him off balance. She wouldn't bother to move away from the kick as if he followed through with it, she would most likely get her blow in. He may buckle her knee, but she would shatter his ribs. Alexander saw that she wasn't going to go for it so he blocked her swing with only one sword, the blow was so powerful that it knocked the sword out of his hand. Before she could move back Alexander grabbed her arm with the mace a tried to sweep her so that she fell on her helmeted face. When and if she fell he would be in the perfect position to stab his short sword wherever he wanted to.

If she was standing normally, there would be no way that a small man like Alexander could trip such a larger opponent with heavy armor, but the blow had her over-extended, so when his shin smashed into the back of her calf, she fell backwards making a very loud thud and ding as metal smashed into earth. She pulled her shield over her preparing to block any blows he rained on her upper torso and face. Alexander realized that he wasn't going to get passed her shield, so he would just wait for her to try and stand up in her full plate armor. For someone used to fighting in plate-mail, it wasn't so hard as so many people thought. Much like a turtle, she used her body to start a roll and then she flipped to her side and quickly pushed her self up making sure to face the other man. Worst came to worst, she would have had to fight on her back using the shield to block and wait for her chance to crush his ankle with the mace. It took no longer the a minute for her to regain her footing.

Alexander thought to himself, "Not bad" He flipped his sword end to end then ran in with a lunging stab for her eyes. The lunging stab was.. strange. Lera wasn't even sure he was a truly trained warrior anymore, most of his fighting seemed improvised. She raised her shield to protect her head from the blow bracing her self behind her shield. His sword dinged of her shield like he knew it would, but his momentum was still moving forward so he threw a front kick right for her stomach which was now exposed after his strike. Once again all this just seemed so improvised. It was little wonder he was so soundly beaten by the Grail Knight. When the kick came, She once again let it instead deciding to send her mace at his exposed ribs again. The mace came in towards Alexander's ribs. He ducked under it while throwing a hook aimed directly at the side of her knee. He'd then come up and stab under her arm pit which would cause her to drop her mace, then he would finish it.

Sadly, using a fist to hit the side of someones knee that is covered with a metal plate is not really going to be effective. If anything, it would probably hurt the punchers hand more so then the one punched. The dull blade came up and stabbed beneath the plates pushing the chainmail into her armpit which would bruise, but was nothing serious. She kept hold of her weapon with the stoic knight resolve. You did not drop your weapon just because someone hit your arm not with the amount of training the knights had to endure since they were seven.

She shot a vicious elbow out aimed at his jaw since he was so conveniently close to it. Alexander constantly forgot about the extra armor these nobles wore. Her elbow came up and hit him square on the jaw and he took a step back. He came back in with an arching strike above his head, when she went to block with her shield he'd tackle her to the ground.

Lera raised her shield to catch the arching blow and swung her mace at his face trying to smash it in now that his annoying sword was out of the way. Alexander saw the blow from her mace coming, he shot for his take down, if it worked he would end up in a very desirable position if it didn't, he may need a new face. The mace went right over his head, even a graze would have killed him, but she hit only air. Alexander crashed into the metal, and she was off balance do to the swing, so he succeed with her tumbling down to the ground. Alexander felt himself collide with the girl. A large cloud of dust shot up as the two armored knight's hit the ground. When the dust settled the crowd could see that Alexander had his sword to the girls throat. "Do you concede defeat?" Alexander asked with a large smile.

The visor was still down so people could not see what face Lera had on, but still there came the metallic sound of, "Yes." Alexander rolled off of the girl and jumped back onto his feet. Alexander gave a quick bow to his opponent while she was still on the ground then he was jogging off the field were he took a seat next to his daughter.

The herald once again waited for the cheering to stop and for Sir Tristan to finsih helping Lera up and out of the pen before announcing the final fight of the first round, "Next we have a newly appointed knight of the realm: Sir Damion, and a fellow knight of the realm, looking to redeem himself, Sir Rupert!"

A loud, metallic clang echoed around the camp-site as the cloaked assailants armoured fist connected hard with The Jarls solid iron gut plate...

The eyes beneath the cowl widened momentarily as the man realised his mistake, before Bjorn's own gauntleted fist caught him hard across the side of the face, snapping the would-be Assassins head round and sending a gruesome spray of blood, bile and teeth flying in all directions as the cloaked assailant staggered and fell...

With a roar of fury, Bjorn tugged the two broad bladed War-Axed from his belt as steel also flashed into the hands of his remaining five attackers...

The first to lunge at the Norscan was met with a flurry of muscle and honed steel as Bjorn ruthlessly battered aside the man's blade with one broad axe and buried the other in his skull with brutal efficiency!

Gore flecked Bjorn's chest as he wrenched the weapon free and stepped forward towards the remaining attackers, grinning as the men appeared to be having second thoughts...

Not waiting for the Southlings to make any more moves, the Norsii Knight forged forward onto the offensive in a whirlwind of flashing steel!
Metal clashed upon metal as another blade went flying, its former owner stared stupidly at his now empty hands for a moment, before a savage swipe from The Jarl damn near took his head off his shoulders in a vivid spray of crimson!

As the headless corpse fell, Bjorn was already breaking through the guard of a fourth assailant, dashing aside the man's blade and cutting him down without mercy!

Bjorn Steelheart twisted suddenly to one side to avoid a wild thrust from a fifth man and responded by bringing both axes cleaving down onto the would be Assassins outstretched arms...
The cowled man screamed in shock and pain as the mighty swings hacked clean through his wrists, sending both of his hands slapping wetly to the floor, still clutching the hilt of his sword...

The Jarl silenced the man's agonized screams with one more swift blow of his axe and stepped callously over the mutilated corpse, advancing upon the last of the cloaked Assassins to still be standing...

As The Steelheart advanced, eyes blazing, bare chest flecked with the blood of his comrades and clad in Norscan armour, the final Assailant backed hurriedly away from Bjorn, eyes wide beneath his cowl and hands trembling as he tried to raise his blade in some semblance of defence...

"W...Wait...!
The man pleaded, even as he desperately lunged at the Jarl...

Bjorn Steelheart battered the man's bade aside with such force it was sent skittering away across the cobbles, before the Assassin could respond, the Norseman planted a boot squarely in his chest, the kick sent him flying back against the trunk of a nearby tree with rib shattering force, before sliding slowly down to lay in a crumpled heap at its base, the wind knocked from his body...

The Jarl stalked forward, like a bear moving in on its quarry, sheathing one of his axes, Bjorn tore the man's cowl from his face, before grabbing a handful of the youths hair and cruely jerking his head back..!

The young Squire beneath the cowl screamed in pain and terror as Bjorn glared down into his eyes, lips moving rapidly in a silent plea for mercy...

"Who sent ye..?"
Bjorn growled.
The Knight began to shake his head, before The Steelheart drove it back against the tree with a sickening crack!

The young Squire began to sob, blood now running freely from his nose and the fresh gash on the back of his head where it had struck the tree, a least half his ribs were broken and all of his comrades lay either dead or dying and all horribly mutilated...

"Yer Lord,"
Bjorn continued,
"His name."

The Squire began to mouth silent words again, Bjorn leaned forward as the youth managed to whisper a single name between bloodied lips...

"Sir Rupert..!"

Bjorn actually grinned,
"Much obliged."
He grunted, before bringing his remaining axe hacking down into the Squires neck, severing it in two brutal strokes before heaving the decapitated head aloft by the grip he had maintained upon its hair.

"A poor trophy,"
The Barbarian told the bloodied, severed head,
"But ye an' yer companions belong tae the Blood God now... As will yer master, before this day is out..."

Dropping the head back into the lap of its decapitated body, Bjorn Steelheart turned on his heel and strode off in the direction on the Melee grounds, streaked with blood and sweat the Norscans mind was now clear and focused on but one purpose...
Blood.

The Herald was announcing the competitors. Damien was standing in his full plate armor, shining with his shield. His opponent, Sir Rupert, was not nearly in enough shape to fight him. When the harold announced the match Damien began to rotate his flail around in a circular motion. As Rupert hopped forward the flail came right at him underhanded. Rupert blocked with his shield but it only blocked two of the three balls. The other ball smashed at his arm.

Rupert went for a stab with his sword at Damien in vain as the giant made a tilted block with the large steel shield. Damien returned the attack with his a headbutt that staggered the smaller man. After the staggering he continued the fight with a series of upperhand blows. Again and again the flail bashed against Rupert's shield, brutaly hammering both his shield, and when missing one of the flail's balls, his arm. On the fifth attack Rupert's own shield finally gave way as well as his arm holding it. With a snap he heard it come out of place, elbow sticking out of the skin.

Damien had known he was being quite harsh though that was the purpose. Fear of a foe had it's place on a battlefield. As Rupert dropped his broken shield struggling to regain a stance Damien rotated his flail more rapidly. After the seventh rotation he went in for the strike only to have a sword block it. The flail's chain wrapped around the blade and when the heavy ball came together in the final stage the blade snapped. With his flail tangled Damien had no weapon so he headbutt Rupert yet again, knocking his foe unconcious.

I bet he won't feel well in the morning. Damien thought to himself. He should have gave up when his shield broke.

The harold did not speak for a few seconds, the brutality he just witnessed was a bit to much for him, but he still had to do his job. "The winner: Sir Damien!"

Some minutes after the bout had ended, Sir Rupert found himself slowly regaining consciousness within the cool, sky blue canvas confines of the healers tent, the Knight had but a moment to reflect upon his loss in the melee, before the shock hit him as he recognised the large, bearded face leering down at him.

"Ello Rupert,"
Bjorn growled, The Knight opened his mouth to scream for aid but the Jarl's large hand clamped down instantly over his throat!

Sir Rupert kicked and thrashed feebly to free himself from the Barbarians iron grip as the snarling Norscan began to crush the breath from him...

"Surprised tae see me still alive?"
The Steelheart asked, eyes flashing like twin chips of flaming ice...

"Impossible!"
Sir Rupert gasped, his voice hoarse and strained as the Jarl applied yet more pressure,
"He... He said you would be weak..!"

Bjorn's brows bunched like thunder heads, releasing his grip on Ruperts throat, the Barbarian instead grabbed the Knight by the front of his shirt and heaved him up into a sitting position, bringing them almost nose to nose...

"Who told you What?!"
The Norsii demanded in a low growl...

Sir Rupert began to protest, so Bjorn drove his forehead hard into the man's nose, shattering it like glass with what would now be the Knights third head-butt of the day...

"Give me a name, worm,"
Bjorn inisted once more to the now sobbing, bleeding Rupert...

"I... I never saw his face!"
The stricken Knight gasped,
"He came to me after the feast, a cloaked figure offering me revenge against you for the slight upon my... My honour!"

Even as Rupert spoke the word, an unpleasant aroma began to fill the tent, looking down, Bjorn notes the large wet patch now spreading across Rupert's leggings...

"Ye not even worth killing!"
Bjorn grunted is disgust, releasing the Knight and letting him fall back down onto the bed,
"But that doesn't mean I ain't going tae hurt ye... Tell me of this 'Messenger."

"I told you!"
Wept Sir Rupert desperately,
"I never saw his face, only those eyes...!!"

Bjorn frowned, his hand moving to the haft of his axe as he did so, an action not unnoticed by the wide eyes, bloody nosed Sir Rupert...
"What eyes?"

"G...Grey as steel they were! Barely human! I swear that's all I saw..!!"

Bjorn nodded, tugging his axe from his belt as he did so...

"No! No!!"
Shreiked Sir Rupert, trying to back away,
"You said you wouldn't kill me!!"

Ignoring the mans pleas, Bjorn roughly grabbed the weeping Knight by the writs, tugged Rupert's arm out straight and hewed the hand clean off with one savage stroke!

Blood sprayed the floor of the tent as Rupert desperately clutched the bloodied stump of his wrist back to his chest, screaming and sobbing in agony.
Callously, Bjorn kicked the severed hand away across the floor.

"Haver yer worthless life, Rupert,"
The Jarl growled, as he stalked from the tent, pausing at the doorway as he did so to look back at the stricken Knight,
"But yer Sword Hand belongs tae the Blood God now... Ye were never fit tae weild a blade anyway, let alone call yerself a Knight."

Leaving the sobbing cripple behind him, Bjorn Steelheart stepped out into the light of day once more and set off towards the Tourney field as the distant voice of The Herald began to announce the start of the Second Round...

Br'nard Even'star stumbled from the Camp Site, one hand pressed against the side of his head, vision bleary, still unsure what had happened, one moment the Huscarl had been watching Stormcrow walk away, the next he had awoken outside the tent to a scene of carnage... Not to mention his head felt like it had been split open with an axe...

So preoccupied by the mystery, Br'nard almost walked straight into Bjorn, who was striding towards the tourney ground from an opposite row of tents...

"Ah, glad ye've finally decided tae join us!"
Bjorn growled, clapping his Huscarl none too gently on the back,
"Now sound the muster, would be wise fer us tae get out o' here while everyone else is still watching the Melee!"

Br'nard frowned,
"Why, what's happened?"

"Time enough fer that later, now sound it!"

Bjorn set off at a fast stride towards the paddock where the Norse Horses were stashed while Br'nard tugged a large war-horn from his belt and, raising it to his lips, blew out a resounding, sombre note...

Away on the Tourney ground, the Horn was heard even over the roar of the crowd and the clash of steel,
Without a word to anyone, the gathered Huscarls in the stalls turned and strode swiftly away through the press of bodies... All save for one, who slipped away silently through the Bretonnian crowd in the opposite direction...

Ten minutes later saw the Huscarls fully armoured and mounted up, along with Bjorn who had now donned his steel plate once more, his mighty Warhammer sheathed across his back.

"Right,"
He grunted,
"Time to ride!"

Without another word, the Jarl wheeled his horse and set off at a fast trot, the rest of his Warriors falling in behind him, soon leaving the Tourney Ground and the Camp behind them... None save for The Steelheart noticed there was one rider missing, one horse and set of belongings gone...

As the crowd continued to cheer in the distance, a pair of calculating grey eyes watched the collum of riders leave...

A new face had appeared in the Royal Box as the Melee played out below, the man who now sat comfortably amongst the surrounding Bretonnian Knights and Nobility was tall and athletic, of military bearing and had the refined atmosphere of a true Officer and Gentleman about him.

He was clearly no Bretonnian, his athletic frame, close cropped grey hair and flashing steely eyes, along with the immaculately pressed Military uniform he wore marked him out as a General of The Empire, most likely from one of the more Northern Provinces, such as Middenheim, or perhaps even Praag...

A messenger entered the box, made a show of glancing about nervously, then approached the General, leaning down in full view of the Bretonnian court to whisper something in his Commanders ear.

"By Ulric and Sigmar!"
The man exclaimed, getting to his feet and looking the messenger up and down,
"Your sure?!"

The Messenger nodded as The General went on in an audible but well clipped voice,
"I must inform the Duke at once!"

Turning on his heel, the Empire General strode swiftly down the steps of the Royal Box to the front, were the Duke sat, still in his battered armour as a pair of lithe Bretonnian serving girls tended to his wounds.

"Your grace."
The General said, standing to attention and ripping off a picture perfect Military salute,
"General Stephen Crow of Middenheim at your service, retired Military man turned goodwill Ambassador of The Empire."

Overhead, a Raven swooped low over the Melee grounds to land upon the tip of the Dukes standard, cocking its head slowly from one side to the other as it did so, almost appearing to study the scene below it...

Stephen Crow's steel grey eyes flashed in the sunlight as he continued,
"I am afraid my messenger brings me some disturbing and gruesome news regarding the valiant Sir Rupert, a Knight of your Realm, and the Norseman... Bjorn Steelheart..."

Duke Byron titled his head and with a wave of his hands the healers left him. There were just minor bruises and such, people tended to overreact in his older age. It was all annoying as he once fought three days against Norce invaders with an arrow through his thigh and left shoulder. He knew that there were ambassadors from the Empire in Bretonnia just as there was Ambassadors from Bretonnia in the Empire. They were... distant allies at the best of times, but allies none the less.

The Duke nodded his head at the rank satisfied that the Empire sent a military man one who knew war, not one of those sniveling wizards or nobles. Imagine! Nobles who were not trained in war! Such an idea was ludicrous as how else did they earn the right to rule? Sir Rupert? He closed his eyes for a few moments trying to remember who that was before it came back, yes, Sir Rupert. He did remember him from the hall, ran away from the barbarian who came to fight drunk and made a mockery out of tradition... something else happen then?

"What is it then? Speak up man." The Duke said rolling his shoulders, the metal clanking from the movement. It was much the Empire way to be theatrical, but he would prefer to see what this is, deal with whatever little thing those two could have done, perhaps a drunken brawl? And then get back to the fights.

General Stephen Crow nodded in response to the Duke, before continuing,

"Well your Grace,"
He began,
"It appears five of Sir Ruperts Squires were found outside the Norscan tent, each one had been ruthlessly slaughtered and most were mutilated in some way or another... There was one survivor, but his jaw and teeth had been so mangled he can no longer form words."

Crow cleared his throat theatrically before continuing,
"As for Sir Rupert himself, he was found savagely beaten, bloodied and crippled in the Healers tent while trying to recover from his bout against Sir Damien,
Sir Rupert is not making much sense but apparently... Bjorn Steelheart took his Sword hand before riding off at the head of his Barbarian Raiders."

Up above, the raven shifted excitedly from one foot to the other.

Stephen Crow ignored it, keeping his steel grey eyes fixed upon The Duke,

"We know not where they are bound or what their intentions are, but as Duke of these lands I felt it only right that i should pass this information onto you with all due haste!"

The Duke rubbed his forehead, of all the days to do this, on the day he was holding the tournament! It was an embarrassment... he was sure the other Dukes would have a haughty laugh over his misfortune, but jaw broken was no excuse, "If he is a Squire, he probably knows how to write." The duke stood and snapped his fingers summoning a servant from the shadows, "Bring parchment, quill, and ink to the squire. I want his written story by the time we return." He said. This was outrageous, how dare that barbarian break tradition! Not only that but cutting off a mans sword arm instead of giving him an honorable death only aggravated the Duke more.

He stood at the end of the booth and extended his hands out to gather their attention, and the Herald not failing to notice this played his shwam to get their attention and once he had it, he pointed to the booth where the Duke was.

"Knights of Bretonnia!" Duke Byron said his brow together in anger, "I have reports of four dead squires, a badly injured one, and a mutilated knight. I will not stand for such disrespect and bloodshed in my." He said dragging out the my, "Tournament!"

The Duke took a breath before continuing, "I have little patience left for fools and murderers. Every knight in my lands is to mount up now! We ride and we will catch these brigands, and by the Lady, I will set an example! If you cannot ride, I expect you to send a warrior in your place. If you chose to ignore me, or intend to help this criminal, I will personally see your lands torn asunder, and I will make you drown in your own blood." His knuckles had turned white so hard did he clench the wood.

Duke Byron was not a man one wanted to cross. He had faced down many enemies in his long lifetime, and he expected nothing less then honor and duty from his knights. The jovial duke had already left the tournament, in his place was the veteran and hardened warrior of numerous wars and campaigns. "Grab you lances and meet me at the gate. You have ten minutes."

The Duke turned to his last servant remaining, "Get Ajax."

Alexander walked over to Luxa and said, "Be careful and try not to kill the Norse man. I know he did not do this. While you help with the hunt I think I'm going to go have a chat with Sir Rupert." Alexander gave her a quick hug and then she was off the the gates.

Alexander then walked off to the medical tents were he was going to have a small chat with Sir Rupert.

With the Duke calling a muster, almost all the knights and men at arms had left their stations to attend their lords command;
And so it was, once again, that the flap into the medical tent was left unguarded.

Sir Rupert sat on the edge of his cot, cradling the bandaged, bloodied stump of a wrist to his chest, the healers had sealed the wound with hot tar, before binging it firmly and hurriedly going to find the Knight new britches.

Rupert lay back on his bed, pain still throbbing dully though his body, prompting fresh sobs of agony with each pulse,
All the same, The Knights could not stop a small, spiteful smirk spreading over his features as he heard the Duke calling the muster of his Knights...

That damned Norseman would get his comeuppance yet..!

Keren looked at her mother, who handed her the large claymore before shaking her head. "I doubt that brute would do something so horrid without reason. Go, catch him before the others. You may take Flog'eros and ride safely." The younger Ke'rata nodded and with a head start, she whistled for her ride, who came running up with her. She grabbed his reins and slowed just enough to mount him. She clicked her tongue and the water horse took off towards the gate, his hoofs barely touching the ground as he leaped across the fields. Keren only hoped that the nice Norseman who had shared his mead with her wasn't a façade the man wore, less she would have to kill him herself. Her breath was labored and her vision blurred ever so slightly but it wasn't bad.

Sir Rupert still lay upon his cot, but now his sobs and shivers had stilled...
In face, everything about the man appeared to have... Stilled... Including his breath.

Milky, unseeing eyes now stared up at the canvas ceiling, still wide with shock and horror at the large, serrated Norscan knife that had pierced his heart.

The blade still stood stuck in the Knights chest, bloodied and bare for all to see and, upon the tent wall behind the body, a vivid, lurid symbol painted in the victims own blood...

It depicted a large, gruesome eye, half open and appearing look towards the tent flap, as if waiting for someone to arrive...

Alexander walked in to the tent and what he saw was a knife in Rupert, it was Norse that was certain. But it couldn't have been Bjorn or any of his men they all left earlier. Then Alexander saw the symbol in blood looking towards the entrace as if the killer knew he was coming. "What happened here?" Alexander asked aloud. Alexander decided to take the knife, "Bjorn must have a traitor" Alexander said. Alexander walked out to try and find someone who was dressed like a Norse man, or to find someone who had seen one that hadn't left with the horn.

Aside from possibly raining, Henry didn't think the situation could become any worse than it already was. Barely a day ago he had returned from the Empire, empty handed and without a trade contract, that alone was enough to make his mood sour... Very sour. Then Thomas, his steward and advisor, had come to him with an invitation to the Duke's tournament, an offer which no sane man would ever refuse.

Ordering his servants to pack and his Yeoman Warden to stay behind with half of his Men-At-Arms, Henry de Hemillion had set for arriving at the tournament as quickly as he could. He had even gone so far to order a march into the night so they could cover more land, and while Henry slept with a thick blanket for himself and his horse, his soldiers and servants had to do with what they brought with them. The cold night certainly explained why many of them were suddenly sneezing.

Overlooking all the negatives, Henry felt excited to be back in a tournament. Riding as hard as he cold, lance pointed at his opponent and his shield arm burning for an impact. What a feeling, Henry thought, as he thought back to the last time he had been in a tournament, he pictured himself starring out of his helmet as he charged towards his opponent.

"Milord?" a voice interrupted, and Henry looked down at Lukas who marched beside him. " 'ow lon' till we get to da turna... tunament?"
"When the bees stops making honey," Henry replied, leaving Lukas to think hard over how far, or how long that would be. "Or, when rats are as big as dogs."
"Ooh! I see one!" Lukas said, almost clapping his hands together.
"You've what?" Henry exclaimed.
"Rat! Big as 'og!" Lukas replied, smiling like a child that had guessed right.
"Now that is disturbing," Henry muttered, already concluding that was why some of the flour had gone missing, better have some cats and traps set up for those monsters, he thought.

Within another few hours, the party came closer to the tournament. The servants and soldiers got excited, already chattered about where they would go to drink while Henry thought about how he would apologize for arriving so late to the tournament.
"Y 'ey run around wit spears?" Lukas asked, again breaking Henry's concentration though be brought up a good point. If they were meant to prepare for a joust, why were they getting spears and swords?

"You there!" Henry called down at a squire. "What is the commotion about?"
"Pardon me, my lord, but the Duke wishes every knight to hunt down a savage who attacked and mutilated poor Sir Rupert," the squire answered and then quickly added, "any knight who doesn't join will face death. I need to deliver the spear to-"
"Yes, yes, off with you!" Henry interrupted, and then turned to Lukas and the other servants. "Get my spear and find a spot for my tent!" he ordered, turning his horse around.
"I want a hot soup ready for my return," he barked as he grabbed the spear and galopped off to join the other knights in the chase for the barbarians.

His father's funeral had ended, and as soon as it was over he was faced with problems of various degrees of difficulty. Worst, still, a letter from the Duke himself. Cralix had taken two of his men with him, mounted up and began the trip immediatley. A hard ride, but it was worth it, he could make part of the tournament and make pleasentries. It was mannerly, he would suppose. Cralix smiled seeing the tournament grounds in the distance.

The soft thud of their horses hooves on the dirt road was rhythmic and had him feeling calm. He had brought along Daerin and Ian, two of his beloved brothers. They could fight well, and they were loyal. He'd saved their sorry arses on more than one occasion. As he rode forth he'd notice the bussling about as knights rushed to prepare and assemble. For what, he had no clue.

Raising a skeptical eyebrow and holding up his right fist he'd steal a glance behind him at the road. His men stopped behind him and he rode to the gates. A knight was close and seemed to be fully prepared for the task before him. Cralix smiled politely at him, giving a friendly tone to the question, "Excuse me, but what's happening?" The knight would look up and to Cralix.

"We're hunting a barbarian, by order of the Duke himself." His voice was all business and he was greatly focused on the task ahead. Cralix would nod appreciatively at the knight holding up his open hand, returning them to the reigns he'd enter the tournament grounds through the gate.

"Go relax, the both of you. I'll be back before you know it." He'd smile at his men and they'd nod curtly riding farther into the tournament grounds. Colten prepared. Pulling his mask and hood on, and linking his fingers together to pop them at the knuckles before returning his hands to the reigns and falling in with the hunting party.

The Duke arrived at the gate a little later the the rest of the knights who had already mounted up. If he had to estimate, he would say there was at least thirty fully armored knights, and he had already set his servants to counting the knights that had come already. He would compare the numbers to ensure they matched up, and if they did not, may the Lady have mercy on those that shrank from their duties because they would receive none from him. A servant rushed forward with a sword cradled in his arms and wasted little time in wrapping the blade around the Dukes waist. The blade was not the old one he had used during the Melee, but the blade of Lyonesse, the blade of the Dukes that came before him. Incredibly old, so much so that it was unknown just how old the blade was, but if the runes on the hilt of the blade were any indication the dwarves had some hand in its creation which was interesting in itself as the dwarves rarely made swords, and when they did so, it was normally for humans.

The Duke waited patiently as the servant finished his task of arming him, and he walked out the gate to see his one true love standing in the field, Ajax. The beautiful white Pegasus stood with its head held high purposely ignoring the peasant who held his reins. The white pegasus (As all bretonnian Pegasuses were white) had numerous scars the stood out against its pearl white coat. He's left eye had a long scar over it, and had long since been closed to ensure infection did not get into it. The duke had fought side by side with Ajax for over twenty years now, and there was none other that the Duke trusted more then Ajax who had once fought off a very large orc warlord as he protected his rider who had fell to wounds... Needless to say, the Duke survived that day because Ajax defended him and even gave up his eye for him.

Pegasuses were far more loyal, intelligent, and powerful then your standard horses, not to mention the fact of wings. Few in Bretonnia knew the thrill of flight as the Duke did. At the moment, Ajax's massive wings were tucked to his sides to make it easier for the Duke to mount up as he rode bareback with only a rein to help him tell Ajax where he wanted to go. Ajax had never liked saddles... and the duke never wished to force it upon him. One did not ride a Pegasus, one was chosen. If a Pegasus did not like the smell of you, you would never ride it. No matter how hard you tried to break it, it would never let you ride such was the stubbornness of the Pegasus. A final servant appeared and held up the Dukes lance, the end of it fashioned with a large metal spike.

"We ride!" He shouted to the men, some of which shouted back and others merely raised their lances in salute, and off they went the column of knights trotting down the road. The Duke made sure to keep himself on the ground even though he could feel Ajax's muscles tense with the desire to jump into the sky. He would stay on the ground for a bit to allow the knights to say what they would, get their nerves settled and such, before he took flight which would help them in securing the barbarians position.