Post by SighehelmofKent on May 23, 2004 5:21:18 GMT -5
-He had returned by ship, all the while standing tall, consciously ignoring the way the ship moved as the waves dictated it. His hands behind his back, his feet apart, strong muscles in his legs moved to counter the sickening movement of the ship; his eyes on one point at the horizon. He had no love for the sea; life in Kent did not warrant much travel by the waters. Except if he wished to travel the Lands of France and the low lands, or visit the land of the Lady Aethelbred, the green emerald isle, Eire. His feet were made to walk the firm soil, the muddy shores of the Dover coast lines, the green forests of Blair Atholl.
And yet he chose to brave the sea again, not once did he hesitate. The archery contest had gathered many of Windstorm, members and guests, to visit the lands of Eenheid, and almost as many to enter the contest; Princess Edfeil, M'Lady Laurestina, M'Lady de Lune, M'Lady Andrea, Goodman Sinold, and Master Sergeant Gerben. M'Lady Zella, her wee charge, M'Lady Loxley, and he had travelled to assist, or enjoy the archery. The presence of so many of Windstorm truly honoured the weeks of work and preparations by the Markgraaf and Vrouwe of Eenheid.
As he stood there, at the stern of the windstorm ship he realised how much he missed the contests, spars and jousts with his brother, cousins and many a valiant knight of his father. He had even, if just for a moment, hesitated to enter, but decided against it, as this was an opportune moment to observe the strengths and weaknesses of many. There was advantage in the eye that observes, the hand that remains inactive.
He had noted the winds that had played tricks on many an arrow launched, as well as the unskilled hand of many a lady, and some of the men. The archery contest displayed the skills of many, but also tenacity and admirable effort by all that lacked the skill of others. The men of the Markgraaf of Eenheid had been instructed with an eye for detail, and each archer was assisted with dedication.
The lord Abiyownah had indeed proven the old adage, that looks can indeed deceive. His arrow, though erratic, had found the mark with precision, and resulted in a formidable score. Sighehelm could not but smile at his antics. For he knew this could be none other then sand in the eyes of his fellow contestants.
Master Sergeant Gerben had impressed him. His ways concentrated, his eye only upon the target, he was there indeed to win the prize for Windstorm, for the glory of the Kingdom. The man had displayed the skill of a true guard pledged to the King of Windstorm, and the Lord Hawkmoon. Sighehelm had taken the opportunity to notice the slight weakness in his left hand, less co-ordinated, almost careless. Yet, he knew too well that this was not armed combat, a mere game. His observations revealing that this simple archery contest showed but a shadow of what the man could really do. He was indeed one to be reckoned with, his skills not taken lightly
M'Lady Laurestina found herself challenged by the bow, the size of which too big for the small woman. Yet he also feared the merry intake of wine had guided her hands. And as the first shot launched the bow itself at the target, the second a shoe from the foot of the lady, he had moved in front of the Princess Edfeil. He much feared the next release of the arrow by the hands of the Lady Laurestina. He envisioned it would indeed launch the lady herself at the target. His concern for many that looked on, as well as with the lovely Windstorm archer herself.
Master Sergeant Gerben shared his concern, and like a wall they stood tall before the princess, blocking her from view until the third arrow had found its mark, and both stepped sideways, amused by the proceedings, relieved that all went well.
M'Lady de Lune showed her hand had been taught. Perhaps by the trusted Commander of Windstorm Rangers, Robin of Loxley? The kentish man had heard tales of the skills of Robin of Loxley. And he believed he could see these skills echo in the lady's efforts at the archery contest. Yet the winds had been unkind, and her keen eye and steady had made the arrows waver. His bow to her upon completion one of deep respect, her efforts were one that could challenge his skills at archery.
Then the Kent nobleman watched the Goodman Sinold; a man who chose to act as a child so often. His protective heart towards the Princess did not irritate him. In fact he prized the man for it, it earned him the respect he deserved. Yet his childish ways of executing the protective zeal would soon overshadow the respect he had for the man. Sinold's distrust in him was based on old wife's tales, not one fact among them. It gnawed at the Kent pride his father had instilled in him. He, the Rock of Kent, was known for his honesty, his chivalrous ways, and respect to any of all births, be they noble or peasant.
The Goodman Sinold was his second reason for travelling with the Windstorm delegation. As the man released his arrows, every stance, every movement of arm, leg and eye was absorbed, and translated into sparring techniques. The wide bulk of the man a disadvantage, as he thought the smaller size of the man was as well. Yet the fire in his eyes, the sheer unbridled power in the short, developed muscles, his cunning, and, the Kent fighter assumed, his trickery, would make him a formidable opponent.
The Norseman led for Windstorm after the first round, and his score was indeed one that honoured Windstorm, and he could but bow to the man, who he at one time hope would have been a friend to him. He still marvelled at the change within the man. Sinold’s ways to protect the Princess displayed him to be an uncouth brute at times, a true Norseman.
M'Lady Andrea fired the arrows swift, one following the other; the Rock of kent impressed by the almost matter of fact skill revieled in her manners. He wondered about this lady oft, as he did about the lands she had travelled from. He seemed to remember she mentioned brothers, or a brother. It must be where her skills originated from. Like many others she found herself hampered by the unpredictable gusts of wind; her score admirable despite them. He could but smile when he finally caught her eye. He bowed his head in simple respect, a woman much to be admired.
Yet of all this day he would remember the Pebble of Windstorm, how simple pride filled his chest that his steed was allowed to accompany the small mule molly. He well knew his brother would mock him if he would ever know; one of the Kent Great, beside a small white mule. Yet like him Petite did not seem to object too much. It was only towards the end, when the city of Eenheid came into view that he had to curb the steed's temperament.; nostrils flaring, hooves scraping the pebbled path.
He had watched her, holding the quiver of arrows, finding no need to speak often. The Princess' attempt were those of a woman determined to participate, to make good on a promise, to carry the burden of her royal duty. She had come here out of a sense of duty, but more so he knew because many of these people she held dearly, and she rejoiced in the gayety of the contest. He would lie if he told any that her archery was skilled, yet he revelled in every movement of the lady before him.
Her second shot was disturbed by the arrival of the king, and his attempt at humour. Sighehelm would have chosen a different moment, as the arrow of the King's daughter went amiss, missing the target almost. Yet he blessed the king not much later, for the offer granted by the Markgraaf to reshoot the second arrow, made the Princess turn to him, his opinion asked, needed even.
His voice had failed him as she asked him if she should retake the arrow, and he could only smile and nod, offering the arrows once more. And so the King of Windstorm, Agustin Stormblade, had unwittingly allowed him to stand beside his beloved and much protected child longer than fate would have him normally. He smiled at the small irony of the situation, yet he would not boast of it, he merely accepted thank fully, a small prayer of Grace to the Lord above.
It was M’Lord Jackson of the Lands of Cathral, First Mate of the good ship The Black Widow, who had urged all to admire his skills. His marksmanship perfect in the second round; his arrow struck the straw dummy, marked as prince. This was a target hard to hit, heavy armour protecting it. And yet almost without any effort the arrow found its target, and this added to the score of the first round, indeed made his score the highest.
Many had stayed for the auction that followed upon, yet the Rock of Kent had chosen to walk away, and spend time with his steed; his mind on the contest and the multitude of impressions that he had gathered. These people of Windstorm were singular, and indeed deserved his respect, the honour of his strong arm, the dedication of a true heart, the protection of his strong broadsword. He knew that the voices of distrust could not be silenced by his anger, but would more so abate and fall silent by his ways. Ways that were fuelled by desires and needs that were ingrained within him, those that showed the soul of the man standing taller than most, but with a heart as any, loyal to his God, his Land, his King, His family, and his friends.
And so he withstood the discomfort of the sea, to return to Windstorm, knowing his heart would bleed as he would urge his steed to head west across the breath of Britannia, foregoing to travel south to his beloved Kent.
And yet he chose to brave the sea again, not once did he hesitate. The archery contest had gathered many of Windstorm, members and guests, to visit the lands of Eenheid, and almost as many to enter the contest; Princess Edfeil, M'Lady Laurestina, M'Lady de Lune, M'Lady Andrea, Goodman Sinold, and Master Sergeant Gerben. M'Lady Zella, her wee charge, M'Lady Loxley, and he had travelled to assist, or enjoy the archery. The presence of so many of Windstorm truly honoured the weeks of work and preparations by the Markgraaf and Vrouwe of Eenheid.
As he stood there, at the stern of the windstorm ship he realised how much he missed the contests, spars and jousts with his brother, cousins and many a valiant knight of his father. He had even, if just for a moment, hesitated to enter, but decided against it, as this was an opportune moment to observe the strengths and weaknesses of many. There was advantage in the eye that observes, the hand that remains inactive.
He had noted the winds that had played tricks on many an arrow launched, as well as the unskilled hand of many a lady, and some of the men. The archery contest displayed the skills of many, but also tenacity and admirable effort by all that lacked the skill of others. The men of the Markgraaf of Eenheid had been instructed with an eye for detail, and each archer was assisted with dedication.
The lord Abiyownah had indeed proven the old adage, that looks can indeed deceive. His arrow, though erratic, had found the mark with precision, and resulted in a formidable score. Sighehelm could not but smile at his antics. For he knew this could be none other then sand in the eyes of his fellow contestants.
Master Sergeant Gerben had impressed him. His ways concentrated, his eye only upon the target, he was there indeed to win the prize for Windstorm, for the glory of the Kingdom. The man had displayed the skill of a true guard pledged to the King of Windstorm, and the Lord Hawkmoon. Sighehelm had taken the opportunity to notice the slight weakness in his left hand, less co-ordinated, almost careless. Yet, he knew too well that this was not armed combat, a mere game. His observations revealing that this simple archery contest showed but a shadow of what the man could really do. He was indeed one to be reckoned with, his skills not taken lightly
M'Lady Laurestina found herself challenged by the bow, the size of which too big for the small woman. Yet he also feared the merry intake of wine had guided her hands. And as the first shot launched the bow itself at the target, the second a shoe from the foot of the lady, he had moved in front of the Princess Edfeil. He much feared the next release of the arrow by the hands of the Lady Laurestina. He envisioned it would indeed launch the lady herself at the target. His concern for many that looked on, as well as with the lovely Windstorm archer herself.
Master Sergeant Gerben shared his concern, and like a wall they stood tall before the princess, blocking her from view until the third arrow had found its mark, and both stepped sideways, amused by the proceedings, relieved that all went well.
M'Lady de Lune showed her hand had been taught. Perhaps by the trusted Commander of Windstorm Rangers, Robin of Loxley? The kentish man had heard tales of the skills of Robin of Loxley. And he believed he could see these skills echo in the lady's efforts at the archery contest. Yet the winds had been unkind, and her keen eye and steady had made the arrows waver. His bow to her upon completion one of deep respect, her efforts were one that could challenge his skills at archery.
Then the Kent nobleman watched the Goodman Sinold; a man who chose to act as a child so often. His protective heart towards the Princess did not irritate him. In fact he prized the man for it, it earned him the respect he deserved. Yet his childish ways of executing the protective zeal would soon overshadow the respect he had for the man. Sinold's distrust in him was based on old wife's tales, not one fact among them. It gnawed at the Kent pride his father had instilled in him. He, the Rock of Kent, was known for his honesty, his chivalrous ways, and respect to any of all births, be they noble or peasant.
The Goodman Sinold was his second reason for travelling with the Windstorm delegation. As the man released his arrows, every stance, every movement of arm, leg and eye was absorbed, and translated into sparring techniques. The wide bulk of the man a disadvantage, as he thought the smaller size of the man was as well. Yet the fire in his eyes, the sheer unbridled power in the short, developed muscles, his cunning, and, the Kent fighter assumed, his trickery, would make him a formidable opponent.
The Norseman led for Windstorm after the first round, and his score was indeed one that honoured Windstorm, and he could but bow to the man, who he at one time hope would have been a friend to him. He still marvelled at the change within the man. Sinold’s ways to protect the Princess displayed him to be an uncouth brute at times, a true Norseman.
M'Lady Andrea fired the arrows swift, one following the other; the Rock of kent impressed by the almost matter of fact skill revieled in her manners. He wondered about this lady oft, as he did about the lands she had travelled from. He seemed to remember she mentioned brothers, or a brother. It must be where her skills originated from. Like many others she found herself hampered by the unpredictable gusts of wind; her score admirable despite them. He could but smile when he finally caught her eye. He bowed his head in simple respect, a woman much to be admired.
Yet of all this day he would remember the Pebble of Windstorm, how simple pride filled his chest that his steed was allowed to accompany the small mule molly. He well knew his brother would mock him if he would ever know; one of the Kent Great, beside a small white mule. Yet like him Petite did not seem to object too much. It was only towards the end, when the city of Eenheid came into view that he had to curb the steed's temperament.; nostrils flaring, hooves scraping the pebbled path.
He had watched her, holding the quiver of arrows, finding no need to speak often. The Princess' attempt were those of a woman determined to participate, to make good on a promise, to carry the burden of her royal duty. She had come here out of a sense of duty, but more so he knew because many of these people she held dearly, and she rejoiced in the gayety of the contest. He would lie if he told any that her archery was skilled, yet he revelled in every movement of the lady before him.
Her second shot was disturbed by the arrival of the king, and his attempt at humour. Sighehelm would have chosen a different moment, as the arrow of the King's daughter went amiss, missing the target almost. Yet he blessed the king not much later, for the offer granted by the Markgraaf to reshoot the second arrow, made the Princess turn to him, his opinion asked, needed even.
His voice had failed him as she asked him if she should retake the arrow, and he could only smile and nod, offering the arrows once more. And so the King of Windstorm, Agustin Stormblade, had unwittingly allowed him to stand beside his beloved and much protected child longer than fate would have him normally. He smiled at the small irony of the situation, yet he would not boast of it, he merely accepted thank fully, a small prayer of Grace to the Lord above.
It was M’Lord Jackson of the Lands of Cathral, First Mate of the good ship The Black Widow, who had urged all to admire his skills. His marksmanship perfect in the second round; his arrow struck the straw dummy, marked as prince. This was a target hard to hit, heavy armour protecting it. And yet almost without any effort the arrow found its target, and this added to the score of the first round, indeed made his score the highest.
Many had stayed for the auction that followed upon, yet the Rock of Kent had chosen to walk away, and spend time with his steed; his mind on the contest and the multitude of impressions that he had gathered. These people of Windstorm were singular, and indeed deserved his respect, the honour of his strong arm, the dedication of a true heart, the protection of his strong broadsword. He knew that the voices of distrust could not be silenced by his anger, but would more so abate and fall silent by his ways. Ways that were fuelled by desires and needs that were ingrained within him, those that showed the soul of the man standing taller than most, but with a heart as any, loyal to his God, his Land, his King, His family, and his friends.
And so he withstood the discomfort of the sea, to return to Windstorm, knowing his heart would bleed as he would urge his steed to head west across the breath of Britannia, foregoing to travel south to his beloved Kent.
