Post by Jaezred Vandree on May 3, 2021 22:33:57 GMT
The neighing of horses, the tramp of hooves, and the cracking of wood against metal. Jaezred feels himself flying out of the saddle as the lance jams into his right pauldron. He briefly felt his lance make contact with Sir Oldfart de Whatshisface's besague too, but the impending sense of satisfaction is short-lived. The drow sorcerer slams into the dirt with a loud oomph.
He blinks as the sky, visible through the slit of the hot, ill-fitting frog-mouthed helm, seems to spin. Oddly (and he would feel slightly embarrassed about this later), his first thought was: At least Imryll isn't here to see this.
He vaguely senses himself getting hoisted up by two pairs of arms. The helmet is pulled off and he tries in vain to shield his eyes from the sudden glare of sunlight. "—prisingly close! He knocked you off before you knocked him off," Igrainne's voice reverbs in his right ear. His gaze follows her finger, which points at an armoured figure whose foot is stuck in his horse's stirrup, being unceremoniously dragged by the beast through the lists as servant boys chase after them. There is laughter and clapping from somewhere.
"Brutish human scum," is all he can manage. In Drowic too, so none of the iblith* understood him, much to his dismay. He can tell that his beautiful, silky hair is an utter mess and he feels awful.
"Don't worry about it. Just by stepping up to the challenge, your honour is proven, and our family's name is untarnished."
"Whuh— what's the point then?" he slurs.
"Noooo idea." Igrainne grins. She's enjoying this.
*Drowic Elvish: feces/offal/humans
He blinks as the sky, visible through the slit of the hot, ill-fitting frog-mouthed helm, seems to spin. Oddly (and he would feel slightly embarrassed about this later), his first thought was: At least Imryll isn't here to see this.
He vaguely senses himself getting hoisted up by two pairs of arms. The helmet is pulled off and he tries in vain to shield his eyes from the sudden glare of sunlight. "—prisingly close! He knocked you off before you knocked him off," Igrainne's voice reverbs in his right ear. His gaze follows her finger, which points at an armoured figure whose foot is stuck in his horse's stirrup, being unceremoniously dragged by the beast through the lists as servant boys chase after them. There is laughter and clapping from somewhere.
"Brutish human scum," is all he can manage. In Drowic too, so none of the iblith* understood him, much to his dismay. He can tell that his beautiful, silky hair is an utter mess and he feels awful.
"Don't worry about it. Just by stepping up to the challenge, your honour is proven, and our family's name is untarnished."
"Whuh— what's the point then?" he slurs.
"Noooo idea." Igrainne grins. She's enjoying this.
*Drowic Elvish: feces/offal/humans