(1310-09-06) Marsilikos Tournament: Duel Contest
Summary: The duel contest of the tournament.
RL Date: 06+07/09/2018
Related: Marsilikos Tournament
adeline ailene aisan arion audrialla augustin cyriel desarae evelyne fenris foulque gemma helisson irene isabelle isla jelene matthieu narcisse olivia sebastien zephyrine-valliers 

Tournament Field — Eisande

The wind billows pennants and banners as far as the eye can see, here. The terrain is generally flat, with some signs that areas of the plain might have been built up to help flatten it — one corner in particular overlooks a steep downward hill. The plain is partitioned off by fences into walkways and competition grounds, and in the middle of each set of fences feet have long worn away the grass, leaving the centers of each area naught but earth and dust, all the better not to accidentally trod in a hole and break oneself.

On the western edge of the field a huge mass of stands has been erected out of fresh beams of wood, all redolent of pine and of cedar, nailed in place with giant iron stakes and sturdy enough to stand firm below the mass of humanity which moves onto and off of it every day during the tournament competitions. Opposite the stands are the brightly colored pavilia, each with its banner waving overhead, where the competitors of each family might store equipment, rest and prepare. In the middle of the pavilia is a raised stand where the Duchesse, her family, and invited VIPs may sit under a canopy of their own and watch the games from closer to the action.

A light breeze plays about the banners that have been set up by the tourney field, bringing to life the crests of notable Eisandine Houses such as Mereliot and Rousse, but others too. Trevalion's banner is there as well, that of d'Aiglemort and Basilisque. Indeed, nobles of martial prowess have come to compete in this annual Tournament of Marsilikos, and others have travelled here to watch the proceedings.

Armandine Mereliot sits in her Ducal Box amidst her ladies, and yes, the man sitting somewhere in her vicinity must be the Duc de Valliers. Lords and ladies are watching from the higher seating of benches, and below at the stands, there is the common folk of Marsilikos, cheering the contestants on!

Two rounds have been fought already, and the impressive number of 32 contestants that had started out has now melted down to eight remaining contestants. It has been quite a spectacle already, some bruises earned, even from the dulled blades that are to be used in this contest. Many a cheer had been heard from the crowd. There is a brief break now that the remaining few are granted a moment of pause to prepare for their next pairings.

The duel between Lord Drake Rousse and the Lady Adeline Mereliot was less-than-spectacular.

The Lord Rousse was the clear victor; the Lady Mereliot, more the novice. The match lasts but half a minute, with the Lady eventually yielding on the ground. The final blow he lands makes an audible *thwack* against the Lady's leg, causing her to fall. The Lord Rousse's attacks are precise and practiced — elegant, one might say. His victory was inevitable, some might conclude.

That isn't to say that the Lady did not demonstrate bravery — or heart.

Her gravitas is palpable, even if her skill was less so. It is not a single blow that incapacitates her, but a trio of them finally defeats her toughness. Still, she is not without skill, scoring a hit of her own on the Lord's arm. Brave, some would remark, even in known defeat.

Regardless, the sword isn't her friend.

In the end, the two leave the field. The Lord is gracious in victory, offering to assist the Lady to her feet. The Lady is defiant in defeat, brushing away the assistance to slowly get up on her own. They go to their respective boxes, one to ready for the next challenge and the other to nurse injuries. Clearly, there is no love lost between them.

And so, Drake passes to the next round.

Gemma has gotten here early, get a good seat, mix with the commoners and get a feel on who the favorite is. She finds little flags for purchase from somewhere and pays a coin to get a Trevalion flag to wave and cheer along with.

A tall man with long silver hair is waiting by the field, cpated in perfect black, his hands resting on the guard of a practice sword. Foulque Shahrizai smiles, not as young as others but wide shouldered and clearly well practiced in the arts of war. He accepts a glass of red wine from a squire, smiling as he looks around, curious to see who he will be called against.

Arion is clad in partial mail much like the rest of those competing today. The golden haired courtesan of Coquelicot is perhaps an odd entry to the tournament being both noble yet also a servant of Namaah. The tall broad shouldered Scion of Eisheth is known more for his healing talents than skill with a blade. Yet still he stands there, tall and proud and handling his broadsword with a familiar grip as he awaits his turn to duel. His gaze is calm his expression serene as he scans the crowds thoughtfully.

The Vicomte de Montmarlon is present with those who plan taking a part in Sword Duels. Sebastien himself is not very tall or very muscled. However, his slim body and an excited glimmer in his eyes seem to suggest of a more wicked and quick style of sword play. He wears a partial maile and wields a blunt broadsword as the rest of competitors. He also has a piece of black fabric with an embroidered snake attached to the back of his attire which is speaking of the family's name he comes from - Basilisque. The young man looks around seeking for some familiar faces and if he sees lady Evelyne, he will offer a bow. But then he would focus on examining his own sword and opponents.

Audrialla is amongst the stalls and boxes with a neck-strapped tray of chocolates and baked finger-foods created to satisfy the cravings of the wealthier spectators. The pastry chef smiles warmly as she calls out, "Chocolates, cookies, and finger-cakes!"

Ailene comes to the competition on the arm of her fabulously dressed cousin, Narcisse. She looks excited, and her eyes are dancing, but she remains poised and ladylike. "Sissy!" she tells him, tugging at his arm. "There is Gemma." She points to the other redhead waving a Trevalion flag. "Come, lets sit by her!" She tugs her cousin towards where Gemma is at.

Lady Irene d'Eresse has been escorted to the higher seating benches by one of the guards of her family as well as Antonin. He is an old gray haired house servant. However, today he wears his finest silks and helps the young lady to move as well as stand up or sit down since she is in a desperate need to lean against someone. Irene's skin is very pale and her eyes seem to be watered. Her hands are visibly shaking even if she is wearing one of her warmer dark gowns and has a scarf wrapped around her slim shoulders. Now and then the young lady sneeze and gently rubs her nose with a napkin. She looks to be incredibly tired and if not Monsieur Antonin, she would simply slumber to the ground. And yet, a smile dances on her lips and she is present to enjoy the tournament. Her hair are braided into that usual large bun and adorned by some silver jewelry. She also has a nicely done necklace and a couple of bracelets. She offers a nod to those who may take a glance to her direction. Antonin waves his hand at Audrialla, though. "Cookies, please!" The man asks and he looks down at the lady, "At least you shall eat… But if you brother will notice, lady Irene, he will…" Lady Irene rolls her eyes, "He will not say anything. I have to be here!" And her eyes search the tournament field.

Aisan stands in the maile armor they have been told to wear, his sword on his hip. The helmet for the maile has been set aside for a moment as he ducks his head fully under and into a barrel of water: "There are times when I wish this was done during a different season." The young d'Aiglemort laughs to himself. Fingers rake through his soaking wet hair and he squeezes the water out down his neck and back. Twice he has stood within the circle. Twice he has been victorious. Each time he has won Aisan has taken the end of a black ribbon that is tied around his right wrist. Perhaps it is a token of affection from someone. Perhaps it is merely a joke. Either way he seems to credit it for each victory he has had. Hard fought, or not. Between the heat of early September and the sun beating overhead it will not take long for his body to dry off but in the drying - Blessed coolness.

The Vicomte de Dijon watches the other duels, his attention measuring each of the would be opponents with an appraising eye. He paces slowly, keeping his legs and muscles limber. Aisan checks the straps on his armor one more time while he waits for his next bout to start. Getting a touch antsy the young lord heads over to the lists to see if the next matches have been announced yet, and whom his next opponent might be.

Dressed in deep indigo silk, Desarae sits within the Ducal Box, somewhere to the right of where Armandine herself is placed. Bucking the trend that she's favored of late, her hair is drawn back in a loose romantic knot, and fastened with gilded pins at the nape of her neck. Her attention is all upon the field, though she's surrounded by the chatter of a number of her aunt's ladies-in-waiting. The conversation seems to hinge on the granting of favors to those that have taken to the field, though she herself seems a little reticent to be drawn in on the subject. A frown. "He has progressed through the field farther than I imagined he might. So I will admit to it now. My favor was a black and gold ribbon, so spot it if you must."

She is present in the stands, as promised, clad in her signature sharp, but elegant style: a high-collared dress dyed a deep scarlet that keeps her back and shoulders bare, and accentuated by a scarf so sheer, it is almost transparent, draped over the rich, dark coils her hair has been fashioned in, and pinned loosely at the back of her head. The rest of the scarf is folded loosely over her shoulders to carefully frame her face. Long legs are crossed by the knee under her skirt. Isabelle's dark-and-gold eyes take a casual accounting of the faces around her - those familiar, and those who are not. As it happens, she is positioned close to where Ailene and Narcisse intend to take a intercepting course towards the young Gemma. Lips lift in an easy smile, a hand lifting to wave, the slave ring with its cat's eye garnet glinting in the light, links stretched over the back of her palm to find its end on the delicate cuff on her wrist, fashioned like golden vines of ivy.

The Lord Narcisse Trevalion is not competing today, don't worry bystanders! Instead he is escorting his cousin to the tournament field and they will be both cheering for the other Trevalion still in this tournament of course. When she tugs at his arm he smirks slightly and nods just following along, not knowing said Gemma too well, but he doesn't feel in the mood to fight with his cousin tonight.

Augustin is here…simply. He brought his own banner — a simple pennant of a gold lion and a white swan on a blue field, tied to the butt of a spear. The armor he wears is fairly simple as well, clean and well maintained but obviously used and familiar to the man; it is over a clean dark blue gambeson. The only bit of embellishment he wears is a small gem on a golden silk band, tied to the sword belt. When not competing he stands in the competitor area and chats amicably with the others. In his first two rounds he showed why he has the reputation he does — striking with a great deal of skill, and reacting breathtakingly fast; but also acting honorably, saluting each opponent and the Duchesse before each match with great courtesy.

Three guards wearing the Rousse livery and a Dragon insignia on the shoulders enter along with a flaming haired woman. The woman carries herself with a dignity that some may call haughty. The Vicomtesse de Draguignan, Lady Jelene Rousse, arrives just in time to witness her younger brother Drake beat his opponent and qualify for the next round. Her normally guarded eyes suddenly become surprised and a little , "Oh!" escapes her lips. "Eisheth have mercy!" she exclaims in bewilderment. "Was that….Drake?" She looks to her guards for confirmation.

Sitting in the stands reserved for nobility is the golden haired figure of Isla. Her gown of ebony silk has been embroidered with golden roses on the skirt. The flowing sleeves end at her wrists and the fitted top of the gown laces up in the back with golden ribbon matching the embroidered roses. Pinned on the front of the dress is a small brooch in the shape of a dragon. She watches the field with a look of composure and regal calm. The beauty known in Kusheth as the golden rose of Cherevin living up to her name. Her eyes linger on the faintly familiar figure of Foulque, but she cannot seem to place him so her eyes continue to sweep the area, watching.

Audrialla heard the pale young Irene call to her and she curtsies before delicately making her way over. "I have some with bits of chocolate baked in, some with almonds, and some with cinnamon," she offers, pulling aside a cloth covering the baked temptations. "What does my lady prefer," she asks with a smile.

In the Ducal Box, among the Duchesse's ladies sits a blonde young thing that smells of apples. Evelyne Somerville looks all courtly though, hair done all orderly and courtly, a fresh rosiness adorns her cheeks as she whispers and giggles in pointing out a certain Basilisque on the field. Her dress is green and white, and she sips of a glass of white chilled wine. Meeting Sebastien's gaze she lifts her glass, her blue eyes sparkling.

The d'Eresse house servant Antonin interrupts when Audrialla asks of what the young lady would want, "Lady Irene will obviously tell that she doesn't want anything. But I will take some with cinnamon to her, and a few with chocolate to myself, Mademoiselle Audrialla. Lady Irene has spoken of your magnificent desserts. I am pretty sure they will somehow raise her appetite. Thank you," the old man smiles and will reach for the cookies offering the baker necessary coins. Lady Irene d'Eresse simply smiles at Audrialla with an apologetic, and a bit guilty expression in her eyes but then again she quickly focuses back on the field searching for her favorite champion.

When Ailene and Narcisse join her in the stands, Gemma stands and dips into a cursey. Upon standing Ailene is given a quick hug before she draws back, "Please join me. I was hoping you would be here." she gives Narcisse a welcoming smile, "Your shot the other day in the archery was wonderful. I hope you plan to keep practicing."

His public appearances are few these days; understandably, given his convalescence and the insistence of his band of Eisande-based healers. But here he is and accompanied by his usual entourage of Rocaille guards in black, gold and green livery, and a sharp-featured, dark-haired Cassiline with a trickster's smile. Matthieu de Rocaille makes his way towards where the spectators are, though there is one other addition to his usual party: a slender, graceful figure dressed in white silks, walking on the other side of him, her hand tucked securely in his inner elbow as good etiquette demands. His walking stick, however, is secured on his left set of digits - indicative that while the damage done to his person is well on the mend that they are extensive enough that he still has some difficulty walking, though one would have to squint to find whatever daggers of pain there are in his expression. The first thing he does, however, is to pay his respects to the Lady of Eisande and the Duc de Valliers, moving over close to the box, to bow deeply from the waist. The rest of those with him follow suit.

Black and red are the colors of House Charlot, and Cyriel wears them proudly above the partial maile that has been declared standard armor for this particular contest. The sword he holds in his hand is the broader, less elegant sort. People who are more closely acquainted with the Kusheline know that he usually prefers the slimmer blades of rapiers. The first two rounds had been easy exercise for Cyriel, and he had made rather brief work of his opponents. Now he stands there and waits. Those with keen eyes might glimpse a ribbon that has been wrapped about the wrist of his leather glove, the color of a dark emerald, with two initials embroidered upon it in golden lettering.

Ailene skips over to Gemma and starts to plop down beside her, but remembers her manners and instead stops, catches herself, and then sits down slowly, more ladylike. "Gemma!" she greets the other girl, her eyes shining. "Have you met my cousin Sissy yet?" she asks her. She inclines her head to Narcisse. "Lord Narcisse Trevalion." she introduces. "This is Mademoiselle Gemma Renault." She smiles and her eyes now scan the field. Seeing her brother, she waves happily, grinning to him with proud encouragement. She then looks around, moting the other spectators. She sees Irene and waves to her with a bright smile. With a devious little wink, she eyeshifts to see if anyone is watching her, especially her brother her cousin then delicately lifts a lock of hair from it rests about her shoulder. She giggles and after a few seconds, she lets it fall then winks at the girl. She then notices the dark haired girl dressed so beautifully near to them and turns to her. "Hello." she chirps to Deserae with a smile. "My name is Lady Ailene Trevalion." she introduces herself. "What is yours?"

Audrialla flashes Irene a smile before nodding to her servant. "I can only hope the lady enjoys them, whether or not she can or will admit to it," she says with a warm laugh to the older man. She gingerly plucks a pair of chocolate chunk and the cinnamon cookies, dusted with sugar spice. "I'm honored to know my name is known, and I am ever at her ladyship's service should she wish it."

It's Olivia that has her hand tucked into the curve of Matthieu's elbow, a flutter of white at his side as they emerge from the general throng of those that are starting to gather. Silks drift gracefully about her figure, and there's a few tell-tale wisps of blond at the edges of veils to mark whom she might possibly be. Though her identity remains concealed, she's nevertheless a familiar figure to some as she dips an elegant curtsey before the ducal box. Skirts are swept elegantly to one side before she slips her arm back into Matthieu's on the rise. And wherever it is that he's secured for them to be seated for the rest of the event, she'll allow for him to lead her there, head dipping close as a confidence is exchanged.

The Duchesse looks over towards the herold and makes an encouraging gesture with her hand. She will reward him with a smile, as the man immediately wakes from temporary lethargy to bellow out onto the tourneyfield the names of the next pairing. "Lords and ladies! People of Marsilikos! The contest resumes right where we left off. The next to face off against each other are… Lord Sebastien de Basilisque, Vicomte de Montmarlon and Monsieur Arion Delaunay nó Coquelicot!"

"You make wonders and you definitely cheer our hearts with your deserts, Mademoiselle Audrialla. I could not taste and enjoy the others!" Lady Irene whispers offering a smile to the baker when Antonin takes the cookies and gives on of them to the lady. She starts to nibble on it as a bird would nibble on a crumb of bread. "Oh! They start again! Who is it now? Lord Cy-… Ah… no…" The young lady was almost ready to jump from her seat, but then the names seemed to be not her biggest interest. "Though, I really enjoy the style of this young courtesan Arion. He is very talented," she says to her servant and Audrialla.

Foulque sips at the wine, looking around, his dark blue eyes studying the potential opposition, clearly the Camaelines are not to be disdained, he notices the martial allure of Augustin, and inclines his head in polite salute. Another sip of wine and he looks towards the young woman selling pastries with a smile. "Maybe after the first fight you could get us something sweet.."

Narcisse offers a proper incline of his head, along with one of his warmer smiles, as he sits down on the further side of Ailene, keeping the proper distance to the other woman. "A pleasure to meet you." he offers in a gentle tone. His own blue eyes spot Irene as well and he gives a proper wave, maybe not as enthusiastic as Ailene, but then he has never been known. "So anyone wanna make a wager on how far our Trevalion brethren will come?" he tries to stir the crowd.

Aisan glances towards the stands, at all the people who are present and here to watch the rest of the tournament, or at least this part of it! So many have fallen already and Aisan is surprised at how much of a crowd remains. Looking towards the black ribbon with the gold trim on his wrist for a moment Aisan's lips curl into a smile even if he hasn't managed to spot the woman who gave him her favor yet. For what that is worth. So far it has been worth a fair bit judging by how he checks it again. Focus is a powerful thing. Again pale blue eyes rake the stands and finally he spots who he was looking for. A smile graces the young nobles face, dimples showing in his cheeks. His right hand bearing the ribbon goes to his chest over his heart and he bows to that individual in the stands. When the next duel is announced his attention shifts that way and with a wave of his fist in salute high in the air. Turning on his heel he walks over towards his banners, the black and white of d'Aiglemort and settles in to watch the next bout with interest. Either of them could be a potential 'enemy' should he make it to the next round.

Her horse in the race acquits himself well, but his reputation is such that she has come to the event with no doubt of it. Isabelle lowers her hand from the wave she dispenses towards Ailene and her company, before draping her forearm over her elevated thigh, and lifts her other hand to draw her pair of opera glasses close to her eyes, situated upon a holder wrought from ebony wood so dark, light soaks into the color wherever it hits. She is situated on one of the higher benches, red silks and scarf fluttering in the dying throes of the Summer like banners, lenses trained to those who intend to fight for glory and recognition - or confirm their places, in the veterans' cases. At the glimpse of the small crystal in gold ribbon tied at Augustin's swordbelt, she can't help but remove her opera glasses away, and bury her face in one hand to smother a quiet laugh, mirth and pleasure hinted upon her expression. With the announcement of another name she knows, however, she lifts her head, the glasses returned to her eyes.

Adelline remains in her competitor's box for a moment.

She's not moping. Not moping! But she looks disappointed, having lost. That, and tossing her helm irritably. That's the disappointment settling in. Or the pain of being hit with a blunt wooden sword. It still hurts. She winces visibly. And says nothing.

The pain of defeat or a beating: it all sucks.

Arion's gaze snaps to attention as he hears his name called by the herald. With smooth graceful steps he moves onto the field gazing up at the Ducal box with bright eyes as he offers a respectful bow towards the Duchess and her family. Then he prepares himself sliding into a fighting stance and readying his blade. He regards him opponent with a calm gaze nodding politely in acknowledgement and respect before they begin.

Gemma shakes her head lightly, "A pleasure to meet…. Oh, Lord Thaddeus's brother. Yes, very much a pleasure to meet you. He's mentioned your name a time or two and of course Ailene has mentioned your name as well." looking back out at the field, she lifts her little flag and gives it a wave before asking Ailene, "Need a flag?" leaning forward to whisper she teases, "Should we start a chant for your brother?"

He leads his gentle company on the seats provided for them - guards will have to remain standing, to keep others clear for the rest of the milling nobility, though Gabriel de Montreve, Matthieu's Cassiline, remains close by, laughter in his eyes as he drops a jest towards his two childhood friends. Whatever the man says, it brings the barest hint of a smile on his otherwise humorless mouth; he remains standing until Olivia sits, before he joins her, walking stick propped against his leg, and right ankle extended forward. Ice blue eyes chased with their glinting silver filaments scan the array of contenders, and with a faint smirk, sunbronzed fingers lift to tip a salute towards Augustin de Trevalion's direction, leaning his platinum-blond head sideways towards Olivia.

Audrialla watches Arion make his way to the field and smiles, nodding back at the pair. "Oh yes, he's done quite well. I wasn't aware that courtesans took up the blade. Seemed so risky to their beauty. But it only makes him that much more dashing, I think," she says with a warm chuckle.

"Companions!" Evelyne jumps to her feet, skirts dancing from the sudden motion. "It's Sebastien! But oh… his opponent… so handsome!" She grins, looking quite intrigued in fact with the looks of the handsome sword wielding courtesan.

Sebastien grins and moves forward as well once his name is mentioned. "Good luck!" He offers to his opponent looking him over to judge the potential moves and threats. The man straightens up his shoulders a bit before leaning forward just mildly. He takes a broadsword and raises it up more in defense manner and that is when he can not move his eyes away from the opponent and all the sounds around him suddenly fades.

Oh look. There. See? Aisan has picked her out in the crowd. Desarae's response of the touch of his fist to his chest, is the wonderment of a smile. The girl's had so little to smile about of late, and the shadow of one now upon her lips is a miracle indeed. A hand lifts. Acknowledgement. "Good luck." From this distance, her words are only silently mouthed, though the sentiment is one that's heartfelt. It's mid-goodwishes that she catches the question from Ailene, and her brows knit in the smallest of frowns. "Desarae Mereliot. Your cousin. I believe we've not seen each other for ten years or more, a grand ball at the palace when I danced on the toes of your brother."

<COMBAT> Sebastien attacks Arion with Broadsword - Serious wound to Right Hand.
<COMBAT> Arion attacks Sebastien with Broadsword but Sebastien DODGES!
<COMBAT> Arion has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Arion spends a luck point to keep fighting!
<COMBAT> Arion attacks Sebastien with Broadsword - ARMOR on Abdomen stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Sebastien attacks Arion with Broadsword and MISSES!
<COMBAT> Arion attacks Sebastien with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Sebastien attacks Arion with Broadsword - Serious wound to Right Arm.
<COMBAT> Arion has been KO'd!

Ailene pouts when she sees that Irene is too busy talking about sweets to have noticed her and the secret message she tried to send her. After a moment, she shrugs and looks back to the field. Seeing it's not her brother's turn yet, she turns back to her fellow companions, just in time to notice Isabelle arrive. "Lady Isa!" she greets her. "I hope you are well today?" She beams at her, mischief in her eyes. "I won't dare ask you which is your champion this day." she teases. "Of course, this group is cheering for my brother, Augustin." She giggles. "You are, of course, more than welcome to join us and give more power to our cheers." She turns to Narcisse. "This pretty fellow here is my cousin Narcisse." she introduces. "And this is Mademoiselle Gemma Renault, a good friend." Her eyes light up. "Oh!" She lowers her voice to a whisper to the woman. As she does so, she again looks to Deserae. Her eyes widen. She finishes the whisper quickly.

"Cousin Deserae!" she exclaims. "I'd not recognized you, oh do forgive me!" She reaches over to grasp the other lady's hands, if so allowed. Her eyes hold a deep sadness. "You have been in my prayers a lot of late." she tells her in sincerity. "I am so happy, though, that you are here."

When Sebastien hears an announcer's permission to start action, he is very quick to spring forward at his opponent even if he had taken a position of defense at first. Vicomte seems to aim at the man's right hand which holds his blade and was quite successful. Receiving an attack himself, Sebastien has trusted his speed and tried to avoid, dodge the attack. A few more times when he tried to take an offensive position as the courtesan, the lord seemed to be eager to hit the arm once more, but he missed it receiving a strong hit to his abdomen. It even made him cough and a few seconds were necessary to get his composure back. But after that, the man was able to send another hit to the right arm of the courtesan in the hopes that Arion will lose his sword.

Arion charges Sebastien with swift steps bringing his blade forward in a barrage of attacks that seem to miss entirely at first. A harsh strike to his hand knocks his sword away and he frowns tumbling to one side to recover it. Blows are exchanged again and he charges back in managing to get in a solid hit before his blade is knocked aside again. He sighs and lifts his hands in surrender eyes blazing with life and perhaps a touch of respect. "You win my Lord. Very well fought. I wish you luck in the next round."

Ailene's words has Isabelle lowering her opera glasses, turning to the red-haired Trevalion spitfire. "Lady Ailene, you're looking especially lively this afternoon," she greets gamely, mischief matching for mischief, the devil's own wicked light gleaming in those dark irises. "And always surrounded by your august company." There's an acknowledging dip of her head towards Deserae, though her cousin's teasing draws her attention. "Oh, truly? And here I thought there is very little that you wouldn't dare," she banters back. "Don't disappoint me now, my dear." Her sharp attention falls on the fashionable Narcisse. "….and one wonders why you needed my consultations at all when you have such a fashionable relative upon whose advice you can reliably count on. Well met, my lord. Mademoiselle Gemma, it is good to see you again." She catches the young lady's whisper, though she waits for Ailene to finish her sincere words towards her cousin - it is only when she return that she replies, voice pitched low.

At one end of the box the mood may be in danger of becoming a bit somber. But Evelyne Somerville is far from such sentiments, when she watches Sebastien Basilisque and the martial force he brings into play against the handsome Coquelicot. That first strike though, makes the lady lift her hand to cover her mouth in astonishment. And concern. When Arion almost goes down from the sheer ferocity of that first strike, her eyes widen. "Oh… damn." A smile blossoms on her features, in watching Arion rise again and meet Sebastien for another exchange of blows. Both strikes go astray, before the third clash of the two fighters brings bruises for the both of them. Of course, Evelyne is quick to cheer. "Basilisque, Basilisque!", she calls, but she looks towards Arion as he leaves the field.

Whatever it is that Matthieu whispers to her, it earns a shake of Olivia's head. "I am not." A pause. "I wish that I could confess to having given my favor to someone, but cannot." Her voice tails off, and as close as Matthieu is, he'll note the faintest lift of colour in her cheeks. "I imagine," she further goes on to say, "…that had circumstances been different, and had you yourself been able to participate in the events of today, that my favor might have found its way to being tied to your sword." As so many times in the past they had done. "I'm reluctant in the circumstances to pin my hopes upon another, but I suppose that I should. From what you have seen of the competition today, have you a winner in mind?"

"Now…. that was fast!", the herald bellows. "A clear win for the Vicomte de Montmarlon. Who proceeds to the next round. Next up are… Lord Aisan d'Aiglemort, Vicomte de Dijon and Lord Foulque Shahrizai, Vicomte de Tours!"

Arion leaves the field calmly, his gaze as serene as it was when he left it. He hears the cheers for his opponent and peers over that way curiously, just so happening to meet the gaze of Evelyne as she looks down at him from her spot. He smiles and bows his head before moving on. Moving towards the area where the medics have set up he sets to work checking over his injuries brushing away the medics with a soft smile and gentle words.

Ailene's apologies are brushed off with a wave. "I was closeted within the walls of Rose Sauvage for the last ten years," Desarae says, sobriety tempering her words. "I don't fault you for not recognising me, for certainly I did not recognise you without the introduction of your name. It has been a long while." A breath. "Have you given favor to any on the field?" The question is a natural one to be asked between ladies, and her eyes do slide towards the one that wears her own. "Sadly, it is not your brother today that carries it, but another. Nevertheless, I shall cheer equally hard for him."

The next duel is over very quickly. Quickly enough that Aisan is surprised and visibly so. Sebastien gets studied as he replays the fight in his head. All the while he is clapping politely at the end of the duel. Catching Desarae's wave and comment he laughs and smiles brightly at her: "Thank you my Lady!" He calls out to her: "Your favor shall carry me through I am certain!" Aisan's attention lingers on Desarae for several long bits afterwards. Walking over towards the stands where Desarae sits: "It has treated me well so far my Lady." He bows towards Desarae and then his name is called. Turning with a wave of his ribboned hand towards Desarae, Aisan walks over towards the grounds for his next duel. When his opponent arrives, Aisan offers a polite bow to the man and draws the sword on his hip from it's sheath. Slashing the air once he then lifts it in salute to Foulque, and gives a formal bow.

As his name is called, Foulque lifts his sword and salutes the Duchesse, bringing the cross-shaped hilt parallel to his eyes, then makes a few practice cuts in the air to limber up his muscles, then stretches his long legs, as his squire closes up his coat of mail at the back. His long hair flows pale white in the wind as he steps forward, his smile bright. "A pleasure and an honor, my lord." He says to the d'Aiglemort, as they face each other, returning the bow.

Gemma's never seen a sword duel before, her brow furrows as she watches. Looking over at Ailene she asks, "Is it always so quick?" seeing her speaking to another, she gives a quick smile to Desarae, nodding her head in her direction, "Hello, we are having a great week for the tournaments."

Cyriel Charlot watches the encounter between a Camaeline lord and an Eisandine courtesan with mild interest. His hawkish features twist into a vague smile as he notes the brute force of the Camaeline's technique. A Kusheline is called to the field next, and so the Charlot turns his gaze towards the Shahrizai, assessing him for a moment.

With Narcisse suddenly having to depart, Ailene sighs. "Well, there went my pretty cousin, Sissy." she tells her companions and laughs. Once more, she turns her attention to Isabelle. Whatever the other women has whispered to her has her eyes widening and fighting back giggles of mirth. She then inclines her head just a little and reaching up to play with her hair. Once again, she lightly brushes aside a lock of bright red hair for a moment as she grins to Isa. "About the visit, though." she says, eyes glancing to Gemma. "I shall let you know the time soon." She smiles and then turns to Deserae again. "I am favoring Auggie today." she tells her with a proud smile. "I just know he will be the champion and continue to bring honor to House Trevalion." She doesn't ask whom her cousin is cheering for, for she doesn't push, but she does introduce her to the two ladies she is with. "Lady Deserare Mereliot." she says. "Have you met yet Lady Isabelle de Valais and Mademoiselle Gemma Renault?" she asks.

Will not, he could understand, the words themselves imply a personal preference, but cannot? Rules of the Salon, perhaps? Matthieu isn't certain but the choice of words do draw down his pale brows in confusion, though before he could utter a word to inquire further, Olivia starts radiating color through her veils, easily glimpsed under the light of the afternoon sun and hints at her features through fine gossamer. That single reminder of their childhood pastime gives him pause - not in the least because he can practically sense Gabriel grinning somewhere behind him in an incorrigible fashion and it takes every single ounce of his ironclad discipline not to jab the point of his elbow right into his ribs. "Your support has always been a welcome thing," he tells her, eyes sweeping over to the bout at hand. "And your regard even moreso. Should I ever be well enough to compete in future events, I'll endeavor at the very least not to disappoint you." He nods towards the Trevalion lord's direction. "The Vicomte de Rouen and I are friends and contemporaries. I was an occasional visitor to his father's Marquisate - I'm not sure if you are aware, but the Marquis enjoyed the royals' favor as the fleet's admiral for many years. He seemed the appropriate choice to learn about naval engagements. Augustin and I even served together in the border, with Gabriel, and he was one of the first to support me upon my return. I would be remiss if I didn't do the same."

Aisan smiles at Foulque: "The honor is mine my lord." He lowers his blade after the salute and a rap of the flat of his blade against his armor. Lowering his blade he waits for the announcement for the duel to begin.

Audrialla zoned out in the admiration of the fights. Anything said to her, she just didn't seem to catch in the chaos. "Desserts! Delicious distractions and delectable," she calls out as she wanders the crowds between fights. She stood as the next match begins.

A deeper smile blooms on the Shahrizai's face as he moves on the balls of his feet, sword held in a guard position, blade parallel to his right shoulder, left side turned slightly towards his opponent, left knee forward. "Come at me, my lord."

<COMBAT> Aisan has changed stance to cautious.
<COMBAT> Aisan attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Right Leg.
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Aisan with Broadsword but Aisan DODGES!
<COMBAT> Aisan attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Right Hand.
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Aisan with Broadsword but Aisan DODGES!
<COMBAT> Aisan attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Serious wound to Right Arm.
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Aisan with Broadsword - Light wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).

Words exchanged between Ailene and Desarae are taken to heart, though her attention at the moment appears elsewhere - Isabelle, however, is not a woman in the habit of missing anything that occurs within her immediate vicinity, though with the way her head is turned, her endeavor to keep the conversation between the two cousins as private as possible is apparent. Whatever Ailene gestures to her, however, she manages to hide a smile, and lifts her eagle's gaze and attention towards the Mereliot once she is introduced. "Well met, my lady," she offers. "The day is blessed indeed to see you returned to us from your bereavement. I, too, am supporting your cousin, the Vicomte de Rouen."

Olivia's hand curls more tightly about Matthieu's forearm when he leans closer to speak with her. "Then we shall cheer for the Vicomte de Rouen," she says in response to what he tells her of him. "I believe that he is involved in some way with the training of the City Guard, if memory serves. His skill with the sword must be quite formidable." Her shoulders lift as she turns her attention towards the field once more, new opponents having stepped upon it. "A Shahrizai, now this will be interesting…" Fingers trap the drift of her veils about her head, and she leans forward where she sits, attention entirely caught as the two come together on the field.

Foulque is surprised by the fastness of the d'Aiglemort, maybe he shouldn't be…but even so, being struck three times makes him wince, his grin turning into a smirk as he is pushed back, one, two, three steps each blow making his blue eyes shine fiercer, and the hit to his right arm makes his stab almost miss, rather ineffectual , but he's still on his feet, so he bows his head. "Camael's scions bear their pride justly, my lord!" He grins.

When the call to begin is given Aisan starts to stalk to the side, lifting his sword up in a defensive posture to test his opponents skills. Each step he takes positions him into a slightly different angle. A few light testing cuts are blocked and there is the ring of steel on steel as Aisan's smile is gone. Pale blue eyes stay focused on Foulque to the point he doesn't hear anything else other than the beating of his own heart and the crunch of his own feet on the ground. Stamping forwards he flicks out a cut towards Foulque's leg, landing a light blow then he ducks and twists to avoid the answering cut. Another stamp forwards and Aisan's sword flicks out again. Instead of the leg he marks Foulque's hand with a light cut. As he gets struck though he oofs when his armor gets driven into his stomach with bruising force: "Well struck my lord." He lifts his blade with a smile in another salute: "I would never count one with your skill out, until you are out. It is anyone's match."

<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Aisan with Broadsword - Critical wound to Head (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Aisan attacks Foulque with Broadsword and MISSES!
<COMBAT> Aisan has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Aisan spends a luck point to keep fighting!

Gemma attention is pulled towards the next bout, biting into her lower lip before quickly looking away. Her cheeks flushing when she addresses Isabelle, "It is lovely to see you again as well my Lady. It is very exciting."

The tightened grip on his inner elbow has a gloved hand lifting in turn, abandoning the heavy silver head of his walking stick so he could press his fingertips upon the top of her knuckles gently in an acknowledging fashion. Matthieu's smile returns, however barely visible such expressions upon his features are. "He is," he confirms. "The Lady of Eisande is ever astute in her judgments to better protect her own people, enlisting his aid has he has. But I've never known anyone better with sharp, pointy, edged objects. Save perhaps Gabe." There's a wry, sidelong glance at his friend. "Some would say he might just have a uniquely unfair advantage, however."

Gabriel de Montreve grins at that, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "Don't look at me," he retorts back. "If you ask my opinion, at present, the man's got it good in the arenas that matter."

Desarae shakes her head. "Lady Isabelle. Lady Gemma. A pleasure." So sombre. So reserved. The shadow of a smile ghosts her lips, though with the stepping onto of the field by the one that actually bears her favour on his wrist, her attention is naturally divided. As metal strikes metal, she visibly winces, and there's that horrible moment when it looks like it's about to all come crashing down. At least for the one upon whom her favor is pinned.

<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Aisan with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Right Arm.
<COMBAT> Aisan attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Left Hand.
<COMBAT> Aisan has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Foulque has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Foulque spends a luck point to keep fighting!

The presence of the Shahrizai in the field of battle does capture her interest once announced. Isabelle's eyes fall on Foulque and how he squares off against Desarae's champion, her smile taking on a more absent cast as lashes lower over her eyes. Attentive, yes, but at the same time not - a curious look, from a woman who is perpetually brimming with good humor. Perhaps she, too, was rooting for the Mereliot's champion between the two?

Aisan's words turn prophetic! As the two go to engage again Foulque lashes out with a hard cut that catches Aisan in the head, slamming into his helmet hard enough to knock the man backwards several steps. His ears ringing, the helmet having cut his head where the ringing blow having bashed the helmet in a bit! It's pure luck that Aisan doesn't collapse right there. He brings his blade up again and manages to land a hard strike of his own but it leaves him open to Foulque's return strike. The Kusheline's blade hammers Aisan and he staggers back and drops to one knee: "I yield my lord. You are the better man this day." He bows his head, chin dipping to his chest as he tries. Fails. Tries again… all to get his bent up helmet off his head: "Blacksmith?" He asks as his vision turns red from the blood dripping down his face.

Desarae SIGHS!

Ailene has glanced back at the match, though, honestly, only half interested, since she doesn't know either opponent. Well…way. "Oh!" she says and points to Aisan. "That person cheered for me in archery. I should cheer for him." She cheers for this nameless person, but then notices things are not all right with Deserae. She stops and turns to her and smiles brightly. "I had the most wonderful idea for an event!" she tells her, trying to occupy her mind. "What do you think of a girl's only overnight party?" She is obviously pulling this out of her backside, but anything to get her cousin to think of something else. "I was planning to ask Ortolette." Her eyes brighten. "Wouldn't it be so much fun if we could do it at the Palace?" She starts chattering about food, wine and activities for this sudden event as the match progresses.

Foulque's sharp eyes notice the way his opponent moves , how he darts forward, and a sidestep…is followed by a sharp quick side cut to the head with the flat of the blade, enough to ring one's bell, and he sees Aisan stagger back, before coming back at him, and though he;s hit again, his own blade comes up in an upwards cut to his opponent's arm..his own sword almost thrown off from his hand by another bow….and with a last effort he manages to keep standing though his eyes are clearly glazed. He manages to lift his sword in salute to his opponent, then moves to his squire.. "Wine..and someone rub my right arm, that d'Aiglemort bas…um…almost tore it off."

It is quite the spectacle, and the two d'Angeline swordfighters are not giving much quarter, on the contrary! A roar goes through the crowd as they observe the ferocity with which the so much younger d'Aiglemort goes at the older Shahrizai, landing blow after blow. Until Foulque strikes back. And hard. More blows are landed by both, until it seems they are about to collapse both onto the dirt on the tourney field. And yet…

"This match is decided in favor of Lord Foulque Shahrizai.", the herald shouts for everyone to hear. "Next up are… Lord Cyriel Charlot. And Lord Augustin Trevalion."

Lady Irene d'Eresse was almost falling asleep on the shoulder of Antonin while the hand which holds the tastiest cookie was resting on her lap. The house servant was contemplating maybe to take the young lady home. His eyes started to wander from the field and back to Irene. However, the moment she hears Herald's voice announcing that lord Cyriel Charlot is going to participate now, she springs up way more lively than the current state of her health would allow. Even makes Antonin gasp in surprise. "He? He is again on the field?!" She slides towards the edge of her seat and freezes, eyes focused on the men who are ready to fight.

Audrialla oohs to herself as a familiar name is called. The baker pauses mid sale to a patron and excuses herself to watch the match. Her attention seems easily pulled to the swordsmen below.

Augustin nods when his name is called, drawing his blunted sword once more and making his way out to stand in the field. When the man approaches, he will give him a salute with his sword. "My Lord, a pleasure to meet you on the field," he offers sincerely. He also turns to salute the Duchesse of Eisande, and someone in the gaggle of his supporters. Following that he turns back to Cyriel. "I stand prepared, my lord."

Desarae's eyes track Aisan off the field. There's disappointment in her expression. Perhaps she'd expected more. A sigh. Her attention is, however, pulled by Ailene, and her cousin is granted a nod of her head. "That would be nice." NICE! Sadly there appears to be a lack of any real commitment to her tone, one shoulder rolling as she eases a kink in her neck. "Oh look. It is your brother now. Perhaps he will not disappoint by ending his match with a yield."

Well. The two previous sword duels had been quite impressive. A fact Cyriel has to acknowledge, for he had watched them intently. As his name is called for the next pairing, the Charlot steps forth, and in letting his gaze assess the opponent, he inclines his head. No bow. But a sign of acknowledgement nonetheless. "A pleasure, Lord Augustin. And an honor, to get the opportunity to test my mettle against someone of your fame." His pale blue eyes narrow just so. "However the outcome, I think we both shall learn from this."

Aisan finally gets his helmet off with the assistance of his… assistants. When the helmet comes off the Aisan walks over towards the stands and offers the black and gold ribbon to Desarae: "I am sorry my lady, I did not honor your gift as well as I had hoped. I thought I had him but alas. It was not to be today. Perhaps you should give this to another for the grand melee, my Lady." His chin dips towards his chest in a bow of his head, still bleeding all over his face as he hasn't allowed the wound from the dented helmet to be checked yet.

Foulque sits on a camp stool, having his coat of mail taken off, and he winces as he feels his arm and hand massaged, closing his fist and opening it as if to feel there's no broken bones. "Remind me to send that fellow a bottle of the Aragonian brandy the senschal sent , if I made his head ring, I should at least make up for it, no?" he laughs softly, mainly to mask another wince. "Kushiel, but he was fast…"

<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Augustin with Broadsword - Serious wound to Right Arm.
<COMBAT> Augustin attacks Cyriel with Broadsword but Cyriel DODGES!
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Augustin with Broadsword but Augustin DODGES!
<COMBAT> Augustin attacks Cyriel with Broadsword - Light wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Augustin with Broadsword - Light wound to Right Hand.
<COMBAT> Augustin attacks Cyriel with Broadsword - Serious wound to Right Leg.

Gemma leans forward, any small conversations she's had have paused to watch the latest match. Turning to Ailene she lays her hand over her wrist, "They are so quick. In a way it's very beautiful but brutal."

Ailene winces as she sees Deserae isn't really being distracted by her spontaneous suggestion and chitter-chatter. She sighs and smiles at her, having tried her best. Then, just as her cousin as said, it is Augustin's turn. She shoots to her feet in an instant. "GO AUGGIE!!!" she shouts with all her might, forgetting she is supposed to be ladylike. She jumps up and down. "That's my brother!" she tells those in the vicinity, as though no one already knows that fact. Still, her head his raised in pride. However, she quietens as they actually start to fight, locking her hands together and standing still. She takes note of his opponent, who is familiar from the opening feast, and his name. She frowns. It takes her a moment, but she realizes Gemma has spoken. She quickly sits back down and whispers something to her.

Augustin nods to Cyriel's statement. "I expect so, my lord." And that is the last thing he says before the duel is called, and he is in motion. A true Scion of Azza he is blisteringly fast — confident and pushing, but not aggressive with abandon. And it is perhaps telling that as his sword lashed out and Cyriel dodges — and he takes a blow to his right arm that causes his fingers to tingle — that Augustin laughs despite the strike of pain. "Well struck and well-dodged!" he grunts, as he whips his sword around for another pass. This time it is his turn to avoid being struck, as he blocks the man's blow and lands a quick strike of his own to Cyriel's abdomen. Their third round proves favorable as well, trading a heavier blow for a lighter one. He disengages for a quick moment, looking to re-set his angles while keeping his sword guarding the space between them.

It seems to be surprisingly even at first. Cyriel starts out with a swing of the blade for the arm of the Trevalion. His eyes seem to shine even brighter as he goes for the attack and manages a good hit. Being quick himself. Then receiving a lighter hit from Augustin, to pay him back a little; upon their third clash both their dulled blades connect, and with a low curse, Cyriel feels pain searing through his right leg where the Trevalion got him. "Not bad," he murmurs, tone detached, his eyes alert and attentive as they seek a breach in the Trevalion's defense.

Adeline's still paying attention.

She makes a hand gesture to Aisan, both trying to get his attention and to beckon him to her. She's sitting aside in the place where people go to get medical attention, see, having lost summarily before. It might be advisable.

Heck, she even has some cloths in her hand.

<COMBAT> Augustin attacks Cyriel with Broadsword but Cyriel DODGES!
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Augustin with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Augustin attacks Cyriel with Broadsword but Cyriel DODGES!
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Augustin with Broadsword but Augustin DODGES!
<COMBAT> Augustin attacks Cyriel with Broadsword but Cyriel DODGES!
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Augustin with Broadsword - Serious wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Augustin has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Augustin spends a luck point to keep fighting!

With Augustin's name called, Isabelle's attention pulls away from Foulque and towards the ring where he squares off against a scion of House Charlot - not the last member of the family that she has dealt with of late. Lips purse, recalling Cyriel's reputation and Irene's reaction, nearby, does not escape her. The excitement in the crowd washes over her like a wave - she doesn't even remember the last d'Angeline tournament she has attended, but in the middle of it, she lets herself be swept up in it by any self-proclaimed bon vivant, cheering with the rest when the duelists make their salutes. With the one directed at her by the Knight of the Swan below, after he has saluted his duchesse cousin, there's another smile, albeit somewhat hidden by the gesture she makes next - the briefest, lightest touch of her index and middle digits against her lips….that later shifts to a more neutral line when the speed of the bout astonishes even her, she who is rarely surprised. There's no gasp, but intense, single-minded assessment, leaning forward in her seat and shifting her opera glasses back in front of her eyes. At the very least, Augustin seems to be having a time of it - but first blood belongs to Cyriel. "I never knew they were both so fast," she murmurs, to nobody in particular.

"Sharp, pointy-edged objects…" Olivia returns, her attention now pulled to the new matching that's entered the field. She leans her weight into Matthieu's side, her breath filtering gently through the veils at her face. "Aren't all weapons sharp, with pointy edges?" Her eyes crease as the first of blows finds it's mark, and her fingers tighten upon the arm of her companion. "Matthieu," a nudge of her shoulder to his. "Don't hate me for this, but I am almost glad that, for this year at least, you are here on the benches with me and not there." An uptilt of her chin would indicate the field where Cyriel is matched with Augustin, her face turning then to search for his eyes with hers.

Gemma nods her head quickly to Ailene, moving to stand and take a step forward to get a better view of the duel.

By the third time he misses or is blocked in a row, a bit of the good humor is gone. Augustin is used to the play of a duel, the back and forth; he just isn't used to being completely outclassed in a series of engagements. Battered hard in the chest once and then twice, he stumbles back with a grunt and the slight cracking sound that is probably not a rib breaking (why would you say such a hurtful thing). He wobbles for a moment before he finds his firm footing, blinking his eyes clear and pushing forward again. "Not bad yourself," he offers with a snort.

The dance becomes more intricate and sophisticated, a demonstration of agility instead of strength. Cyriel Charlot grins when he manages twice to fool the Trevalion and have his sword slither through Augustin's defense, a faint chill passing through his expression as he watches the Azzallese stumble backwards. "Even worse," he counters, in some fine attempt at humor. "Just tell me, if you'd like to yield.", he offers in quiet taunt. It is not like his own limbs are shrieking in agony here and there, but the Charlot seems well pleased so far, and not about to back away from the chance to best the famed Augustin Trevalion.

<COMBAT> Augustin attacks Cyriel with Broadsword - Light wound to Head (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Augustin with Broadsword - Serious wound to Left Arm.
<COMBAT> Augustin has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Cyriel has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Cyriel spends a luck point to keep fighting!

Desarae is riveted. Suddenly the match on the field has taken a new turn and her focus is captured by the Charlot that matches himself so well to the skill of her cousin. Now who is this.

Her lean and breath has Matthieu turning his weighty, scrutinizing focus away from his battle comrade's progress to regard his childhood friend. Aren't all weapons sharp with pointy edges? "Not in the least," he replies; he recognizes a half-jest when he hears one, but he responds with the same, deadpanned alacrity that is so familiar to her. "Some are blunt and heavy, and others are invisible and intangible, but can be just as deadly." Realities that he has been made well aware from the moment he could comprehend the spoken word. As her shoulder pushes against his, and her remarks, his gloved thumb moves over her grasping knuckles in a reassuring gesture. "Pride on occasion has to give way to pragmatism, however hard I strive to keep to both. To push myself physically now and have it go poorly would have wider repercussions, and it would be uncharitable to unduly worry you."

Aisan leaves Desarae's 'favor' with her, the black and gold ribbon thankfully free of Aisan's blood. Afterwards he wanders over towards the medics. Wandering being the operative term. It doesn't look like he can walk in a straight line to Adeline.

Lady Irene d'Eresse has been sitting frozen during the whole duel. She kept her pale fingers covering her lips in order to avoid all unnecessary and distracting shouting. However, each time lord Augustin has hit lord Cyriel, lady Irene flinched and gasped. Once she almost jumped to her feet but Antonin held her down. "M'lady, you shall not worry at this condition," he reminded her. Irene showed no reaction to the wise man's words since she was simply not able to turn her gaze away from such a close match. Though, once the victory is clear, the young lady jumps to her feet and this time even Antonin can not stop her. "He was so amazing! He is so amazing!" She claps excitedly keeping her gaze focused on lord Cyriel, "He shall win…" she whispers.

Apparently Augustin does not want to take the yield. "Too kind, but no thank you," he offers as the two of them circle once more. And apparently Augustin means it, because his next pass is full out. No trying to stay back, no tentativeness; he is right back in the fray, to go down in a Knightly manner if he goes down. And go down he does, with a heaving blow to his left arm that chases the consciousness from him. But not before he has scored his own blow to the other man's head that would have served him well had it been in the previous series of passes.

Adeline sighs.

She picks herself up off her rear, and marches over to Aisan purposefully. With the strength and tenderness of a battlefield soldier, she sticks herself under one of his arms, and hoists or drags the younger man to the medical area, whatever's necessary. She doesn't say anything to him — maybe she doesn't have to. Instead, she focuses on her task: taking him safely, if a little roughly, to where he can get the necessary treatment.

If only she didn't deposit him on a chirurgeon's table as if he were a slab of meat.

Ailene just sits there in between Gemma and Isa, close to Deserae, and just /STARES/. She cannot move or say a word. Her little mouth is opened in a O of shock as she watches her brother being extremely well matched, to the very dangerous degree. Clearly, it has never occurred to her that anyone would come close to her brother in sword fighting skills. After a bit, she seems to recover from the shock and she eyes his opponent, this Cyriel Charlot, with a certain amount of careful and guarded interest. She leans over to Isabelle. "That is, apparently, a relative of the man I was with at the Opening Feast." she murmurs to her. "The one who also escorted me to the Archery Competition." She frowns. "Hmm…"

Foulque watches the combat between Cyriel and Augustin, noticing how each man moves, experienced eyes studying each fighter's stance..their strengths, their weaknesses, but he applauds as his fellow Kusheline wins. Interesting, and maybe a little unexpected.. he wets his lips with some wine, leaning back on his camp stool, his sword held on his knees.

Aisan can walk, for the most part, just his balance is off so he is weaving. He doesn't even get to see the next duel though it was by all the crowd's reaction to be quite the pleaser. Looking at Adeline he tells her: "Can't see right," Pauses, "Right eye. Blood." Aisan is talking normally and not slurred: "Ears ringing a bit." The young lord lets Adeline guide him wherever it is she chooses! He does not resist.

Probably beyond fashionably late Zephyrine arrives to watch the duels. At least that is what one would assume when she finds a place to lean and watch. The tall Valliers woman isn't easy to miss, though, given her height is comparable, if not taller, than a lot of men. She also walks with the grace of a warrior. Though, she lacks any weapons, that can be seen at least. Her expressionless face and imposing height likely makes Zephyrine rather intimidating.

Helisson has a knee in the dust over in front of the Valliers pavilion, her other boot planted firmly, her upright knee giving her a place to rest the plate-clad forearm of her armor as she slouches slightly forward, watching the matches proceed. Or maybe she's watching them proceed. Maybe her mind is a million miles away, along with her gaze, her slightly wonky left eye making it hard to tell if she's looking at anything at all, or if the lights are on but nobody's home. Her helmet sits at her side like a loyal dog, and the toe of her right boot digs slightly into the dirt behind her. Altogether a forgettable sort of attendant upon the proceedings. She turns her chin toward her right shoulder, peeking behind her when Zef turns up. "Zeffff," she greets.

Perhaps it is the reputation of this swordsman that has spurred Cyriel on to give his all in this match. The blade is far heavier than what he usually prefers, the edges dulled as to leave no severe cuts. The Charlot does not get carried away in these routines of swinging, feinting and dodging, maintaining an almost rational demeanor through it all. Were it not for that wry grin that twist his lips. "You mistook my words," he counters towards Augustin. "I gave you the opportunity to yield, but as I can see you prefer everyone observing how I best you." Already he can sense the strength fade from the Trevalion, but even so, the Charlot receives another strike, teeth clenching, taking this as he deals Augustin a final strike to the other arm. It is decided. And then suddenly not. When the Charlot sinks to his knees, dizzy for a moment. Beside the Trevalion. Before he manages to stand again. "Thank you, my lord. This has been most instructive." A compliment, perhaps, as he turns and lets his pale gaze roam over the stands the high seats.

Well it is rather apt for a Kusheline to surprise everyone and beat the favorite, well Gemma assumes Lord Augustin was the favorite. She sneaks a glance towards Ailene, how is she taking her brother being beaten?

"I would not have you push yourself," Olivia replies to Matthieu. "… and certainly not for whatever glories the winning of a mere event might bring you." Her hand uncurls from his arm, and seeks instead the fingers of his hand, digits twining with his and being pulled to her lap. "Wisdom is in the head, Matthieu, not in the well-timed swing of a sword. Loyalty and leadership, they're earned, not won." There's a pause. A breath. Something. A hand lifts, and despite the public venue of the stand in which they sit, her fingers touch to the edge of his face, fingers and thumb spanning the angle of his jaw. "You've nothing to prove, least of all to me."

Ailene's whisper has Isabelle turning her head towards the red-haired girl sitting next to her. "Your paramour is a Charlot?" she wonders - twice surprised today. She had glimpsed the lad's back when she approached the Trevalion lady at the conclusion of the archery contest, but had not acquired a name or introduction. And as her inquisitive look returns to the battlefield and when the man turns to claim his victory, she catches the shape and hue of his eyes, and is reminded of another. The family resemblance in that regard is staggering. "Huh," is however all she says, lowering her opera glasses and tucking it away. "There's a small mercy in the fact that live blades aren't used, though considering how each man fell, they've not been holding back in the slightest. I should go see to your brother. My ladies." The last said to Desarae and Gemma, reaching out to touch Ailene's hand gently. "See me soon, yes?" And with that, she rises, balancing with surprising dexterity on the bench, to take several quick steps on the end and simply leaps, to land on the grassy knoll below.

"That's to be expected," Adeline tells Aisan.

The woman who fought tosses her gloves onto the ground, and then takes a moment to rummage under the table for supplies. When she stands back up, there's a folded kit in her right hand, which she places next to Aisan on the table. "Hold on, m'lord — d'Aiglemort, was it not?" She places her hands under the cuff of the helm, and gingerly pulls it off while trying to keep it as open as possible. The metal in the helm groans a little in protest.

Strong hands, she has.

Once the helm is off, Adeline can get a better look at the injury. "I think you'll be fine, m'lord." Clinically. She dabs cloths against his head wound lightly, to take the excess blood away. "I'm distantly related, actually, m'lord. Very distantly. Unless my grandmother lied to me." Her banter is light and casual, as if she were getting ready to do his hair.

"Been in Marsilikos long?"

"Whoa! That was quite a pairing!", the herald calls, smiling as he fills the tourneyfield with his deep register voice. "The winner is Cyriel Charlot. He will proceed to the next round." An ominous pause then, as he glances at a parchment held in his hand. "Next up is Lady Zephyrine Valliers. She will face Lady Helisson d'Essoms."

"Heli." says Zephyrine, the only word that tumbles from her unsmiling lips. Not an abnormal minimal response from her in public. At least when the Valliers House Blade is being 'a proper noble.' She is not fond of being anything but a soldier these days. At her name Zephyrine straightens up as moves to walk past Helisson, absolutely expecting her adored companion to let her enter the 'stage' first. She does stop to lift a hand to Helisson's chin and clasp it to tilt her face up to look at her face, "THis is not practice, Heli. I'll be disappointed in you if you do not go all out." Zephyrine sounds like either a sibling or a mother. Her hand falls away and Zephyrine continues on her way. Once in place she gives a flourished bow.

At Isabelle remark about her 'paramour', Ailene blushes a deep shade of red. However, she then lights up. "Yes!" she exclaims. "That is the word I should have used!" She doesn't elaborate on what she is talking about, but just nods as the other woman remarks that she should go attend to Augustin. "Please tell him I was here cheering for him!" she tells her. She doesn't follow. Instead, she turns to Gemma. A look of disappointment clouds her face. "I cannot believe he lost." she sighs, but then shrugs. "I guess today was not his day, is all." she says and then raises her chin. "My brother is still the best swordsman in all of Terre d'Ange!" She nods at that at factual then looks back to the field. "I haven't the heart to keep watching now, though." she says. "Are you staying to watch the rest?"

"A few days now." Aisan answers after Adeline checks the wounds. He sits down where she wants him to sit so that he can be treated: "Yes." Aisan answers: "I am Lord Aisan Desrouches d'Aiglemort, Vicomte de Dijon. Whom is your family members related to us? Not that there is a great chance I know them. I think there are more of us than rabbits in the hills sometimes hmm?" He laughs softly as he holds still as he can for Adeline to clean the headwound Foulque gave him. His attention drifts towards the woman tending to him and he smiles wryly with half of his set of dimples showing: "I arrived on the day of the archery tournament. I missed the feat, alas."

Gemma looks over the field, thinking about Ailene's question and considering, "I would like to but if your alone I should go with you until your able to have your guard fetched." she flashes a smile, "You can tell me what secret you've been keeping then."

Adeline just bobs her head in acknowledgment.

She blows a lock of hair from her face. "I have been around nearly as long as you." A look of concentration appears on her face. She continues to wipe the wound clean, until it is; then, she examines it for a few seconds. Her right hand opens up the kit to reveal needles and lengths of thread. "Didn't see the feat either, but — " Shrug. " — I was never that good with a bow."

She threads a needle in a second.

"We're related a few generations back. Hold still." Adeline brings up her needle with her right hand, and then pinches Aisan's wound closed with the left. She then makes the first stitch. "One of mine married one of yours. According to tradition — " She pulls gently, and makes another stitch. " — we still send our handmaidens to the Camaelines on the borders as healers." Another pull, and another stitch. "Like me." And another.

Adeline carries on with a veteran's precision.

Augustin is probably pulled off the field so the next two people can fight, rather than them doing it on his broad if thoroughly unconscious back.

It's as likely as anything that nobody here has even heard of a Lady Helisson d'Essoms. But the crimson-eyed monster that spits and pisses — well, that's her, much to her family's chagrin and dismay. But even that dead-eyed creature grows bright and lively with a grin when her opponent is named. And, of course, she remains on her knee while her Commander and Sister-in-Arms proceeds ahead of her, eyes gaining a little bit of life when her chin is manipulated and she grins up at her dearest companion. "Wwwweh," she grunts gamely her assent to the challenge. She hadn't thought that Zef was going to come play; it's a beautiful surprise not to have to go up against someone she doesn't know. Once Zef has gone ahead, she dig her toe into the dirt, rising into a strut and hocking a loogie down onto the ground, just clearing her throat into the grass before she helms herself and follows Zef into the field, taking up a sideways pose facing her and swinging her blade out behind her, pointing toward the crowd, before she flourishes it up into a salute, facing off against Zef and dipping her chin, dead eyes waiting.

Ailene nods. "Want to go grab a drink at the Wine Cellar?" she asks Gemma. "I think I need something strong, though." She frowns. "Do you know of anywhere that serves stronger drinks?" she asks. "I mean…really, really strong?" She sighs. "I think I just realized I did something else without meaning to…"

<COMBAT> Helisson has changed stance to Cautious.
<COMBAT> Zephyrine attacks Helisson with Broadsword but Helisson DODGES!
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Zephyrine with Broadsword but Zephyrine DODGES!
<COMBAT> Zephyrine has changed stance to evade.
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Zephyrine with Broadsword but Zephyrine DODGES!
<COMBAT> Zephyrine attacks Helisson with Broadsword - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Zephyrine with Broadsword but Zephyrine DODGES!
<COMBAT> Zephyrine attacks Helisson with Broadsword but Helisson DODGES!

<FS3> Ailene rolls Perception: Good Success. (6 1 7 7 6 1 6)

There's an exclamation of encouragement from Gabriel, that later turns to dismay, when Augustin loses the bout to Cyriel. "Bastard never knew how to yield, were this an actual skirmish, he'd fall still clutching his sword…and probably take the one who dared with him," the Cassiline grunts - the words are rough, but laden with the kind of respect and regard from one brother-in-arms to another.

Matthieu says nothing to that, and his usual reticent demeanor stills him from replying to Olivia, not at first, until she pulls his attention back to her with the way more delicate digits thread through his own encased by supple leather, drawn to her. It causes him to lift his eyes and regard her own from above her veils and once again, he can't help but marvel at her contradictions, and how her steel pushes through in the most unexpected of circumstances - here, no less, in the middle of a tournament. Perhaps battle galvanizes her also? The touch on the side of his face has his own tilting in microscopic increments towards it, barely seen, barely felt. "I've plenty to prove," he corrects, words that would be brusque and even harsh towards anyone else softened only slightly by old and remembered affection. But there's a subtle yield, with the way the corners of his mouth twitch. "But not to you," he allows, lifting his free hand to take her own touching his jaw, and bowing his head over it before releasing.

Gemma stands up, her hand smoothing down her skirt. She pauses to eye Ailene, "I do know of such a place but I'm not taking you there. It's too rough, so it's the wine cellar."

"That is the way if it, is it not?" Aisan asks Adeline as she works on stitching his head back together so all the air doesn't leak out: "I am always surprised when I run into someone who has no blood relation to everyone else somewhere down the line." He chuckles with some amusement, his attention remaining on Adeline for a few long moments. Catching sight of Augustin getting dragged off: "You should attend to him I think, my lady." He guesses she's a lady, being related: "He is in worse shape than I hmm?"

The stoic Zephyrine changes in the blink of an eye as the combat starts. She almost grins, but it is more of a slight smirk, as she readies herself then gives a cheeky lift of her hand and turns her palm up into an almost mocking 'come at me' gesture as she bends and straightens her fingers in a becoming gesture. The mocking attitude is undoubtedly not new for Helisson. The two of them dueling or being in combat together is not abnormal. When the duel is started Zephyrine gracefully dances back out of Helisson's reach before darting in to attack. If the serious and tall Zephyrine could look breathtaking it is in her fighting. Her every move is calculated, daring, and they spell out she expects to win. It is likely a common mannerism for when she fights.

"I'm in the middle of something."

Adeline's not trying to be rude or blunt; she is, as surgeons say, concentrating. "Unless you want to lose your eyebrow, m'lord, you'll also want to hold still." Another stitch. "I'll see what I can do for — " And that's when Adeline sees Augustin getting hauled towards the medical area. " — well, shit," she mumbles indelicately, before going back to putting the final few stitches into Aisan's face. "I'm guessing he'll just need a bucket of water."

She may be smiling, but it's a wry smile.

Oh, yeah. These two have done this before. They just know each other too well — Hel is half-playing, still, despite everything said earlier, and she dances through the first few movements of the combat, dipping sprightly as she knows the exact angle of her counterpart's swing like the touch of a mother's hand. Well. Not HER mother's hand. She does get tapped, once, in the chest, and, despite what should be better judgement, she gets drawn into the attack — Zef will yell at her later about it, no doubt.

<COMBAT> Helisson has changed stance to Normal.
<COMBAT> Zephyrine has changed stance to evade.
<COMBAT> Zephyrine attacks Helisson with Broadsword - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Zephyrine with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Left Arm.
<COMBAT> Zephyrine attacks Helisson with Broadsword but Helisson DODGES!
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Zephyrine with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Zephyrine attacks Helisson with Broadsword but Helisson DODGES!
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Zephyrine with Broadsword and MISSES!
<COMBAT> Zephyrine has changed stance to normal.

Ailene stands and is ready to follow Gemma. She had heard the next opponents' names being called and they are now duking it out. She glances over as she starts to follow Gemma. "If it's that tavern by the docks," she tells her with a grin. "I have already been there." She giggles, but then stops dead in her tracks. "What the F—…!" She almost says that completely unladylike word out loud as she recognizes one of the duelists. "LADY?!" she exclaims, looking at Helisson. "You have /GOT/ to be kidding me!"

If there's one thing that will wake Augustin up, it's his sister shouting something profane. He blinks himself awake, reaching up to pull his helmet off. "Camael's…sword," he offers, belatedly remembering where he is. "It's been a little bit since that happened."

Gemma walks into Ailene and has to scramble back when she suddenly stops. Looking back at the duelists she whispers to Ailene, "Lady Ailene do you know EVERYONE?" she grins at the mention of the tavern, "It is but I'm still not taking you, not till you have a certain guard with you." and she bets he will try to keep her out.

Aisan holds still when Adeline talks about losing eyebrows. He does not wish to lose an eyebrow as he voices his thoughts out loud: "That would make me look rather lopsided." His eyes flick over and then back: "I will bow to your superior knowledge my lady. Later. When it won't cost me an eyebrow."

The exclamation from Ailene distracts Zephyrine enough that her evasive tactics let Helisson get in a couple hits. If the cuts hurt she doesn't show it. Her eyes just narrow dangerously towards Ailene briefly before she focuses back on Helisson, "Friend of yours?" comes the question of Zephyrine to her companion. "I'm not going to play around now." People taking a tone Zephyrine doesn't like in regards to her charges kicks in the protectiveness of the tall Valliers.

Her tall, slender shape is visible even from a distance, with her gauzy red scarf and her equally crimson silks swirling in the summer breeze. Isabelle pauses by the gurney toting the unconscious Knight of the Swan, quietly dropping a word to the pages carrying it….until he's suddenly awake, reinvigorated by the sound of Ailene doing something untoward. Good humored exasperation simmers over her expression, bending her knees slightly, bracing her hands on her knees, to look down at Augustin's face once his helmet is off. She reaches out to pluck it from his fingers. "You performed magnificently," she tells him, her smile lifting higher on the corners of her mouth. "Though if you fall here but triumph in the grand melee, I'll have you know that I'll be forced to believe you collapsed out of boredom rather than your injuries. How's your head?"

Adeline makes a snorting sound.

"Oh, don't thank me yet." She brings her face close after making the final stitch, to bite the thread clean. "There." Deftly, she tucks the needle back into the kit. "You'll be fine in a couple of weeks, I think. If it starts to bleed, clean it. If it starts to change color, get a poultice. If it starts to smell, get a doctor." And then, she claps Aisan on the shoulder.

She turns to move towards Augustin, but he's up.

"Well, look's like he'll be fine, I guess." The lady crosses her arms over her chest. "But let's see if he's able to walk." With that thought, Adeline smiles to herself, as if the idea of Augustin falling over again amused her.

Medics have a funny sense of humour.

Helisson takes a blow to the chest for her pains, but the pain only seems to spur her on, dipping her blade back behind her, pivoting the handle in her palm and then arcing it over her shoulder to bring it down hard toward her sister's left arm, the blow ringing out, but less so than if she had managed a full-on hit. Digging her heel into the dust, she double-grips her sword and bears it back up into Zef's ribs, grinning like… well…. Hel. Now Zef's out to bring the pain, and Hel doesn't shy away from it, just pressing on and giving no retreat nor rest.

Ailene stopped herself before she uttered the whole word! It could have ended up being What the Fruitsbaskets, after all. She is staring in dumbfounded shock at that dirty, stinky Helisson and it is obvious that she had no idea that…that…'thing' was a noblewoman. She turns to Gemma finally. "I sor of know her…." she says, but does not elaborate. Instead, she sees that she has caused a bit of a fuss with her outburst. "Let's go, quickly!" she hisses and grabs Gemma's arm, trying to lead out as quickly as possible.

<COMBAT> Helisson has changed stance to Banzai.
<COMBAT> Zephyrine attacks Helisson with Broadsword - Light wound to Right Arm.
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Zephyrine with Broadsword but Zephyrine DODGES!
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Zephyrine with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Head (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Zephyrine attacks Helisson with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Head (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Zephyrine has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Zephyrine spends a luck point to keep fighting!
<COMBAT> Zephyrine has changed stance to banzai.
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Zephyrine with Broadsword and MISSES!
<COMBAT> Zephyrine attacks Helisson with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).

Aisan bows his head, slowly, "Thank you my lady. I shall follow your advice." He rises to his feet afterwards and then starts to pull his armor off so that it can be dealt with. Looking at his bloody clothing the young lord starts to head off, leaving the rest of the tournament to the winners.

Ok it's on purpose now, Gemma digs her feet into the grass, "But… but I want to watch the boute." she giggles, taking Ailene's arm in a friendly link before walking out with her. She does look back at the boute, watching as long as she can.

Losing her cool in a fight is not normal for Zephyrine so Helission gets harder hits than she would normally get into Zephyrine and causes the tall woman to sink to a knee after a blow to the head. She shakes it off and Zephyrine's combat style changes to reflect her anger and her reckless nature. She usually only gets like this when raiding.

Augustin blinks a little bit as he looks at Isabelle, and chuckles. "Oh, not that well. I had hoped to at least make it to the finals. Rather I had hoped to win, but if I had to g out to do so in the final. But that is life. I've lost tournaments before," Augustin points out. He looks over to Adeline and smirks, pulling himself up to his feet with only a little bit of a wobble. "Well, we'll have to see. I expected to do far worse in the grand melee, but who knows; perhaps this is my tournament of opposites."

Helisson presses on until a blow to the helm causes her to reconsider, and she jumps back, goading on Zephyrine's raiding fury and trying to use it against her, trying to get in a shot on the dodge, but that rough blow drops Hel to a knee, in turn, and she loses her shot, just tumbling the rest of the way to the ground and then rolling in the dust to spring up a few meters away, trying it again, bringing up her blade parallel with the side of her body, twitching it a little bit to draw Zeph's charge.

<COMBAT> Zephyrine attacks Helisson with Broadsword but Helisson DODGES!
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Zephyrine with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Zephyrine has been KO'd!

"Loss keeps you humble," Isabelle replies, reaching out to help steady him once he pushes himself to his feet. "Could you imagine if you won every bout? You'd be insufferable, and a thousand times more incorrigible than you are presently." It is clear that she is jesting, however, turning to toss the helmet she had taken from him to Augustin's waiting page. "Are you certain you don't need to be seen to? For a moment there, there was no clear winner and it was very apparent to me that neither of you had the desire to hold back." There's a glance towards Adeline, a smile directed her way, before her eyes wander back over to wherever Cyriel ended up. "I've heard of your opponent's reputation in passing, but I wasn't aware that the two of you could move so quickly. I could barely keep track." And her eyes are particularly sharp.

Helisson stands steady in the face of the oncoming assault, then, last-moment-like, she half-kneels and pivots to her other side, double-gripping her blade again and bringing the blunted bladeform around like a baseball bat (if baseball were a thing) into Zeph's gut, her whole torso twisting into the force of the impact.

It is likely that Zephyrine lost her cool that has her down. THough, it is very possible Helission has surpassed her in skill and follows Zephyrine out of loyalty. However, down goes the Valliers noblewoman with Helisson's next blow. Regardless, Zephyrine falls with the blow to her gut. There is a slight grunt of pain but that is it. Zephyrine is not one to yell.

The crowd cheers, apparently well entertained by this particular bout between two swordswomen. "Alright, alright!", the herald announces with his loud booming voice. "A very impressive fight this was. The winner is Lady Helisson d'Essoms! Now, there will be a brief break before we will continue with the remaining four contestants. Who will take home the win? We shall see!"

Helisson knows it's over, now. She doesn't even have to wait for a signal of yield, she only stands up straight and lets her bladeform dangle from her off hand, going to reach her right hand for Zef, to help her up and then pull her into a clatter of armored hugging.

Augustin shakes his head. "Blunt weapons. I'll have some bruising, and obviously I have my little lie down, but I'll suffer no ill effects. Is neither the first or the last time," he grunts as he holds out his arm to Isabelle. "Oh, that last blow almost took him as well? Good, that's a salve for my ego at least," he offers amusedly before he nods. "I'm not used to someone being as fast as I am. He was very good."

Evelyne Somerville has slipped out of the Ducal Box to seek out… her intended, of course! With a charming smile and a faint scent of apples about her, the blonde l'Agnacite can be seen on Sebastien Basilisque's arm, as they seem to be engaged in a delightful conversation.

"Well, far be it for me to force you," Isabelle remarks, taking his offered arm and falling a step next to him, moving where he wills - to join the rest of the spectators, perhaps, in viewing the last bouts. Her other hand lifts, to rest lightly on his forearm as they move. "And yes, you did. Do you often do that, I wonder?" Eyes dance with the devil's own mischief as she inclines her head and tilts it back to regard his handsome profile while walking. "Attempt to drag your opponent to the abyss with you upon the fall?" His gracious words towards the lord who bested him has those eyes lidding faintly, reminded once again of something else far removed from the current festivities, but she remains present and attentive, for she replies: "He was exemplary," she allows, looking over her shoulder in that direction. "I believe your sister is acquainted with a relative of his, the lad who escorted her in the archery competition."

Some time is granted, for some of the field staff to attend to the field, flattening the dirt where it had been bunched up a little from the sword fighting. Anticipation is rising, as the next matches will eventually decide the winner. "My lords, my ladies. People of Marsilikos. It is time. Time for the last four competitors to decide the contest. There will be two pairings for deciding the last two, who will then test their mettle against each other in the final one. First off shall be Lord Cyriel Charlot. He will compete against the lovely Lady Helisson d'Essoms! Namarre and Kusheth, an intriguing combination!"

"I don't yield in tournaments, generally," Augustin offers with a shrug. "It doesn't seem particularly knightly, although I've been doing it longer than I have been a knight. In a fight to the death I will pull back if need be to achieve the objective, and I will not waste lives needlessly for my pride. But with blunted weapons, or when I have no choice but to fight to the bitter end? I don't intend to go down easy if I am taken down," he explains to Isabelle. "Interesting."

Cyriel had used the time to get some refreshments for himself, and a damp piece of cloth to wipe off the sweat of his face. When he hears who his opponent shall be, he gives a low snort and looks towards the 'lovely lady', raising a brow as if in silent question whether she would really wish to compete against him. There is no objection coming from him, though. And she will at least receive some sort of a bow from the Kusheline. "Well met, my lady." His tone is cold, his eyes are as well. "It will be a pleasure, no doubt." His hand tightens about the handle of the sword, and he gives it a few swings, to warm up his already relaxing musculature.

His astute and surprising reply has Isabelle's wandering reverie dwindling to a fine point, eyes moving back towards his profile and falling silent for a few moments; that would be familiar, to the man in question, her glib and oftimes imperious and quippy manner fading away to make room for those briefly-glimpsed undercurrents of another creature entirely. But this is brief, and she squeezes her fingers around his forearm, the gilded metal of her slave ring and bracelet and the dark crimson of her cat's eye garnet set on fire by the burgeoning sunset. "A pragmatist to the end. So long as you're not terribly injured, I'm content. Besides…" Her good humor returns, however subtly hinted by the pliant line of her mouth. "I believe we've spoken of bitter ends before. You're a long ways off there just yet. Now, let's find a place to sit, shall we?"

Helisson dawdled over on the sidelines, squirting some water from a waterskin into her mouth and all over her face, wetting her hair as an aid to dissipating the heat and then shaking her head like a dog, her short-shorn waves of muddy gold sitting like a crown of thorns just in time for her to be invoked as… lovely? She peers over her shoulder, one maroon eye half-crossed, looking already put quite on edge by the phrasing. She's a House Blade to Valliers, after all, but still she's only announced by the family of her birth, and it gets her hackles up as she slides her helm back into place and goes to meet Cyriel, eyes empty of spirit, like those of a dead person, her courtesies guarded and a little bit stilted, as though she weren't quite sure whether he's mocking her or not. "Weh," she finally just agrees with him, a sort of slurry barracks-kept 'oui,' to all evidence. She doesn't know this man, and so she disposes with any flourishes, nothing playful like when she was fighting her dearest friend and Valliers sister. She only slips her blade up into a stiff and formal salute before her, then eases herself low into a defensive stance, keeping the amount of her she offers him a slight slie of her wiry flank just parallel behind the blade, waiting for him to come to her, watching him warily.

<COMBAT> Helisson has changed stance to Evade.
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Helisson with Broadsword - Critical wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Cyriel with Broadsword but Cyriel DODGES!
<COMBAT> Helisson has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Helisson spends a luck point to keep fighting!
<COMBAT> Helisson will attack Cyriel this turn.
<COMBAT> Cyriel will attack Helisson this turn. Options: called=chest
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Cyriel with Broadsword and MISSES!
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Helisson with Broadsword - Critical wound to Head (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Cyriel with Broadsword but Cyriel DODGES!
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Helisson with Broadsword but Helisson DODGES!

Fenris has been watching it all from where he's been sitting. Not close to the field but enough to see. He's watched Zeph and Heli fight and he bows his head. He doesn't like watching them fight but he knows to keep quiet during this since otherwise he'd be running in and tackling a poor innocent knight. He lifts his eyes again and watches Heli.

The young woman with her attitude amuses Cyriel Charlot only faintly. And yet. His pale eyes look towards her, catching a bit of stubbornness there. With the bow, courtesies end, and they begin. He only means to test her ability out a little, but oh, how that strike of his dulled blade across her abdomen hits home. A soft 'Tsk' escapes the Kusheline Vicomte, as he observes how she has to pull herself together to handle that blow. He was about to see the match already as settled, when the d'Essoms regains her footing, and attacks! She must be weakened though, as her own strike with the blade does not even find its aim. Cyriel's own swing of the blade on the other hand seems to be of similar quality as his first. He really is surprised when Helisson manages to stay on her feet. And evades his next strike that was meant to end the match.

A tap to his shoulder. It might alert Fenris, but the one who gave that tap with his finger is a lad no older than ten. "M'lord." The boy hands Fenris a goblet of wine, and indicates the man sitting in the ducal box, not too far from Armandine Mereliot, with whom he seems to be in conversation with. The Duc de Valliers looks up and attempts to catch Fenris' gaze. A smile there, before the man's attention sweeps back to the Duchesse of Eisande.

Helisson is getting to know this man as a combatant, and, between being lulled into her usual sparring patterns by fighting her usual partner and being irritated by the announcer, it's not too shocking that her shy advances land her with a blade blunt against the guts that makes all that water she just chugged come up on her, spattering the inside of her helmet as she staggers aside — draws it up for a moment to vomit more fully on the sand and spit a few times to get the taste out of her mouth. But she takes the puke in stride, adjusting her helm back into place and running back for more — and more she gets, a clank against her helmet making her spin, then dip and juke the more briskly to try to avoid another. She's hurting, but that only seems an incentive. Her dead-faced neutrality has shattered in a big vomit-smeared grin. Is she having fun out there? Quite possibly. She'll jump back briskly and invite him at her again. See if she can hold up under another one of those hits. Probably not, but she's bracing already to find out.

<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Helisson with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Helisson attacks Cyriel with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Right Leg.
<COMBAT> Helisson has been KO'd!

She has spirit. At least more than he might have expected. It takes some spark to return somewhat matter-of-factly after emptying one's stomach onto the dirt of the tourney field. Cyriel Charlot is surprised to see Helisson with that stubborn flicker in her eyes as if she were challenging him. "Interesting.", he observes with an expression somewhere between amusement and curiosity. If she hasn't had enough yet, well, so be it. His sword strikes her across the chest, hard, but not as hard as the two strikes before that. Hard enough to push the air out of her lungs. A pity he neglected his own defense in the process, giving her an opening she uses and exploits. A wave of new agony goes through that already bruised leg of his, where Helisson's dulled blade connected. "Kushiel's Balls.", a low hiss that leaves his lungs with this curse, as Cyriel steps to the side and out of reach, content to watch Helisson go down.

"Lord Cyriel Charlot, the Vicomte de Chavagne proceeds to the next round," the herald announces. "The final match. But now… we need Lord Foulque Shahrizai and Lord Sebastien Basilisque to compete for the other spot in the final match."

Fenris turns his eyes to the young man and tilts his head. He takes the goblet of wine and glances over to the Duc. He grins and bows his head to the man and then thanks the youth. His eyes turn to Heli and he grips that goblet as he takes a sip and stares at the battle in front of him.

"Ah! Fak! Tit shot, tit shot," Hel yawps a little bit, that hit — well, not as hard as the others, but smacking her armor straight onto her boob in just such a way to make her spit curses, spin hard and give the guy a parting thwack across the thigh — let's pretend that's where she was aiming, huh? — and then double over, going to a knee, holding up her right hand in a yield and taking a second to regain her purposes before she stands up straight again and nods to Cyriel with a grin. "Good match," she tells him, and really sounds to mean it, impressed by the pummeling he gave her out there. She extends an arm for a sportsmanlike clasp, if he'll return it.

The gesture surprises Cyriel. He eyes that arm Helisson extends to him and then reaches out to accept it. "It was good," he replies, but that will be as far as he will go. There is the next match though, and he moves to clear the field. And to watch from the sidelines.

Adeline remains where she was before, with the apothecary.

People need aid. It happens at tournaments. And it's not just limited to injured tourney participants: drunk patrons; folks that ate the wrong piece of mutton; squires that mishandled sharp weapons; etc. For the moment, though, she watches silently, leaning idly against her table.

Someone's bound to come by, hopefully without diphteria.

The first of the semi final matches has just concluded. The bout of Helisson d'Essoms and Cyriel Charlot had been brief and intense. The Kusheline has emerged as the victor of this particular pairing, and now the field has been cleared for the next pairing, the winner of which will proceed to the final match about the overall winner of the Sword Duel Contest. The crowd has calmed down a little, cheering and cursing having subsided into a lower murmur, as they wait for Foulque and Sebastien to get ready to face off against each other.

Evelyne Somerville has played pretty decoration to Sebastien de Basilisque for a while, standing with him at the sidelines in her pretty dress of green and white color. Her blonde hair shimmers in the setting sun of an early evening, her cheeks are rosy and her manner is the usual excited optimism. "Good luck to you," she murmurs to Sebastien as she watches him go, and then returns to her spot in the Ducal Box she had vacated for a moment. "Companions, how exciting!", she beams towards Desarae and Irene, and the Duchesse, of course. "Who wants to take a beet?", she wonders. "I'll wager 50 ducats that the Vicomte de Montmarlon will best Lord Foulque!"

Vicomte Basilisque steps forward. He offers a small bow of his head to the opponent, "Good luck to you!" And then he looks over the gathered crowd seeking for the eyes of a very special lady. Lady Evelyne. He turns specifically toward her direction and gives a very artistic and vivid deep bow as well as a wave of his hand. A keen look would notice even a mischievous wink. Then Sebastien turns back to his opponent and stands up ready.

Audrialla has run out of pastries and cookies to sell by the near end of the match, so the baker woman sits amongst the commoners and cheers on the competitors. She has no horse in this race so she just enjoys the show.

Lady Irene offers only a dim smile since she looks like fainting soon because of a fever. Her servant grows worried with each minute. Though,Irene waves her hand which holds half of a cookie "I do not care much who wins now. I know that lord Cyriel will be victorious!" She smiles at Evelyne and winks.

It's been quite a wait, but it seems it's finally Foulque's turn again. The silver haired Shahrizai stands and inclines his head to the stands, saluting the Duchess, then unlimbers a little with a few sideswipes of his blade. Another long drink of wine, and he moves towards the arena, slow, long steps, as he gauges his opponent. "Good luck to you, my Lord.." he says, stepping into a guard, his hilt brought almost as high as his cheek…"

<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Sebastien with Broadsword - Serious wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Sebastien attacks Foulque with Broadsword but Foulque DODGES!
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Sebastien with Broadsword - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Sebastien attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Light wound to Right Arm.
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Sebastien with Broadsword - Light wound to Left Leg.
<COMBAT> Sebastien attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Serious wound to Right Arm.

back and forth they go, Foulque's sword stabbing quickly , a smile when he feels it touch his opponent's chest…but then he winces as his right arm is struck, still sore from his earlier bout. A break taken between blows, he takes in a deep breath, blue eyes bright. "You fight well, my lord, let us see if you can match this.." he flows forward, with a vicious midriff cut.

The previous duels already have left the young Vicomte tired or maybe he started to trust his abilities too much. So, the first turn is not that much successful. Sebastien first hit misses and he himself loses breath for a moment when a serious hit is sent to his abdomen. Basilisque frowns, "You are very good. An Honor!" He says getting his breath back for a second and avoiding the opponent. He manages to hit his opponent but the decent answer is sent back as well and leaves Sebastien disappointed.

Cyriel cleans himself up a little, using a damp cloth to wipe over his face. His pale eyes find Irene in the Ducal Box, and his hawkish features twist into a vague ghost of a smile. Attention shifts to the Shahrizai and the Basilisque as they swing their dulled blades at each other, and the smile remains, deepening just a touch.

<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Sebastien with Broadsword - Critical wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Sebastien attacks Foulque with Broadsword but Foulque DODGES!
<COMBAT> Sebastien has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Sebastien spends a luck point to keep fighting!
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Sebastien with Broadsword - Light wound to Right Arm.
<COMBAT> Sebastien attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Light wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Sebastien has been KO'd!

Foulque's sword hits his opponent's chest and he dances away from the next blow, the tall , older man grinning as he manages to drive his opponent down. "Good fight.." he says, breathing a bit heavily, and reaching for the glass of wine his squire brings him. "Well fought, my Lord.." he sips and offers his left hand to Sebastien to help him up.

"That was a fairly won duel," Sebastien bows to his opponent after he was put to ground, stood up but because of the lack of focus lost his sword from the right hand. He rubs that right hand and picks up the sword turning around and leaving the field in an obvious annoyance. People closer to him might even hear a couple of wild curses. The man goes straight to the healers tent because he has a harder time breathing after that first heavy hit to his abdomen.

The purse she had nestled out from her neckline had gone unclaimed, her challenge for a wager, unaccepted. And it will be now, that Evelyne's fingers close about her purse to stow it quietly away, before she leaves the Ducal Box with a last remainder of decorum and then rushes towards the tourney field to check on the Basilisque lord. "Sebastien! Are you alright…?", she inquires with concern. Taking his arm then as she guides him towards the healers. A faint grin curves her lips catching some of his curse words. "Easy, my lord. You fought well." She shifts to her toes to place a coincidental kiss to his cheek, regardless of who might be watching.

Audrialla claps for the victor of the frenzied match. "Companions above, that was exciting," she says aloud, smiling with excitement. "The end is bound to be magnificent."

"What a match! Lord Sebastien Basilisque is bested by Lord Foulque Shahrizai, who will proceed to the final match and compete against Lord Cyriel Charlot! Kusheth will face Kusheth! May Kushiel be with those two!", the herald calls, rolling his eyes a little at the latter words.

Lady Irene stands up to her feet. With the help of her servant she goes as close as possible (not leaving the stand though) to have the best view. "He must win. He is the best." She whispers to herself and focuses. "After this, you will lead me toward him. How to I look?" She asks Antonin.

Foulque grins in delight and flourishes his long blade. "Ah, see, it's all in the wrist…" he winks to his squire, then nods. "That Charlot fellow is quick though, I've seen him earlier. Seeing Audrialla, he crooks his fingers. "Mademoiselle! Could I have something sweet and quick, I need to perk up a little."

Audrialla had saved a little pain d'epice for herself in her tray but hurried over to the finalist at his beckoning. "My lord, you fought so admirably," she gushed with a grin. "Please, accept this with my regards." Sweet spiced bread with a heady aroma, wrapped in a neat green linen. She unwraps it as she presents it, with a curtsy.

"How fitting," Cyriel murmurs to himself as he hands off the cloth to his servant. He draws the tourney blade and then walks towards the spot on the tourney field at a leisurely pace. A few swings he executes there, to warm up muscles that may already have settled, before he turns and waits for the Shahrizai to join him. His eyes flash brightly as he considers Foulque from afar.

The Shahrizai beams and takes the offered sweet with a bow of his head. "Thank you , mademoiselle.." he bites into it, taking his time, then grins. "Quite delicious!" He washes it off with some wine, then hands the linen to his squire and picks up his sword again. "But on to some more serious business.." he unlimbers his shoulders as he moves towards the arena. "My Lord, your servant." he salutes with his blade.

"You are all politeness," Cyriel counters, returning the salute, his eyes a light blue. His voice is detached, but his manner shows respect for the Shahrizai. Readying himself then, to meet the man in combat.

<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Foulque with Broadsword - ARMOR on Head stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Cyriel with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Right Hand.
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Foulque with Broadsword and MISSES!
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Cyriel with Broadsword - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Light wound to Right Hand.
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Cyriel with Broadsword but Cyriel DODGES!

When Foulque hits Cyriel twice and one of the hits seem to be dangerous, Irene grabs the arm of her servant and squeezes it so much as if she would bs hit herself. She even closes her eyes briefly, "Don't tell me he is losing… nooo…" But she obviously opens her eyes then to peek herself.

Audrialla moves back to her seat in the stands but finds its been usurped in her absence. She stays standing, then, lingering near the rails to watch the pair finish their exciting bout.

It's a quick but careful start, both men gauging their opponents, blows light as they dance together, the blunted blades flashing in the light. Foulque's long, pale hair flows in the air as he barely manages to avoid a harder hit to the head, his helm saving a scrambling of his brains…and then strikes back…after a few blows the two opponents disengage for a breath or two..then Foulque raises his sword and strikes again!

A low curse escapes Cyriel when Foulque's dulled blade manages to get him at the right hand, his sword hand. The next strike of him going astray, while he himself receives another light strike against his chest, where the partial maile armor saves him from more severe damage. It is a dance, and it remains graceful, on Cyriel's part, when he evades the third strike with a faint grin. "To defeat you, I may have to put more effort in," he admits matter-of-factly. And then tries to do just that, as he aims to evade the other man's blade and to use the momentum to his advantage.

<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Cyriel with Broadsword - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Cyriel with Broadsword but Cyriel DODGES!
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Serious wound to Neck (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Neck (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Cyriel with Broadsword but Cyriel DODGES!

A new flurry of blades..and this time Foulque has clearly had the worse of if as he staggers back, a couple of blows to the neck making him wince..and he takes a moment to rest the tip of his sword against the ground. "Fast, fast, my lord..now third time pays for all.." he says, and launches a quick cut to the other man's thigh.

Cyriel's strikes are executed with more force now, and in quick succession he goes for Foulque's chest, and the area where the neck connects to the shoulders, from both sides. Nevermind that he received a lighter strike himself, it seems as if the Charlot is slowly gaining the upper hand. "We all will pay in the end," Cyriel counters, his eyes flashing brightly as he sees the Shahrizai go at him again.

<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Cyriel with Broadsword but Cyriel DODGES!
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Light wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Cyriel with Broadsword and MISSES!
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Foulque attacks Cyriel with Broadsword but Cyriel DODGES!
<COMBAT> Cyriel attacks Foulque with Broadsword - Moderate wound to Left Arm.
<COMBAT> Foulque has been KO'd!

Irene's grasp on Antonin seems to tighten with each moment. Poor man even has an expression of mild pain in his features. But then it is clear. Amd when it is clear,a young lady jumps to her feet. She bounces in joy and claps, "He won! He won! I knew he is the best! He won!" The joy seems to push all the pain and fever away. Her condition is barely visible on her burning cheeks. "Antonin, let's go down. I want to congratulate him!" And lady Irene is lead down where the champions would pass by while going toward healer's tent.

Definitely not his best moment, Foulque's moving back, taking blow after blow while his own cuts seem to miss..again, again and again…and finally he's hit once too many times, stumbling and falling to his knees. his exact words aren't probably something one wishes to repeat as his breathing is fast, but then he inclines his head and acknowledges defeat. "You've got quite an arm, my Lord.." he groans, struggling to get to his feet, grabbing the wine skin from his squire and just pouring the red liquid into his mouth.

It seems as if the Charlot has found his rhythm, moving with an agility as he takes advantage of Foulque Shahrizai becoming increasingly affected by the blows he deals him. Of course, there is no blood, but the dulled blade will certainly cause some bruises to the Shahrizai. Ducking away under the blade of his opponent, Cyriel manages a few hits of Foulque's abdomen, chest and then his left arm. When Foulque Shahrizai goes down and falls to his knees, the Charlot lowers his blade and considers the opponent with a faint glint in his pale blue eyes. "Thank you. You fought well." His left arm he extends to help Foulque to his feet. "And we showed them.", he adds at a low murmur, gaze flicking towards the benches and stands. "My lord of Shahrizai." Said as he leaves him to his servant and the wine skin, and Cyriel moves towards the sidelines to indulge in the cheer of the crowd.

"Who would have thought?", the herald bellows across the field and towards the audience. "The Swords Duel Contest is won by a Kusheline. Lord Cyriel Charlot, Vicomte de Chavagne!"

Audrialla claps heartily for the Victorious Cyriel, letting out a whistle and a cheer alongside the other common folk. That was one hell of a fight and worth every moment of focus.

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