#i present to you..... HORNSE.....

[midwestgp]

she calls to him

[ardawyn]

The Dawnbringer Excerpt 

The third tournament day (~940 words; continued under the cut)

I had so much fun writing this scene and I could file on this forever, but I thought why not sharing it? We also get a little glimpse of Martha, princess of Issarien and Tilda’s cousin. Hope you enjoy!

Pavilions littered the grasslands in the distance, bright and colourful in the light of the sun. Some even shimmered behind the skeleton-like trees. Nature still did not have a full grip on spring, and only scattered green leaves emerged from branches. But the blotches of colour that the people left on the landscape were a magnificent view. Even many of the common folk that had gathered all around had donned colourful clothes. They all had come to watch the games and cheer for their gracious princess.

Martha was well loved by the people, just like her father. Often they showed themselves to the folk, spoke to them, shook their hands. Some moons before, Martha began to visit the orphanages in the city where she brought food and toys to the children. To show kindness and clemency was expected of her, but she loved being close to her people.

Banners flapped high on poles in the brisk breeze. The largest of banners displayed a great tower and the rising sun behind on an orange field. The royal coat-of-arms.

Trumpets sounded shrill and loud, silencing the bustling crowd for a moment, before more cheers erupted as knights and lords entered the lists on great steeds. Just as the riders were clad in magnificent, shining armour with flashing cloaks, the horses were draped in splendid caparisons.

Soon Tilda's hands tingled from clapping, and she let them sink into her lap. Her eyes darted from participant to participant, not sure where she should look first as they rode in circles around the field, presenting themselves to the spectators. The sun that squinted through the clouds caught beautifully upon their armour. There still were twenty-three competitors who fought for the win.

One knight halted his horse before the stand they sat on. A young man with dark hair and bright eyes and a cape of deep blue and red. He reached up a hand, producing a pink flower. A great smile curved around Martha's lips, and she descended the few steps to pluck it from his fingers. Tilda couldn't help but wonder where he found the rare flower, seeing as only few bloomed around this time of year. Had he stolen it from the royal gardens? With bright, red cheeks, Martha returned to her seat. She showed her the flower as a shy giggle spilled from her lips.

“You will receive many more, I wager,” Tilda said, amused. “If you'd dance with each of them, you'd be old and grey before you finished.”

“Oh, don't be daft,” she replied, her face still nearly as red as her hair. “I'd only dance with one or two.”

“And who might be those lucky ones?”

Martha bit her bottom lip, blue eyes wandering to the parading riders, before glancing at her again. “Sir Isger von Lierkap and Sir Meinold Hornsing.”

The last name made her breath falter. Perhaps it wasn't wise to tell her that Sir Meinold had tried to woo her too, on the day they had arrived in Alasing. After all, it was Martha who, as an only child, had to produce an heir. Although, she hoped Sir Meinold would be no true candidate. He was vain and arrogant. The way he had smirked at her still made her shudder.

Mother had warned her that once in the capital, men would try to flatter her. Not because she was deemed as particularly beautiful, she knew, but because she was the daughter of one of the most wealthiest lords in Issarien and the niece of the king. They only wanted her name, her riches, and cared little for her heart. Under no circumstances would she marry such a man, even if it was expected of her. She would fight fiercely to not fall prey to men scrambling for power. Her father tried to determine her life already, she wouldn't let another man try to take advantage of her.

There was only one who truly held her heart with gentle, caring hands. And it would be his for all times. Despite the longing, she fought the urge to cast a gaze over her shoulder.

Tilda rose from her seat as her brother rode onto the lists, clapping her hands. A cape of scarlet with gold embroidered roses billowed behind him, and he was mounted on his black destrier that was clad in the same red caparison. Golden roses were stitched to the borders too. Landogar had his helmet hugged to his side as he one-handedly guided his horse. He nodded to the people, but he did not smile.

He always forgets to smile, she thought, mildly amused. Lando looked so much like their father, grim-faced with stern dark eyes. He almost spoke like Father too.

The jousting took all morning and most of noon too. Lances crashed and splintered against armour. Armour rattled loudly as the riders were knocked off their horses and toppled into the dirt. Gasps and groans, cheers and screams filled the air wildly. Often Tilda found herself clasping the armrests of her chair. Some riders were so awfully thrown off their horses that her breath stalled. The tension that built on tournaments was equally as enthralling as exhausting.

There were eight, perhaps nine, attendants who stood out against the rest. Her brother was amongst them, riding gallantly and confidently. He drove many men from their saddles, and was exceedingly celebrated by the people. Although in his fifth match, he lost his balance as the lance thrust with a loud clatter against his shoulder. The exploding wood sounded like shattering bones.

Her heart stilled. The crowd gasped. Landogar did not move at first, but then he quickly stood as though nothing had happened. A sigh of relief escaped her lips, and she unclenched her fists.