Campaign 2: Session 49 - Flirtation and Ferocity
Rewards Granted
- Participation: 100XP
- Skills: 300XP
- Total: 400XP
- Participation: 100XP
- Skills: 30XP
- Total: 130XP
- MVP: 350XP
- Participation: 100XP
- Skills: -150XP
- Total: 300XP
Missions/Quests Completed
25th Spriarjeń 269 5E
As the evening goes on, Zi attempting to flirt—rather boldly—with Prince Ywan "the Younger" Mastoracza, bluntly suggesting they sleep together. The Prince gently rejects the offer, but their conversation takes a more sincere turn as Zi begins to open up about how they have been feeling. They speak candidly about their sense of disconnection from the people they care about, their feelings of abandonment, and their struggles in the wake of recent trauma and injuries. Ywan listens and begins to empathise and an emotional connection begins to build between the two even if there is clearly no romantic tension there.
Meanwhile, Grand-Councillor Dragan Kresz and Patrok Gregor join the party at their table. Thalmun Burrowale and The Wretch immediately pepper Dragan with questions—pressing him on his origins and the nature of Wayfarer Magic, clearly fascinated by the intricate arcane nature of their being.
At the bar, Tedduch Stoutman buys drinks for himself and Mina. They arrive just as Zi and Prince Ywan do the same, encountering an ostentatious and flamboyant bartender named Dingus. Dingus takes an almost snobbish pride in his craft, creating a stunning cocktail with great flourish. When Zi requests the same—with an umbrella—he produces one from his rolling sheath of umbrellas without missing a beat. Zi once again attempts to flirt with Dingus, but is rather soundly rejected.
The group gathers at a table to drink together. Prince Ywan joins them and leads a series of drinking games, and the mood lightens as everyone becomes progressively more drunk.
Later, Magnate Nadja Rystotin joins the party. She and Teddy break off from the group to talk at a separate table. Audrey and Pawel, meanwhile, share drinks and a heartfelt conversation, while Thalmun and The Wretch remain engrossed in discussion with Grand-Councillor Kresz well into the evening.
Zi eventually opens up further to Ywan, this time voicing frustration that their cousin is at the same gathering and has ignored them entirely, much like their father has in the days past. Their bitterness is palpable—they want to bring them both down a peg. Ywan tells Zi to leave it with him and promptly goes to drink with Dionysius of the Onna.
Elsewhere, Teddy and Nadja engage in a game of Dawat—a precision-based game involving the throwing of metal spikes at a colourful glass board that cracks on impact, each colour corresponding to a different score. Teddy manages to win three rounds to Nadja’s one.
As the evening wears on and more drinks are poured, the whole party grows increasingly intoxicated. Eventually, it becomes clear it’s time to leave. The group begins to shepherd a now very drunk Zi, Mina, and Pawel toward the carriages.
Before departing, they spot Dionysius violently vomiting in full view of the crowd—Prince Ywan leading the laughter and mockery. He turns and winks at Zi, making it clear he got Dionysius drunk on purpose, publicly humiliating him as promised.
Teddy, though a little too drunk himself to flirt effectively, still manages to charm Nadja enough that she agrees to see him again. She kisses him on the cheek before slipping away into the night.
With everyone finally packed into the carriages, the group makes their way back to the Honorow Orphanage. A few stay up to continue drinking together, but gradually, everyone drifts off to sleep.
26th Spriarjeń 269 5E
The morning after is heavy with hangovers as the party prepares for the second day of the Grand Tournament at Stadion Milena.
Teddy wakes to find himself in bed with Audrey and Dingus. He quietly slips out, hearing the two begin to have sex as he leaves. Zi wakes up nestled against Pawel, but he gently pulls himself away to make his way to the tournament.
After breakfast, the group heads out together, somewhat worse for wear, to witness the next set of contests at Stadion Milena.
The party settle in the commons for this fight, pressed amongst the common people and seemingly much happier for it. It takes a long time and the crowd is loud and rowdy, but all the same it feels more real and less judgemental than that which they had endured prior. Teddy purchases a goluptsi wrap for himself and Mina and they settle in to watch the first match of the day, excited to learn that it would be the Princess Regata Mastoracza against Pawel.
Princess Regata Mastoracza steps into the arena with her head held high, adorned in ornate but functional plate armour, her blade gleaming in the sunlight. She carries herself with the confidence of nobility.
Opposite her stands Pawel. He has no armour. No blade. Only the tattered gi-like robes of a seasoned martial artist, his hands wrapped in enchanted vambraces. He does not bask in the crowd’s cheers, nor does he puff his chest as Regata does. He simply breathes, calm as still water, unmoved by the spectacle, and seemingly unhindered by the alcohol of the night before.
Regata sizes him up, her lips curling slightly, she rolls her shoulders, adjusting her grip on her sword whilst Pawel bows his head slightly, unshaken.
As the fight draws in towards its beginning, Teddy gauges the opinions of the crowd, and nearly breaks out into a fight as he hears so many amongst the crowd speak of Pawel with such disdain and disgust. As the fighting breaks out between Teddy and the spectators.
The signal is given, the fight begins, and Teddy breaks away to watch his friend.
Regata moves first, fast and sharp. She knows Pawel is unarmed, so she presses forward immediately, her sword flicking out in a testing strike. Pawel does not step back. He simply leans to the side, the blade missing him by an inch, cutting only air. Regata’s brow furrows, but she doesn’t hesitate. A second slash—faster, aimed at his ribs. Pawel turns his body, letting it pass harmlessly. A third—this one a sharp thrust. Pawel does not move until the last possible moment. Then, with a fluid step, he pivots, deflecting the blade with the reinforced bracer on his arm.
Regata’s eyes flash with irritation. She had expected a challenging fight—but she had not expected to miss. The crowd is murmuring now. Pawel has not attacked once. He has not even countered. He is simply making her look slow. The fights with Teddy settle as people become far more interested in watching Pawel embarrassing the Imperator's daughter.
Regata pushes harder, her frustration growing. She doubles her pace, her blade weaving in deadly arcs, her footwork precise, disciplined. Pawel, however, is beyond discipline. He is effortless. He ducks. He sidesteps. He pivots. Every swing of Regata’s sword is met with nothing. She grits her teeth, breath coming faster. She is fighting perfectly, striking true—Yet not a blow lands. The crowd sees it now. The murmurs turn to laughter and Regata’s face flushes red, and that is when Pawel attacks.
Regata swings wildly now, emotion creeping into her attacks. Pawel steps in, deflecting her blade with his vambrace. Then, he strikes. A sharp, open-palm hit to her wrist—her fingers go numb, her grip loosens. A second strike to the ribs—she stumbles back, gasping. A third—he sweeps her legs out from under her. She crashes onto the sand and the crowd erupts.
Regata scrambles to her feet, her eyes wide, breath ragged. She lunges again. Pawel sidesteps. A sharp hit to the back of her knee—her leg buckles. A final, controlled strike—a palm against her jaw, snapping her head back and Princess Regata collapses. She does not rise.
The stadium falls into stunned silence. Pawel straightens, exhaling slowly, not celebrating. Pawel bows to her unconscious form, a silent sign of respect. Then, without raising his hands in victory, without reveling in the adulation, he simply turns and walks away. The crowd erupts into mixed cheers and stunned whispers.
For the first time in her life, Regata Mastoracza had been bested—utterly and completely, and Pawel had made it look easy.
The fight that is to follow is fought between Mentor Margareeta and Prince Adam. Mentor Margareeta enters the arena without ceremony, without flourish, without showmanship. She does not need it. The crowd knows her. They fear her. They revere her. The half-giant wears a crimson gi with a heavy bear-fur cloak draped over her shoulders, her massive stone warhammer slung effortlessly over her shoulder, moves without hesitation, without uncertainty.
Opposite her, Prince Adam Mastoracza strides in with his usual swagger, his ornate armour polished to a shine, his oak-brown locks perfectly set, his smug smirk unwavering. The crowd cheers—but there is an undertone to it. They have seen what Adam is and they have seen what Margareeta is. There is some trepidation, particularly with Teddy, who wonders whether this will truly be a fair fight, or if it will somehow be rigged in the Prince's favour.
The bell tolls, the signal is given, and the fight begins. Adam, ever the showman, raises his sword and shield, flashing a confident grin. He moves forward with measured steps, his posture practiced and noble. Margareeta does not move. The crowd waits, expecting a careful exchange, a testing of skill. Instead, Margareeta swings. Her warhammer crashes against Adam’s shield with the force of a battering ram. The impact is monstrous. Adam is ripped from his feet, sent flying backward like a ragdoll, crashing into the sand. His ornate shield is twisted, half-crushed under the sheer force of the blow.
The crowd gasps. Adam coughs, blinking in shock. Margareeta takes slow, deliberate steps toward him. She is not in a hurry. Adam staggers to his feet, shaking the dust from his hair, rage flickering in his eyes. Margareeta tilts her head slightly. Her expression does not change.
Adam charges forward, sword raised. He moves fast—he is skilled - But Margareeta is not merely skilled. She is an entirely different kind of being. Adam swings—she does not block. She does not parry. She simply steps forward, inside his guard, and punches him in the face. The blow lands with a sickening crunch, his head snapping back, blood spraying from his nose. The crowd roars.
Adam stumbles, but before he can recover—Margareeta brings her knee into his stomach. The air is forced from his lungs. He crumples to the ground, gasping. Margareeta lets him kneel, spitting blood onto the sand. She does not speak, she simply waits. She is not finished.
Adam forces himself to stand, swaying. Adam raises his sword again, desperately lunging. Margareeta catches his wrist with one massive hand. Then, with a single, brutal twist— She breaks his grip. His sword clatters to the ground. The crowd gasps. She grabs him by the back of his ornate breastplate and hurls him like a doll, sending him skidding across the sand.
Laughter ripples through the stands. Adam grits his teeth, blood dripping from his mouth. Margareeta flicks his sword away with her boot. Adam roars in frustration, throwing a punch. Margareeta catches his fist, and then, she crushes his knuckles in her grip. Adam lets out a howl of agony, collapsing to his knees. The crowd roars again—but this time, some of them are laughing. They had once cheered Adam’s name, now, they mock it, and Teddy and the rest of the party are loudest in their enjoyment of Adam's downfall.
Margareeta lifts her warhammer one final time. Adam raises his arms instinctively, trying to shield himself. The blow crashes into his chest, sending him sprawling, armour denting inward, ribs cracking. He lands face down in the sand, motionless. The crowd falls silent for a moment. Margareeta does not check if he is still awake. She knows he is not. Instead, she turns away. She does not raise her weapon in triumph. She does not acknowledge the crowd. She simply walks away, leaving the broken, bloodied Prince behind her. The roar of the arena follows her exit.
Adam Mastoracza is carried from the arena. His perfect hair is caked in blood and sand. His ornate armour is ruined, crushed, and stained.
Sir Bertrand of the Order of the Radiant Sun enters the stadium, his white cape billowing behind his polished plate-mail, his long-sword resting upon his shoulder.
Opposite him, Grand-Councillor Dragan Kresz stands unmoving, their emerald cloak billowing lightly in the breeze. Their metallic frame glints under the midday sun, sculpted like an ancient knight yet unnervingly still. Their weapon materialises in their hands—a poleaxe, an elegant weapon of war subsumed with arcane energy.
The crowd falls into an anticipatory hush. The signal is given. The fight begins.
Bertrand moves first, closing the distance with the grace of a seasoned swordsman. His long-sword arcs through the air in a controlled, sweeping strike. Dragan reacts instantly, catching the blow on the haft of their poleaxe, redirecting the force and stepping aside in a measured, fluid motion. A second swing—Bertrand’s blade cuts diagonally toward Dragan’s torso. Dragan twists, the attack glancing off their metallic plating, leaving a faint scratch but doing no real damage.
Bertrand does not relent. His sword moves in sharp and swift succession. Dragan, however, is unshaken. They parry, deflect, and counter with mechanical precision.
Then—they go on the offensive. Dragan’s poleaxe sweeps low, aiming for Bertrand’s legs. The knight leaps back, avoiding the strike. But Dragan was not aiming to hit. They were measuring his reaction. With inhuman speed, Dragan shifts their stance and lunges forward, the axe-head swinging for Bertrand’s midsection. Sir Betrand lowers his shield at just the right moment but still grunts as he is sent stumbling back, the impact denting the hem of his shield. The crowd roars at the first real hit.
Bertrand straightens, exhaling sharply. Then, he raises his sword and charges. Bertrand channels his full strength, delivering a series of devastating blows. His sword slams into Dragan’s shoulder, then their side, then their thigh. But Dragan does not flinch. Every strike leaves a dent, but not a weakness.
Then, Dragan moves. A precise step inward—a poleaxe hook around Bertrand’s ankle. A sharp pull. Bertrand collapses to one knee. Dragan raises their weapon high. Bertrand tries to rise—but he is too slow. Dragan’s poleaxe descends like a guillotine, slamming into Bertrand’s helmet with crushing force. The sound of steel against steel rings through the arena. Bertrand’s head snaps back, his body collapsing onto the sand, motionless.
For a long moment, silence. Then, Bertrand’s fingers twitch. He is alive—but defeated.
Dragan does not look to the crowd, does not lift their weapon in triumph. They instead fall to their opponents side and begin to administer what aide they can, as soon a host of healers rush to join their efforts. In the wake of the foreign knights recovery, Grand-Councillor Dragan Kresz is left the clear victor, ready to advance into the next round.
Magnate Bogdan Bokow and Magnate Goran Bokow, both well-renowned warriors, enter the arena together, side by side, their matching builds and confident strides mirroring each other. The brothers turn to each other, weapons drawn, eyes gleaming with amusement.
Bogdan grins. Goran twirls his blade, smirking. "Would we ever do anything less?" The signal is given. The fight begins.
Neither brother lunges in immediately. Instead, they circle, pacing, grinning, playing to the crowd. Bogdan feints forward—then dramatically leaps back, throwing up his arms as if he’d already been struck. The crowd laughs.
Then—the fight truly begins. The blades clash, ringing through the stadium like chimes. Each strike is met with an equal counter, each feint matched by a perfect dodge. Bogdan swings low—Goran leaps over the strike. Goran stabs forward—Bogdan twists, avoiding the thrust by a hair’s breadth. They move in sync, dancing across the sand, neither gaining an edge, neither faltering.
At one point, they lock swords, pushing against each other, both grinning as they strain for dominance. They break apart, both laughing before launching into another flurry of blows.
Bogdan is fast, but Goran is just a little faster. Bogdan is strong, but Goran is just a little sharper. Their fight has been a spectacle, but now Goran begins to press forward. Bogdan struggles to keep up, his movements a fraction slower, his footwork not as crisp. He lunges for a decisive strike— But Goran anticipates it. A sidestep, a flick of the wrist— And Bogdan’s sword is knocked from his grasp, sent spinning into the sand.
The crowd erupts. Bogdan blinks in surprise, then bursts into laughter. Goran lowers his blade, smiling. Bogdan steps forward and grabs his brother by the arm, pulling him into a firm embrace.
He turns to the crowd, throwing an arm over Goran’s shoulder. The crowd cheers wildly. Goran chuckles, shaking his head. The two laugh, arms around each other, leaving the arena together, victorious in their own way.
Magnate Nadja Rystotin enters the arena with quiet confidence in a suit of heavy plate armour, stronger and larger than what she had worn in her last bout. Tiidrik of the Metsviir, smaller but wiry and determined, grips their weapons tightly. Their eyes flicker with calculation and strategy. They meet each other in the centre of the stadium and the signal is given as the fight begins.
Tiidrik moves first, darting forward with blinding speed. They aim for Nadja’s legs, trying to destabilise her, to throw her off balance, but Nadja is already moving. She sidesteps effortlessly, pivoting on her heel, keeping her stance strong. Tiidrik presses the attack, slashing and weaving, using their small frame to avoid retaliation. For a few moments, it seems Tiidrik is controlling the fight.
But then—Nadja strikes. A single, brutal counterattack. Her spear lashes out, precise and punishing, smashing into Tiidrik’s side. The crowd gasps. Tiidrik stumbles back, clutching their ribs. A single hit—and already, the tide has turned.
Tiidrik knows they can’t win a contest of strength. So they fight smarter. They feint left—but Nadja does not fall for it. They lunge forward, blades flashing—And Nadja meets them head-on. Her shield comes up, deflecting the first strike. Her spear thrusts forward— A sharp hit to the shoulder. Another to the ribs. Tiidrik reels, breathing hard.
Nadja does not let them recover. She steps in close, using her size to overwhelm. A shove with her shield—Tiidrik is sent sprawling. They try to roll away, to reset their stance— But Nadja is already upon them. Her spear presses against their throat.
The crowd erupts with a mix of shock and admiration. Nadja hadn’t just won. She had dominated.
Tiidrik, still on the ground, breathes heavily, blinking up at her. For a moment, there is silence. Then, Nadja lowers her weapon, stepping back. She offers Tiidrik a hand. After a moment, Tiidrik takes it, pulling themselves up. They give her a sharp nod of respect before exiting the arena.
As the day goes on, Prince Ywan 'the Younger' Mastoracza is able to defeat Arstan of the Nabomark and Dionysius of the Onna bests Marta of the Nabomark, the latter proving a great upset.
The final fight of the day is fought between Ino and Beirand of the Nabomark. Ino is shirtless, sinewed, wearing only a boar’s head mask and twin curved swords that dance in his hands. His movements are manic yet masterful. Beirand of the Nabomark is towering, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a crimson gi reinforced by chainmail and worn leather, he wields a massive battle-axe that seems far too large for most men to swing—yet he handles it with terrifying ease.
The crowd is restless, murmuring. They recognise the formidable and dangerous nature of both warriors, and when the signal is given, Ino launches without hesitation, his blades flashing as he rages forwards. Ino doesn’t walk, doesn’t approach—he pounces. A blur of muscle and metal, his twin swords whip and twist like serpents in his hands.
Beirand, seeing the blur hurtling toward him, lets out a wordless cry and meets him head-on, lifting the axe high with both hands. The first clash sends sparks into the air. Ino’s blades scrape across the haft of the axe, barely diverted. He spins low, rising with a sweeping slash aimed at Beirand’s gut—
Metal meets leather. The cut draws blood, but it’s shallow. Beirand grunts, brings the axe down like a falling star. Ino flips back, barely avoiding the blow. The sand erupts as the axe slams down, and the crowd gasps.
Ino darts around Beirand like a maddened animal. His swords don’t stop moving—slashing, stabbing, testing defences. The boar’s head mask snarls with every motion. But Beirand is not slow. He turns, follows, anticipates. Every swing of his axe is an answer to Ino’s madness—a brutal punctuation mark to his feral flurry. One strike nearly cleaves through Ino’s shoulder—but he twists, and the blade only grazes him.
Beirand’s reply is a roar, barrelling forward as his axe cleaves toward the masked man’s chest.
Ino catches it—crossing both blades, deflecting the force just enough to pivot and lash out with a backhanded cut that opens a line across Beirand’s thigh.
Ino throws himself at Beirand, blades flashing, body twisting, spinning, leaping off the very force of Beirand’s attacks. Beirand starts to slow—just a little. Not from pain, but from the sheer chaos he’s forced to endure. His style demands control, clear strikes, weight behind every motion.
But Ino won’t give him that rhythm.
Blades flash—one slices across Beirand’s forearm. The other catches him in the ribs. He answers with a bellow, swinging wide. Ino ducks, then rushes in close, blades reversed. The boar mask is inches from Beirand’s face, and Ino screams a raw animalistic scream.
Then, both blades drive forward. One into Beirand’s side. The other, cleanly, into his heart. Beirand’s axe clatters to the ground. He stares at Ino—eyes wide, lips parted. His mouth moves. Then, slowly, he crumples.
Ino stands over him, chest heaving. The boar mask looks out into the crowd, unmoving. He is silent. A drop of blood falls from one of Ino’s blades. Then another. He blinks. Looks down. Realises Beirand is dead. Not just beaten. Dead. Ino tilts his head, like a beast confused by the stillness of its prey. For a moment, it looks like he might say something. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he turns, blades still dripping, and walks away without a word.
- Arstan of the Nabomark
- Beirand of the Nabomark
- Dionysius of the Onna
- Grand-Councillor Dragan Kresz
- Ino
- Magnate Bogdan Bokow
- Magnate Goran Bokow
- Magnate Nadja Rystotin
- Marta of the Nabomark
- Mentor Margareeta
- Patrok Gregor
- Pawel
- Prince Adam Mastoracza
- Prince Ywan 'the Younger' Mastoracza
- Princess Regata Mastoracza
- Sir Bertrand of the Order of the Radiant Sun
- Tedduch Stoutman
- Thalmun Burrowale
- The Wretch
- Tiidrik of the Metsviir
- Zi
