Roleplay III -- Bonus Round
Make it more collaborative than competitive (and then we don't have to worry about winning our match)
A troupe of knights bands together to take down a giant that is threatening the city
You reflect on the three years of growth that nine year-old Cadmon has over you and decide that only an ignoble trick could possibly allow you to win against him at this point. Rather than stoop to such low methods, you decide to change your plans to make the contest less about competing against each other and more about fighting as a group. You remember a tale that Nanna told you about giants who used to roam the earth before the coming of your people. To best such a feared creature of legend would be a mark of great skill at arms for any knight, and you happen to know a fair approximation to the physical dimensions of that elder folk.
You are soon mounted and trotting toward the kitchens, where you send for Hammy to bring his boys to the muster, then you canter over to the barracks where Cadmon and his group are lounging restless and idle. "We shall put your wrestling instruction to the test today, Cadmon! A great giant has come into our land and menaces our people, like Goemagot of old, and we alone stand between him and our wailing mothers!" Cadmon and his lads appear to have their interest piqued by this, and you proceed onward to arrange the other side of the bout. When you return, you see boys from Hamden's group begin trickling to the muster, and you repeat the legend of Goemagot, well known to all. Soon they are shaking their fists and swearing oaths to save their mothers from Goemagot's inhuman rapine.
Goemagot lurches across the training field, looking suspiciously like Luther in the face. Yet his loinclothed physique of ropey sinews and thick slabs of brawn, normally concealed beneath his tunic, suddenly recasts his whole appearance in an unfamiliar new light that in your youthful opinion does no mockery to the old tales. The savage figment of legend comes within hailing distance and, kneeling to you, announces himself with as much dignity as possible. "Goemagot, Milord, at your service."
Amid gasps of growing apprehension at the difficulty of the challenge, Rick Scullion remarks a bit more incredulously, "Polite for a giant, ain't he, though?" to which Cadmon rejoins which a smack on the back of the head, "He's had a thousand years to learn manners. Even tha could learn some by then, numb skull. He's still a giant." Hamden agrees, "Aye. Don't be fooled by good manners. He's still going to drink the blood of our mothers. He'll just have his pinkies pointed genteelly out while he's sipping at the mug."
You hush your men, and walk your pony down the line in review, "Today we fight a giant that delights in the screams of defenceless women. Goemagot himself! Perhaps you fear him, and you wish to ask me whether he can be bested. That is the wrong question. In olden times, these same beasts our ancestors slaughtered, till a mountain was made from their bodies; and from that mountain came down a great river; and out from that river came a shining city; and from that city came the line of the Lords of Fallsberg, rightful Kings of the March from those times till now. So then, do not ask me whether you can defeat this foe. Instead, ask yourselves whether you are true sons of the March who would serve a Count who serves that line of Kings. So, what say you then? Are you true sons of the March?"
Amid a rumble of general assent, Hammy smacks his pudgy hand with his fist. "Aye, right and proper!"
"Then forward with no fear!"
The boys rush past you with a hearty hurrah, as you struggle to dismount, the last part of pony-riding to really elude you. Landing somewhat awkwardly, you slip on the mud and fall hard on your prat, causing you to glance about to see whether anyone noticed. Thankfully, your troops are already engaged in battle, but you spy Symeon and Barachiel Lope strolling the grounds together nearby, Barachiel intent on Symeon's words. Symeon meets your gaze and pauses, with a smile and bow, before turning and guiding Barachiel away. You brush yourself off and console yourself that your clothes will only get dirtier before the day is through. And on that thought, your face brightens and you plunge into the mass of squealing children that Luther is heaving about.
***
Nanna found you remarkably soon after entering the castle--perhaps because of the crumbling flakes of dried muck that slough off behind you whenever a part of your thoroughly-caked body tries to move. She nearly went apopletic as she sputtered out a command to have water drawn from the well and the tub brought to that location without a single step farther. Your clothes go into a sack, and the water having been heated, she plunges you in the tub and scrubs feverishly at you.
"Your mother wishes to see you, and I won't have you looking like a mud-skinned Baabar! I cannot imagine what she intends to do about this knavery of yours, but I for one intend to peel off a layer of skin if I must!"
You are ushered into the Council Chamber with little need to summon up an embarrassed blush, Nanna having seen to the ruddy complexion of your face with brush bristles and lye. Marna is seated among her throng of courtiers, Symeon at her right hand. Luther is already standing before her raised dais, looking a bit sheepish.
Marna arches a brow at your arrival. "It comes to my attention that milord the Count of Folesden has been battling giants today. In fact, Symeon has come to me with a full account of the spectacle." Marna graces the Lord Chandler with a hand on his arm, and he bows low to you. "He says that the sport itself is amusing to watch, your boys well-trained, and your speech straight out of an idyll. High praise from one having such refined tastes in the arts. We should quite like to see this show for ourselves, and we think that it may be an amusing opportunity to introduce you to the County at large. Milord Symeon and Sir Luther will be in charge of polishing this mummery for enactment at the Folesden Fairs."
Luther quickly out-reddens you.
The Folesden Fairs are held in the barony of Feroshire and will be Isaac's first glimpse of a broader world, but there is choice to be made. Lordship followers know that there are two seasons for the Fairs: an arts festival in May, and a proper tournament in October. Marna will not care, and your preference can shape which season you attend.
By travelling outside Curbiston and indeed the Keep itself, for the first time in your memory--you were born in Feroshire but hardly recall those days--it will not be surprising if you begin to learn of incipient social pressures that will shape society in years to come, and perhaps form the background for your later struggles. The arts festival will expose you to a closer look at forces at play among the commoners; the tournament calls forth flocks of nobility to test their might, and your eyes will be opened to the politics among them.
Another difference is that, at the tournament, your mummery is sure to play second fiddle to much greater excitement; while at the arts fair, far more elaboration on the themes of Goemagot and the ancient legends will be done, given the higher brow of the average attendee there. 
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Topic: Heirship: A Suggestion Game (Read 30489 times)