The shouts of the town crier tore through the crowd.

“Hear Ye, hear ye,” the unmistakable standard opening words issued.

“The Archery competition is now officially over. Creowyn of Viridian Dawn Rangers is awarded this years title. The much-awaited Knights tourney commences soon.”

A mixture of voices followed the announcement.

Zelaphiel broke our conversation.

“The tourney beckons and I must respond, Lady Rylonvirah,” The Paladin bent over to reach for my hands, a sign of courtly gesture, but after noticing the scowl that I wielded like a poisoned dagger, choose to settle for a humble bow before departing.

*****

Seated in the comfort of the private skybox of Savvas, I mulled over the forthcoming event. Savvas attempted to engage the oblivious Syrune, without much success. At a distance, Therrin chatted with some burly looking men with exaggerated gestures of some grandiose tale, mostly fabricated without a doubt. Colby was the only one to visibly portray his disappointment. He pouted at the closed space, at the lack of view and more importantly at the lack of attention he got.

Clad in a dim orange surcoat on a giant black horse with a mane as dark as a raven, the Master of Tournament entered. Seated on a horse bred to be gentle and calm, the rider opted to forego wearing a helmet and revealed a slightly mature human male. A wide smile, not known for his profession, held his face taut.

“So Captain Hilam is forced again,” A low sneer escaped Savvas, “The man hates to parade in front of a crowd.”

The Master of Tournaments, raised a dark gauntleted palm in the air and struggled with his smile. A loud cheer went from the crowd and further multiplied his discomfort.

A still silence followed as Captain Hilam dropped his hands, but only for a very small moment. A thunderous cheer followed in the wake of the town crier as he trudged through the ground, clad in finery that he was not used to. The scrawny man held a candour smile on his face. His greying hair thinned at the crown of his head danced untamed in the wind.

“Baron Beoric,” addressed the town crier in a loud booming voice that betrayed his scrawny form. Cheers rose from the audience at the mention of their lord.

“High Archoness Lady Stormaire and Young Lord Stormaire,” loudly greeted the town crier turned announcer. Plaudits filled with vigour issued from the crowd.

A graceful smile sat on Lady Stormaire’s congenial visage. Baron Beoric, a portly man with a slowly advancing waistline was unperturbed by Lady Stormaire’s usurping popularity. The Baron’s fat defined face held a warm smile when he joined the ovation to the Stormaires.

“And you, my lovely citizens of Asterlund,” grinned the announcer. The crowd booed this time, the sort that friends who help each others mirth give one another.

“I, now present to you, the brave contenders who faced and survived and now stand before you. First, Lord Caelum of House August.”

A thin bookish lad holding a heraldry sign led the small crowd. A tall lanky knight in a green surcoat, his face caged inside an armet, sat unflinchingly on a warhorse. He was followed by attendants leading sleek hunting hounds, the sort that appears thin and frail, yet bred for tiring their prey over long distances.

Colby’s excitement peaked at the presence of the sleek hound. The young gnome barely contained his excitement when he scaled Syrune’s chair in delight, much to the scholar’s chagrin. Savvas tapped his armrest in a gesture that offered the excited young gnome, a place to stand. With a grin that spread from ear to ear, Colby stood on the broad armest, one arm around the dark-elf's neck, his pudgy fingers coiled around the collars of the latter’s doublet for support.

“Savvas, looking at you now, one would say you are ready to be a father,” My words contorted with mirth.

The mature facade of Savvas disappeared at a glance, replaced by the vernal mischief.

“Guess I am, Aunt Rillie. I have always been ready. It is a mere conspiracy of fate that none of my lovers got pregnant. I must have been doing it in the wrong .......” A shriek escaped from the young drow, dulling whatever he was about to utter. He looked at me with accusatory eyes as he rubbed his waist where I pinched him.

“You might want to reconsider what you babble in Colby’s presence,” I said with closed lips.

“Sir Darnell of Gladesfell,” shouted the announcer again.

Sir Darnell entered the grounds led by a trio of minstrels. Clad in festive robes of multiple colours, the minstrels played a simple catchy tune which the crowd soon caught on. The knight known as Sir Darnell, carried a hard grit, the sort that one could only obtain from brutal combat, waved his hands as his weird retinue did one full round of the grounds before assembling next to Lord Caelum.

A cordial nod, the only sign of acknowledgement, passed between them.

“No dogs,” sulked Colby.

The voice of the announcer reverberated again, “Sir Ottomar of Gyerelden,”

A bulky form of a burly man seated on top of an equally grumpy faced, saddled bear entered the arena. The distinction between the rider and the mount, very minimal. After a few steps, the bear considered the surrounding with droopy eyes and lethargically let a wide yawn. Saliva gleaned from its open maw much to the disgust of the audience.

“Is that even allowed? Jousting on a bear?” I barely controlled my surprise.

“Jousting was never an event in Asterlund,” replied Savvas, “this is just the parade. For the real competition, they just bring their weapons and clash.”

I scowled in frustration at his explanation.

Savvas leaned, in a pallid attempt to amuse me, “You should have witnessed the previous years tourney. A gnome appeared seated inside some hamster wheel for a mount.”

“That must have been Uncle Tarwyn,” exclaimed Colby.

“Have been?” asked a nosy Savvas.

“An erroneous miscalibration of the hydraulic thrusters happened,” blurted Colby.

“The braking mechanism failed,” translated Syrune.

In the meantime, the bear slumped next to the two assembled knights and the announcer continued.

“Lord Inell of Withal Quarry,”

There was no mount. Just four men carried a huge chair on which rested the flappy form of Lord Inell.

“This is getting ridiculous,” I grumbled more.

The announcer waited till Lord Inell who lay sprawled on the hefty chair was dropped near the other contestants.

“Warrior Merowyn of the Silver Glade Elven Commune,”

Clad in dark green studded leather that failed to imprison the bulging muscles, strode in an orc. Held on both the waist, like an extension of his self, twin slender longswords. Long powerful strides carried the orc towards the other assembled contestants. Instead of a formal greeting, he let a stone-ravaging roar. The crowd answered in kind, with an ear-deafening scream.

“Did the orc eat the elf contestant?”

“He is the elf,” replied Savvas, “raised by a wood-elf couple. Just like how you adopted me.”

“Do you remember your father?” A pang of regret, one that I did not bother to conceal, knotted inside me.

“Vague recollections but mostly tales from the old guards about their famed General Savvas, “ The arrayed contestants still held the drow’s attention, “Sire spent more time at the barracks than at home.”

Colby squirmed uncomfortably bringing an early end to our shared moment.

“Now, our champion of previous years, back to defend his title, Sir Merrick,” In a grandiose manner, the announcer waved his extended arms.

A lone rider stirred on a warhorse. The interlocked steel crinieres gleaned in the midday sun, inspiring a grasp of wonder from the crowd. The flanchard, true to the long journey and bereft of its original gloss, still remained attached sturdily to the saddle. A plate armour, that had seen better days but would still promise a service for many more years to come, encased the upper body of Merrick. His well-chiselled countenance, freed from the shackles of a helmet, bore an imperturbable smile. A simple rustic riding boot and dark brown breeches with signs of mended patches, the only true sign of his social status, was all that Merrick allowed as armour for his lower body.

I swiftly ducked avoiding Merrick.

As Merrick trotted his warhorse to a stop near Merowyn, a chorus of greeting exchanged between Merrick and the rest.

“The Pig Child still survives,” taunted Merrick with a contorted mirth.

“Ah Merrick, I heard you defended the honour of a noble maiden in a bar brawl and she didn’t even invite you to her chamber,” Merowyn helped himself to Merrick’s mirth.

“Guess I must be uglier than a pig child then,” A hearty laugh, the sort that friends after a long separation share, issued from Merrick.

I pulled the still oblivious Syrune down.

“Now that we have all graced upon our beloved Champion of the previous years, here comes the most serious challenger to our Champion. A being whose fame walks before him” boomed the voice of the announcer, “Grand Paladin, Champion of The Order of Latent Divinity and Lord Commander of the Templars, Mirnovian Zelaphiel Ellandor.”

While Merrick was simplicity personified, Zelaphiel sashayed his importance on a unicorn. The barding of his mount drunk the surrounding light and radiated it tenfold. The pearl white mane of the unicorn braided, unrestricted by crinieres and well-groomed, danced vibrantly in the air as the unicorn tossed its head.

Zelaphiel sat unflinchingly in his sublimely pristine armour basking in the adoration of the crowd. His smile akin to a contagious sensuous flame elicited racy thoughts of a private nature from many a maiden among the spectators.

“I take it that women are forbidden from participating?” I threw a casual glance at the seven contestants.

“It was not that way a few years ago,” explained Savvas.

“The two women warriors fought till their blades broke and their armours ripped apart,” continued Savvas, “for all to see,” he added almost as an afterthought.

“And then?” The uninterested Syrune suddenly brimmed with curiosity.

“Some Sod thought it was a brilliant plan to throw coins at them,” Savvas clicked his tongue in frustration, “It goes without saying, the two women stopped their duel and ......”

Consideration for Colby abated Savvas’s words halfway.

“Let us say he can no longer take a leak standing,” completed the drow.

Silence settled for a moment and all anticipation filled eyes turned towards the announcer.

A large black shadow slowly glided across the crowd and slowly small voices joined, resonating to become a sky-piercing cheer. Ryleval, ignoring the loud ovation to her presence, probably even annoyed, carried her rider across the skies, circling in a wide arc around the makeshift arena before serenely gliding down with her outstretched wings.

Celerim stepped down amidst the earth-shattering roar from the audience. Lifting his helmet, the Justiciar freed his long locks of auburn hair that flowed down his head like a crest. For a brief escapade of a moment his pale grey eyes settled on our skybox and a warm smile, the sort that is reserved only for family escaped his lips before his attention turned towards the crowd.

He tossed his head and waved his arms in a friendly gesture towards the crowd. That crowd-pleaser knew what he had in him and more importantly how to use his charms. Satisfied with the attention of the crowd, Celerim finally gave a due respectful nod to the Baron and his mother.

“Justiciar, never knew we would run into each other so soon,” Merrick loudly addressed Celerim for all to hear.

“So, is that lone flower of yours in the audience? I bet the lass travelled all the way from Sarenthill. Trying to look heroic and all, aren’t we?” exclaimed Merrick with a grimace.

I pushed Syrune’s head down much to the scholar’s disappointment.

Lady Stormaire’s eyes hawked on Celerim. A gaze that the Justiciar averted to look at. Invoking no response from her son, she turned her attention towards me. The question, obvious in her looks.

“Who is she?”

I pretended to avoid looking at her and faked admonishing the unruly Colby.

“Was it your lieutenant, Aunt Rillie?” asked Savvas.

Oblivious or uninterested in the subtle drama surrounding its rider, Ryleval eyed the unicorn mount ravenously.

At the distance, Hilam leaned closer to the whispers of Karlienne.

“If I am excused, I have some tasks to finish,”

“Aunt Rillie, I know that look, you are planning on tampering with the tourney, aren’t you?” exclaimed the drow.

“Since you were so helpful, lend me your coin pouch,” Without waiting for his response, I relieved my nephew of his coin pouch. His own mistake for not filtering his thoughts