Our best jouster against yours.

[Theomore Tullison]

"I hear you have a reputation at the lists, Ser Michael" Theomore said rather lazily. "How about a little spectacle? Three passes and then settle it by sword if needed, you do have tourney lances down here, no?" A temptation hard to pass up, but of course, Theomore had a knack for making such indulgence irresistible. "If you are up for the challenge of course, can't say I have ever faced a Dornish tourney knight worthy of the term."

That did it, friendly enough as the barb was delivered, it was still a challenge, to back down from it would be to bolster the morale of a thousand men under the dragon's banner as the tale spread through the ranks, Ser Michael knew it too. Perhaps he thought Theomore himself would meet him, lance against lance, perhaps he even fancied himself having a chance in that encounter, maybe he would have. But Theomore did not plan on finding out, not when he had brought along someone considerably more able, the black marks that proved it had yet to completely fade. Still, Ser Alayne had also spent the following day abed under the maester's orders.

Passive AH: 18
AR: 10
Health: 15
Maneuver declared in private forum.

[Reader said Ser Michael will agree to three turns with tourney lances before drawing swords, so that's what we'll do.]

[Baelon Drakeson]

"I accepted your challenge, Ser Theomore - but I see your words are naught but wind as foul as that what passes from your arse. Such bravery you display. I expect you will send your men forth to die while you sit idle at the rear, sipping some of our fine Dornish wine? If that cowardice is the best you northerners have to offer, it is no wonder that even with superior numbers and dragons you have failed to conquer our motherland. The Warrior spits on your cowardice. A word of advice for your troops: follow your leaders into battle, do not tread where they fear to - lest you feel the adders' bite. Come Ser Alayne. I'll not dishonor myself and run from a challenge as your craven commander has done."

Pass 1

Ser Michael Baldrick Pass 1: HitS 2: 9d6k4+4 24 vs PR 18, 2 DoS for 16-10AR = 6 Damage and a TN 12 Ride test.

PR 16, AR 10
Health: 12/12
I/F: 0/0

[Theomore Tullison]

"I do not see Lord Wyl coming to join the fun, ser" Theomore merely shrugs. "I shall happily test my lances against him." The rest of it was true though, except the wine. He would have that after the battle. "But it seems we have to drag him out first!" He shouts in reply.

Defensive +2: 11d6k5-2 21, should be 2 DoS vs 16? Michael is a KoQ with +2 tourney knight (so 14+2). If so, dishes out 2x12 damage, 14 after AR, TN 12 to stay in saddle.
Improving Passive ride to 20, means he only takes 1 DoS, no damage through armor and stay in saddle: 6d6k4 19 vs TN 9.


Passive AH: 18
AR: 10
Health: 15
Maneuver declared in private forum.

[Baelon Drakeson]

The Dornish Knight takes the full brunt of the hit, and for a moment it appears he will stay in the saddle, but as his sand steed turns for another pass, he slides off.

Standing, Ser Michael spits in Theomore's direction. Keen eyes might note that the expectoration is reddish in color.
"You did not challenge the Wyl, Arsewind. You challenged me. I rode forth but you ran away."

He coughs, and more blood trickles out the side of his mouth.
"I yield to you, Ser Alayne. I'll not be the Arsewind's prisoner; draw your Heartseeker and end me here if you be his dog."

OOC: Yes you are correct, his PR is 16. I think I added in Tourney Knight twice or something.
Ser Michael takes 1 injury to reduce the damage to 10.
P1 Stay Seated (HitS 2, 1 Injury): 5d6k3-3 10 fails.
Ser Michael takes another 12 damage, takes another 3 injuries to reduce to 0.

With 2 health being all that stands between Ser Michael and defeat, he yields.

[Aerion Storm]

Astride his plain brown rounsey, surrounded by the other lads and men scraped together to ride under the dragon, Aerion Storm watches the exchange eagerly. Most of the insults are less than clear; an army's a loud place to be, after all. Too many impatiently stomping horses, too much clanking mail, far too many creaking saddles, soft prayers, half-hearted boasts. He gets the jist of the exchange, though. The Tullison fellow offering a challenge, Baldrick accepting, and then out rides the coaliton's champion, and...it's...

Harrumph. Him.

Aerion slumps in the saddle, his glee muted. Tarly, the mental curse comes out in Ser Harbert's voice, a vicious snarl.

The other young riders around him are still leaning forward eagerly, jawing like they can guess the outcome, betting on how many lances will be shattered or if the Dornishman's champion will try to cheat by lancing Tarly's horse.

We should be so lucky, Aerion thinks, but then, almost immediately, feels bad. Not just for the dishonor of wishing ill -- real ill -- upon the man, but for the horse. That charger's done me no wrong. And it is a rather splendid beast.

He pats his own old brown mare, as if to make up for it to all horsedom. Less enthusiastically than the rest of the riders around him, but still unable to keep his practiced tourneyman's eye away from the action, Storm watches the champions align, then spur themselves forward. Grudgingly, he has to admit that Tarly knows how to ride. Low in the saddle, Aerion notes, And not quite square-on. Good enough to angle his shield a bit.

Like me, he can't help but add, jealous that the Reachman gets this chance, not him.

Baldrick's not bad -- not bad at all -- but he's up too high, maybe trying to impress someone back in the castle, maybe just afraid of Tarly's reputation, maybe just worried about the size of the army at the Reachman's back. Tilting's all about balance and timing. Horses provide the power, the tricky part's up to the riders; and Baldrick's lost it, just based on how he sits in the saddle, before the two even clash.

He'll fall, Aerion sighs and looks away just as the lances splinter. Sure enough, a few heartbeats later, as the horses slow for the turn, Aerion hears the army around him as Michael tumbles from the saddle. Their champion sits his horse, triumphant, but Storm just can't feel as exulted as the rest of them. Partially it's because it was Tarly out there, but largely it's because he knows the victory doesn't mean the Wyl buggers will throw the gates open, share their sweetest strongwine, and offer up their daughters. There's still a battle to be won, and Aerion's got to worry on it, not the thousandth knightly charge he's ever seen.

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