It was hard to say why Senz had entered the jousting tournament. He didn't appear to much care for the sport - although he wasn't terrible with a lance, just not as adept as some of those other knights, the ones who had taken a shine to the sport - when it came to actually participating in it, yet there he had been, signing his name and his fief on the sheet of parchment. Watching it was of some value to him, if only because the sport induced those sorts of cringes and flinches that one can only make when they actually feel the pain alongside that other person, those ones that only boys and men can find enjoyment in. It was the interaction with so many others, however, that had the knight interested in the jousting tournaments each year. There were so many faces, both new and old, and he enjoyed wandering and sitting among the stands, or standing near the fence, sharing a conversation with a complete stranger who judged solely on how he was at that particular moment. Besides, everyone seemed to be in high spirits. Most attributed his less-than-serious and otherwise flamboyant moods to the enthusiastic aura surrounding the tournament rather than to his actual personality.

Currently he stood near his horse, garbed in full armour, helm held at his side. He didn't much care for the armour - especially the helm - but he knew he had to wear it unless he wanted to be skewered by his opponent. Catahe, a large, muscular, dark brown mare, stood beside her master as he stroked her grey mane absently with his free hand, awaiting the moment in which the jousting 'referees' would wave him to mount. It wasn't long in coming. Nodding his head, he mounted his mare with ease, sliding the helm over his head once he was settled. Even as it fell into place he could feel the heat becoming trapped as the visor fell into place and his vision was severely limited. Gripping the reins tightly, a young boy ran up to him with what was to be his wooden lance. Taking the end and gripping it tightly, he turned his vivid blue eyes towards the opposite end of the lane, to the other side of the barrier, where his opponent and his horse waited with equal patience.

The other man was also dressed for war in full armour, from the heavy gauntlets to the grieves on his legs, and he too was gripping a lance. A wide grin formed on Senz's lips, although it was invisible to those who, surrounding them, were cheering wildly, shouting the names of those they supported. He wondered if Landon wasn't somewhere in the crowd, and whether or not the lad was cheering. It was a possibility, although the boy tended to be a tad on the quiet side. Senz pushed out all other thoughts, burying them beneath the task at hand. Every single muscle in his body was tense, his knees gripping the saddle as if he'd never let it go. He listened to the beating of his heart, the sound of muffled air entering his lungs, and then...

The flag fell.

Senz's knee dug sharply into Catahe's side. The mare whinnied and lunged forward, pulling into a gallop as his opponent's horse did likewise. They thundered towards one another, Senz's muscles tense, nerves prepared to respond to his brain's commands. Slowly the knight from Pirate's Swoop lifted his lance, staring down it as he aimed for a hit straight to Jesslaw's chest. There was a cacophnous crack as the lances collided with bodies. Senz twisted in his saddle, the blow glancing off his left shoulder as his struck the right side of his adversarie's chest. Jesslaw seemed as if, for a moment, that he would tumble backwards, yet he managed to pull both body and lance back into a seated position with ease, his horse slowing as he neared the end of the lane. Gripping the reins with his free hand, Senz had Catahe wheel around, snorting and tossing her head as she prepared for the next round.

They surged forward a second time, bouncing with the movement of their mounts, coming to yet another collision. This time, his opponent's lance slammed into Senz's abdomen, causing the other to nearly double over as his armour pressed painfully into his body. He gasped for air as he nearly folded over the saddle horn and his mare's neck, his own lance grazing off of the other knight's arm. If anything, it was more like a gentle brush than a strike from a lance. Catahe trotted towards the other end of the lane as a hush fell among the crowd. Had one of the knight's been injured to the point where he could not joust any longer? Or was he feigning most of the pain, trying to find himself an edge? It took a moment for Senz to finally be able to sit up straight. He was vaguely aware of the violent ache in his left shoulder. Sweat trickled down the length of his face, stinging his eyes from time to time. Flipping the visor up, he wiped as much of it away as he could, breathing heavily. His mind was going, running through all of the possible options. The only way, it seemed, to end this would be to unseat his opponent. Guiding Catahe around once more, he flipped the visor down and prepared for the next round.

The other knight appeared as determined as he was. Lowering the lance, Senz inhaled and exhaled heavily, trying to still his tense nerves and spasming muscles. This was the reason why he didn't often joust: it was exhausting, and all one did was ride a horse back and forth across a small area until one was unseated, or injured to the point that they could no longer lift their weapon. Glancing at the tip, he could see the lance was taking a beating, and was certain his adversary's was as well. Catahe snorted. For the last time the flag fell.

Catahe leapt into another gallop, charging forward as her rider urged her onward. Drawing the lance up slowly and aiming with careful precision, the two riders met once again in the middle. Putting everything he had into the thrust. He was aiming for Jesslaw's shoulders. The wood connected with yet another deafening crack. Jesslaw's lance connected for the second time with Senz's left arm, this time causing slightly less damage as his body was jarred by the impact of Senz's weapon. Yet, it didn't matter. The man lost his balance, teetered, and twisted from the saddle, falling to the ground as his horse dragged him across the dusty earth. Senz gasped for air as his entire left arm throbbed with pain. Wild cheers surrounded him as he pulled to the opposite end for the last time, thankful that he had been wearing the heavy armour. Wrenching the helm off, his brunette hair was matted to his head, his bright eyes slightly dulled by the pain that clouded them. The lance fell to the earth as he rubbed at his sore arm almost absently, the pain in his abdomen nearly forgotten in the wake of a compounded injury. The last thing he heard before he wearily slid from Catahe's back was the flag bearer announcing his victory:

"Pirate's Swoop defeats Jesslaw! Congratulations on your victory and your advancement to the second round!"

He grinned, but it was swept away beneath a wave of sudden exhaustion.

Jousting. There was a sport like it in Scanra, but it was mainly kept in the moor country and hill country in the east, where travel between towns and holdings were easier. In the more mountainous parts of Scanra, like Wyrmssköld, the sport hadn't caught on––it was more difficult to hold fairs and tournaments in mountain country than it was in the lowlands. A hestavíg, or horse fight, was a more common sight in western and northern Scanra. Eastern Scanra had flat races, western Scanra had terrain races; eastern Scanra used their fleet-footed ponies for all sorts of games and sports, while sure-footed breeds of western Scanra were used for work and war.

When she had been east to visit two of her previous suitors, including Cyttan, she had attended what they called a bohort. The games were very similar, and if she remembered right, it had its roots in Galla. The similarities between the bohort and the joust were very strong from what she could tell, but then again she didn't know enough about either sport to be able to name the differences. There was one difference that was definite between the two: Corus's jousting tournament made the bohort look like a rustic country game. The crowd in and around the tournament grounds was thick, loud, tumultuous, smelly, colourful, diverse; they swarmed and wove this way and that waving banners and wailing chants, hollering out cheers for their favourite picks. The knights and their mounts were decked out in full armor, with decorative lances and shields and devoted followers both noble and common alike. Brynjá had spied even a noble child toting around a toy of a jouster, bright with colours and bouncing with little bells.

Under normal circumstances, Brynjá may have very well avoided the tournament altogether, but she had been invited to attend it by the Duke of Wellam. Brynjá knew better than to refuse his request and had agreed to come, on the note that it would be a new cultural experience for her. The lord had been very obviously happy to oblige, and she wondered if perhaps he too was like many she had met in thinking that she was an uncivilized, ignorant little creature from the north. Watching the preparation for the joust going on below listlessly, she decided to reconsider the encounter and how things had transpired between her and the duke. As she thought, she stared blankly down at the lanes, which were being brushed even by squires to smooth out the tracks worn into the dirt by the previous tilters. It had been a very curious encounter, now that she was going back to it, and the more she thought about how the duke had acted in her presence the more her brow wrinkled in perplexion.

"My lady," a servant's voice murmured at her elbow, causing her to glance coldy and sharply at him for interrupting her. It was then that out of the corner of her eye she spied motion next to the servant, and looking up she realized what he was troubling her about: Carlisle of Wellam, and behind him, much to her distaste, his sister.