<a class="username" data-user-id="1261" data-username="@Sexually Liberated Knight" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/1261/">@Sexually Liberated Knight</a><br/><div class="bbCodeSpoiler">
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<span>Spoiler: <span class="bbCodeSpoiler-button-title">Faces</span></span>
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</div><br/><b><i>Regan</i></b><br/><br/>She was used to long days and short nights, having proper rest would be a blessing. How Regan managed to keep up this act for so long baffled those who knew of it. There had been times where she feared she may have slipped up, but still only several people remained aware.<br/><br/>Had her physical traits been different, this would not have worked as well as it was. Regan's father, Lord Kellan, had been a shorter standing man, five feet and six inches tall. And Regan was lucky enough to have grown to be as tall as he was. Her hair was fair and pale gold as his was, and her eyes were just a tad bluer. Having built herself up a fair amount, Regan took on his role when he died six years previous and still the secret of his death managed to stay just as that; secret. Not so surprising as her family had already been reserved to begin with.<br/><br/>Taking up his ax and his armor was easier than she thought it would be. He had been teaching her how to fight since she was a girl and had instilled in her the ways of combat. He knew that this time would come. And it came sooner than he hoped.<br/><br/>Regan sat inside one of the large tents that outlined one end of the tourney ring. She was perched on a stool while her maid, Verity, buckled and laced up the back of the armor that enveloped her body. The women were silent, as most of their speaking happened the previous night- most of the talk was about today. How this duel would be supervised by the royal family rather than just various nobilities. Usually they wouldn't bother showing up to these events when newly made knights would fight for various odds. Something did draw them in to this particular event, however. It wasn't even a fight to the death- only a fight to bring the other to his knees.<br/><br/>Verity finished fastening the last bit of bodily armor before she pinned up Regan's tight braid to her head so it wouldn't come loose. And that was that. Regan stood, armor clicking together with every motion. She put a cloth kerchief over her head and tied it back before lifting up the helm. She turned and faced her maid as she placed it over her head, concealing her features. And now it was impossible to tell that she was a woman unless one already knew. She lifted her father's ax in her left hand. It was his staple- while most fought with a right dominant, her father was dominated by the left even if he could use either hand to fight with.<br/><br/>Naturally right dominant, it took some time for Regan to master it her father's way.<br/><br/>Letting out a long-winded sigh, Regan straightened her posture. When she wore this armor, she was no longer Regan Trabing, she was Sir Kellan Trabing of Northsher. Her father. A man. She looked at her maid once again. "Wish me luck," she whispered. Soon after, she stepped into the open with strong steps to match her father's. If all went well, she would take this victory and send another knight to his knees.<br/><br/>Underneath her obscuring helmet, she smirked. All the men she had ever fought were blissfully unaware that their offender was a lady of nobility. Even though she had seen various losses, no one ever saw past her weathered helm.<br/><br/><br/><b><i>Alberic</i></b><br/><br/>Verity stared after her friend and liege, her pristine features awash with both concern and encouragement in her delightfully fresh-faced and youthful way. "Good luck, m'lady." Her voice was like silk. She all-but whispered after Regan, her hands clasped together anxiously as the armoured woman left the arming tent and made her way onto the field. The young handmaiden tiptoed forward, just enough to peek out through the tent flaps, apprehension welling in her heart. She toyed with one of her braids restlessly, forcing herself to look directly at Regan despite the glare the sun cast on her plate.<br/><br/>---<br/><br/>"He's a devil. Little bastard, but slippery as the hells, and hits like a horse kicks. My thanks, boy-" Alberic listened to his friend as he spoke, an amused smirk playing out across his noble features. Sir Hans Calard - his dearest friend since his days as a page - had been the last man to face Lord Kellan, and he had the bruising to show for it. Hans poured the contents of a cool flask of wine down his throat, waving off the servant boy who had delivered it. "Don't give him the chance to get in close. He'll get under your reach and hammer you in the face... and elsewhere. That's why he uses that damned axe. He won't duel you at arm's length all day." He took a limping step forwards - the 'elsewhere' he'd mentioned was, apparently, still smarting, even after a day to recover.<br/><br/>"Tell that to Delinard." Alberic's own voice was calm and deep, though there was a tremor of nerves there. "Delinard was a damn fool, Al. You don't chase someone across the field like that - you don't waste yourself when you don't have to. You and I - we know what we're doing. He showed his true colours with me - you can learn from it." Alberic chuckled - Hans always had taken these things too seriously. "I'll do my best to avenge your bollocks, Hans. No promises." Now it was the other man's turn to laugh - he let out his typical thickly accented guffaw and drummed on Alberic's pauldron with a meaty hand. "Good man." "Milord?" The young servant boy had finished securing Alberic's plate, and now presented him with his longsword, holding the scabbard reverently in both hands and kneeling in the ceremonial manner. Alberic reached for the hilt, and drew the blade with a gaudy swordsman's flourish. The two-handed sword's finely maintained steel flashed in the sunlight that made its way through the tent flap. "May She look down on you, Al". "May the Lady of the Lake grant me a fraction of her power that I may plant my sabaton up this bastard's behind." Alberic slammed his visor shut.<br/><br/>He stepped out from the tent and into a wall of roaring praise and jeering as the racks of onlookers - peasants and nobility alike - issued their excitement. The odds favoured Kellan. The odds could sodomise themselves. Today, Alberic was going to make a name for himself. He cut a fine figure in his full harness of battle - he stood at an impressive height, well over 6 feet, and was broad to match. His own blue eyes speared out from behind his visor - his helmet was simple, unadorned, a sturdy visored bascinet that had been a gift from his sister when he'd been knighted. The banners of a hundred knights rippled over the stands, each a competitor, many of which had been eliminated from the duels by the profoundly skilled warrior that now stood before Alberic. The air was tinged with the hunger-inducing aroma of fine alcohol and cooking meat.<br/><br/>He strode towards his foe-to-be and stopped several meters away, administering a crisp swordsman's salute with his two-handed blade. Hans had been right - he was a small man. Butterflies rose in his stomach as he waited for the clarion-call to signal he beginning of the fight - evidently, the players had been asked to build tension. To break the moment of awkwardness, Alberic said a few words to the armoured figure he knew as Lord Kellan, his voice muffled and given a metallic ring by his visor. "Bloody hot day for a tourney friend, don't you think?"<br/><br/><br/><b><i>Regan</i></b><br/><br/>She watched the opponent step out onto the field, holding himself as any good Knight should. Regan approved. She would often judge a man in the few moments they had to stand before one another. Looking to see if there was fault in the way they carried themselves or if they were leaning slightly to either side more than the other.<br/><br/>She had seen men who quiver ever so slightly when they come to face her. Anyone would miss it. But nothing of the sort ever got past Regan's gaze that rivaled a hawk's. Confidence was key. Each time she stepped out, she would tell herself that she would take the victory. And every time, she would. Save for those times that she received the short end of the stick. Those were the times when her opponents were telling themselves the same thing. I will bring this monger to his knees.<br/><br/>This one was not wavering or shaking. It meant it would be a good fight. Maximum effort from both parties. She knew who he was- she had seen him fight before while sparring, and she had seen him elsewhere. But she never bothered to interact or mingle with him nor anyone else of the type. Regan just wasn't as abrasive or forthright as she was while she was hiding behind her father's armor.<br/><br/>Regan slid her right foot aside in the dirt, making her stance more stable and strong. The ax in her left hand shimmied down some so her grip was closer to the blade, a sign that she wasn't going to wait around once the signal blared.<br/><br/>"Bloody hot day for a tourney, friend - don't you think?"<br/><br/>Regan said nothing in return, but only tilted her head slightly to one side as the leather on her gauntlets scrunched with the tightening of her hand. And not a single moment later, the horn called and she was already on his case, quickly striding over to first bludgeon him with her fist- the one gripping the ax. It usually took her opponent by surprise when she did this. But he was quick to knock her blade away with his, the first clash of steel. Onlookers were anxious to see how it rolled about.<br/><br/>It gave him time to hold his sword up before she swept him again. No mercy was being shown, and Regan- er- Lord Kellan- was not known to be a gentle fighter. Nor was any other knight, but in particular, Regan's notorious skill tended to stand out.<br/><br/>She leaned away from his pommel before it could come down on her and she twisted the ax so the blade was facing outward. She bent her knees and struck him in the side with the blunt end. She watched the affect and listened to it rattle his armor. But he stood tall and brought his own blade down with great force. Regan ducked out. She meant to block with her blade but he came too fast, and she ended up forcefully knocking his sword away with the blunt side resulting in a loud, awkward clash.<br/><br/>She took a step back to ground herself. But her opposed saw it as an opportunity to take the upper hand. As she stepped back, he stepped forward. She managed to twist the ax around in time and steel met steel. His force was strong and she had a small difficulty holding it long enough to push it away. Despite being skilled, she was still a woman. And women tended to be smaller, more crushable than men. Generally speaking.<br/><br/>She felt her muscles tighten and the same action was repeated several times before she could sidestep and be the one to make an offensive move on him. She took advantage of his height and rammed into his abdomen. This actually made him stumble some and she spun around to gain momentum in her ax, the blunt side hitting him just below his armpit. However, it didn't make him stumble again.<br/><br/>He had learned, it seemed that he had immediately caught on to her tactic and hit away her ax. She was surprised that it had made her lose her grip. before it could clatter down, she did a half turn as quickly as her armor would allow and caught the weapon with her right hand. She completed the turn and slammed the blade into his as he blocked.<br/><br/>Regan and Alberic clashed again and again in an extended period. She gritted her teeth as she tried countless times to hit him somewhere- his neck, his shoulder, his side, arm, head- but this man proved that he didn't need a shield. He used his two handed sword in a way that made it a substitute. It seemed that the duel was getting personal. People sat at the edge of their seats, anxious as Regan narrowly avoided multiple precise slices and swings while trying to deliver her own when she could.<br/><br/>And there came a moment when Regan was close enough to him that she could crush his bits with her knee, so she took the chance. While it seemed like something she could do to all men, it was never that simple. Knights were not as soft as other men, and they knew how to handle the torture. She had only relied on this choice when fights got this up close, such as her last one.<br/><br/>However, Alberic did tense at the crushing feeling of her armored kneecap meeting his nether regions, it did not make him falter. And when her leg came down he shoved with his forearm and Regan was forced back rather hard. She had to take multiple steps to avoid losing balance. They both stood at a distance for a moment, circling partly around each other before one of them made a move again. It was Regan.<br/><br/>She held her ax in a similar fashion as she had in the beginning and when she swung at him, his sword swung first. No regard to her attack. He just simply swung down at her, and there was no way she could get out of it. And he knew it. Just as she had taken advantage of his height before, he took advantage of hers.<br/><br/>All Regan could do was lift her arm to shield herself. And his blade clashed with the thick, durable metal that covered her forearm. An audible gasp seemed to come from the stands. The hit could have been worse. The force behind it was almost too intense. Again, she was still a woman. And there were certain things that she couldn't account for.<br/><br/>Regan crumbled some as the sword weighed her down, but she was still on her feet. There was a decently sized, deep dent in the plate and she felt it on her skin through the mail beneath. He lifted his sword and Regan tossed the ax back to her left hand and swung for an opening. The soreness she began to feel in her forearm made her grip soften. No! You've endured worse! She clenched her jaw.<br/><br/>Before she could re-secure her grip, her ax was knocked clean out of her hand and this time there was no catching it. The pommel hit her temple. She had made a fatal mistake that would otherwise cost her her life had it been a fight to the death. She hesitated.<br/><br/>But why?<br/><br/>She never hesitated.<br/><br/>It made her neck crack to the side and she couldn't keep her footing. Regan fell into the dirt with the clatter of her armor. Though her helmet protected against most of the force, it still couldn't protect her from all of it. While it didn't dent this time, it definitely left her head throbbing. It felt like it was ten times heavier. The observers roared with various reactions.<br/><br/>It was not the first time Regan had tasted defeat. But it was the first time she was defeated on her own mistake. When she looked up all she saw was the point of a sword in her face and a man standing over her. She rose one hand in submission and he lowered his weapon. She usually didn't realize how out of breath these fight made her until the very end. She got on one knee to honor her opponent as was the respectful thing to do. She felt her chest heavily rising and falling within her cover. She couldn't wait to get out of it and into something more breathable.<br/><br/><br/><b><i>Alberic</i></b><br/><br/>Pain. It lanced through Alberic - through his side and abdomen, where his foe's vicious blunt strikes had noticeably warped his breastplate and sent shockwaves through the padding underneath that rippled into his ribs. Involuntary tears streamed down his cheeks, shook loose by the sharp blow that had hammered into his groin - the ache from his testicles seemed to be crawling up through his stomach and into his very core. His shoulders and chest burned from the frantic effort of turning aside Kellan's relentless strikes with his blade - not from the prolonged movement or even the sheer force of his trikes, but from the terrifying speed with which every muscle in his body had been urged to contract and expand to keep pace with him. His fingers had been rattled with every impact that shuddered from the haft or blade of her axe down the blade of his own, and his knuckles were stiff and felt like they were made from cracked stone, with shards of glass jammed into the wedges.<br/><br/>He didn't know quite how long the fight had lasted - time became meaningless once one offered themselves up into the embrace of the goddess of war. The few times Alberic had seen real battle, he often found that hours had passed when it seemed like mere minutes of slaughter had elapsed, or weeks when a confrontation seemed to have gone for scant days of forced-march, skirmishing and hunting. It was no different here.<br/><br/>He never took his eyes off his foe. He never allowed the pride welling up in his heart, the thrill of an honourable, well-fought victory to infringe upon his focus after the final blow had been landed. He stood at the ready, sword in guard termed by his school as the iron gate of the Lady to fend off any sudden incoming strike from below, with the hilt of the blade held at roughly stomach-level with the blade extended following the path of his left leg. Tension was placed in his forearm, to allow it to spring into the air unpredictably in order to turn aside a blow and riposte with a thrust for the face. Truthfully, the stance was a bluff to hide the great gulps of air he took into his nostrils and mouth to keep him vertical. There never seemed to be enough oxygen flowing through the seemingly tiny grates of his helm. He feared that if his foe rose again and he was forced to parry even once more, his grip would fail him and his sword would tumble from his fingers and into the dust of the tourney field.<br/><br/>Only when Kellan's hand came up in submission did he allow his guard to lower - at this point, victory was his. Even if she took the moment of weakness to pummel him senseless. His left hand detached from his grip and scrambled for his visor, unclasping it and raising it onto his brow with barely contained desperation. His face was red and filmed with sweat, and a curly lock of dark hair had wandered over his nose, slightly infringing on his right eye. The gentle kiss of of the breeze was the best thing he'd felt in his life.<br/><br/>He initiated a lazy swordman's salute - not lazy through lack of effort, lazy through the weakness of his muscles. It was a variant of the one he'd opened his duel with - the meaning was not, as one might expect, an honourable acknowledgement of a defeated foe. Its meaning was more accurately translated as a sign of thankfulness, often reserved for one that had shown mercy. While it was directed at her, Alberic felt that it may as well have been meant for the tides of luck themselves. Still, a sense of admiration surged in his heart for his foe, and he stepped forwards, extending a hand to help Kellan rise to his feet. Then, he froze, and pulled his hand away. "Lord Kellan - why do you not allow yourself breath?" Alberic gestured with his hand towards his own exposed face. "I seek to cause you no further harm, I swear it - you fought like a devil, and taught me much." A moment of awkward silence passed between them - it seemed at that moment that sound no longer existed. The crowd was stunned speechless by the result of the fight, and sheer display of skill and blinding speed that had unfolded before them.<br/><br/>Then, the fateful question left Alberic's lips. The question that everyone who faced Kellan asked in their mind, but dared not offer voice. The question that would set in motion a series of events that would change his life forever. "What are you hiding, Kellan?"<br/><br/><br/><b><i>Regan</i></b><br/><br/>She had to resist the urge to grip her skirts out of anxiety. It was like this every time Elizabeth watched her daughter duel. She knew her husband taught their girl well, but she was a mother always afraid for her only remaining child's safety. She had lost her boys in the calamity of war years ago. She couldn't bear the thought of her daughter dying the same way, or being exposed and having to live out her life in humiliation and dishonor.<br/><br/>On top of this, when questioned by others why her daughter was never present at these events, she had to keep up a believable story to ensure that the reason was justified. This was not only her part to protect Regan, but also the part of the servants and even Regan herself. People believed that she had never recovered from losing her older brothers and did not prefer to see such battles take place for entertainment or ceremony.<br/><br/>Elizabeth looked on from her seat as steel clashed together, feeling herself flinch every time Regan was hit or denied. But when the battle ended, Elizabeth had inched forward while keeping herself rational. The scene that unfolded after made her bite her tongue. Had anyone been paying attention to her rather than the armored fighters, they would have seen her jaw clench noticeably.<br/><br/>No one ever questioned 'Lord Kellan' about why he kept his face obscured.<br/><br/>--<br/><br/>He offered her his hand which she nearly took in acceptance, but he pulled it away.<br/><br/>That was something that stood out for him. Regan didn't like how talkative he was. People she faced never questioned her choices whether she defeated them or not. Regan had always been able to hide her face from them even though she knew they wondered why a man such as her father had gone quiet six years ago. Despite being quite reserved already, it was still unusual and she knew that people thought of it when it crossed their minds. But the respect her father had built up kept people from fully questioning it.<br/><br/>"What are you hiding, Kellan?"<br/><br/>No title, no acknowledgement of status, Regan felt her heart skip a few beats. She rose to her feet herself then. It wouldn't seem out of character for her father to just step aside, pick up his ax, and then walk away, but there wasn't a way to get around him. His visor was up, and he looked like he expected an answer, but there was only silence as Regan couldn't help but stare dead into his eyes through the slits of her helm. He stepped toward her, but Regan stepped back in retaliation, stiffly. It was quiet in the stands and the tension seemed to rise as if the others were waiting to see what 'Lord Kellan' would do.<br/><br/>But she did nothing for another long moment. Regan then unexpectedly side stepped to get around Alberic, but he mirrored her motion and would not show any sign of letting her by.<br/><br/>Oh, father, she said in her mind. Please forgive me. Mother, forgive me, there is no way around it. I have to- Regan tried repeating her action, but Alberic stepped forward again when she tried to step away. There was nothing stopping her from forcing him aside, but the battle was won and it would be frowned upon to start a new one.<br/><br/><br/><b><i>Alberic</i></b><br/><br/>Alberic advanced on the figure he had believed to be Kellan slowly and purposefully. His sword was not raised in an offensive manner, though he had no scabbard to sheathe it in on the tourney field and so it hung from his right hand as he strode towards the imposter. He closed the gap with a few paces, his armour clattering with his movements, but he did not give chase once his former opponent backed away further. He halted - the expression on his face was unreadable, though he felt the heat of apprehension welling in his stomach, a peculiar sensation that momentarily dulled the aching of his battered body and gave him second wind, a renewed burst of energy.<br/><br/>It was at this moment that the crowd chose to simultaneously explode with exuberance, cheering and roaring approval towards the young knight while the gamblers amongst them cursed their foul luck. Ale splashed from swinging tankards over the wooden stands and down to muddy the sandy hems of the tourney field. The watchers were unaware of the true nature of events unfolding before them. "So be it. Lord Kellan is a good man - or perhaps, though it saddens me to say, he was. I will suffer no trespass on his legacy." Under the din of voices and ceremonial horns, only the impostor was close enough to hear the words. The herald began to roar his proclamation of Alberic's victory, fighting against the wall of sound with his own mighty voice. The crowd quieted just enough to allow his speech to be heard so that they could roar at maximum volume again once his peace was spoken. Alberic, however, maintained his knightly reserve and held up a gauntleted hand, turning to address the stands.<br/><br/>He had them in an instant. To be addressed in such a way by the victor of a noble bout was relatively uncommon - not because the knights of the realm had any particular reluctance to be heard by commoners, but because all involved had a collective desire to preserve the rarity of such powerful, romantic moments, for they were the stuff of their very cultural fabric. A knight only addressed the crowd after a bout when he had something of exceptional import to say - and when Alberic made it clear that he had such a thing to say, the deafening orchestra of the crowd rapidly became a hushed, excited murmur. Ever the showman, Alberic swept his gaze across every face in the crowd before letting it fall, finally, on the man sitting at the peak of the stand's height in his own. A man with his isolated box that he shared exclusively with fellow high nobility and a cadre of ravishing women for company.<br/><br/>Baron Jean de Beuchamp stood, and gazed down upon the knight in the ring. He was a tall man, always dressed to the highest standards of fashion and manicured par excellence. He sported short, blonde hair and a neatly trimmed goatee and moustache. His courteous and extravagant manner, some whispered, concealed a deep-seated hunger for power and a myriad of sinful perversions. Though, Alberic had supposed in the past, was there any lord who did not incur such rumours from the dishonest and gutter? Besides, he was never inclined to judge a man on his bedroom habits.<br/><br/>"Sir..." A whisper entered the baron's ear from an attendant wench with ample breasts and long, flowing dark hair which framed a sultry set of features that belay a hidden intellect, "... Alberic, is it? Well fought, good sir - for what reason do you address us?" Theatrically, the baron gestured across the stands with a sweeping motion to illustrate "us". Alberic cleared his throat, back turned to the impostor. The thought hadn't escaped his attention that a suitably desperate man might attempt to strike him from behind for the sake of vengeance, but he kept watch on the peasantry in his peripheral sight. If they noticed any foul play at his back, they'd be the first to let him know - and his sword was still in his hand. With a low, humble bow, he began. "Lord-baron, I offer my most solemn gratitude for allowing me to address you so. I merely seek to invoke an ancient right of tradition, to satiate my own curiosity." There was a pause. "Go on". "I call upon my right as victor to lift the visor of the most enigmatic Lord Kellan, and gaze into the face of a most respected foe." It didn't make a lot of sense - that much was obvious. Though the peasantry weren't exactly in a discerning state of mind, and in the baron's heart, the devious recognition of a potential opportunity was brewing. There came another pause - the crowd held their breath. "Well. Go on, then." Alberic hesitated. It seemed such a cavalier response- "do it, Sir Alberic. You have the right".<br/><br/>Alberic turned back to the impostor, a renewed sense of reluctance upon his heart. Was this the right course of action? What true harm could an impostor do to a dead man, especially one with such a talent for recreating or even exceeding their subject's ferocious skill-at-arms? These questions mattered little now - the path was set. Besides, dishonesty and subterfuge was not the way of the knight. He spoke low, so that only the impostor could make out his words. "Whoever you are, you have no choice. Allow this, in good conscience and with honour." He took a tentative step forwards, testing if the armoured figure intended to continue their passive resistance. The crowd watched on eagerly. Baron Jean looked on with ravenous curiosity in his eyes.<br/><br/><br/><b><i>Regan</i></b><br/><br/>Regan was no longer concerned about how hot and sweaty she was, the uncomfortable tightness in her arms and legs were rendered numb as these things were being said. She was not ready to reveal herself. Her mother, she was sure, was probably feeling such anxiety, if not more. Regan wished that it would be given up so she could escape.<br/><br/>And Baron Jean, he was the last person that Regan wanted to find out. She knew she would no longer be safe if he saw her face today. That man was no good. And his desires were much more familiar to Regan and her family. It was one of the reasons she stood in place of her father. For her own protection.<br/><br/>The way Sir Alberic spoke made her skin tingle. As if he suspected the person beneath the steel was not Lord Kellan to begin with. Suspicions would only rise if she retaliated with force. As he spoke to the stands, Regan looked in the same direction, trying to pick out her mother among the higher classed seating.<br/><br/>--<br/><br/>Elizabeth felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and a soft whisper came of it. "Milady," It was an older man, one of Kellan's right hands when he was alive. She only answered with a small, slow shake of her head.<br/><br/>"Let it be," she whispered back. "There is nothing I can do but watch." She could make out Regan's motion as the masked woman looked toward her from the field. Elizabeth swallowed a lump. She thought her child was begging for her to end it. But that was not the Regan she knew. It was her instinct, so she had to leave it alone for now. Elizabeth glanced up and over at the place of the Baron Jean de Beuchamp. She just hoped that distance obscured his view of Regan should her face be shown. Much like the rest of the crowd.<br/><br/>--<br/><br/>But much to both to the disdain of both women, the right was granted. Regan felt so many things at that point. She felt the end drawing in.She felt her father's spirit grow anxiously restless and she feared that her mother would faint. As a result, she felt a slight wetness on her cheeks. It was not sweat. Her eyes had thinly been lined with tears and a few decided to roll down her rose colored cheeks. But still her face was solid and neutral. Her jaw was clenched tight as if relaxing it would result in any noise.<br/><br/>Regan took in a sharp inhale through her nose when she felt Alberic's hand rest over the visor. Her eyes became glossier, and she tried not to let any more tears run down. Some overflowed. And then he pulled it up to gaze upon her face.<br/><br/><br/><b><i>Alberic</i></b><br/><br/>Something about the voice that whispered to him rung strange, though he couldn't put a finger on it. In a way, it sounded very much like Kellan - it spoke in much the same manner, placing emphasis on syllables in the same way and commanding the same level of dignity and authority. But it certainly wasn't him - it was breathier, more graceful, and higher-pitched like it was being partially strangled. The word "feminine" didn't quite enter his mind at this point - the metallic muffling imparted by the visor and the low volume masked that, and it was about the furthest thing from what Alberic expected.<br/><br/>Though he felt something of a deep resentment for whoever the figure was who masquerading as Kellan, when the tips of his armoured fingers met with the visor before him, his touch was gentle and respectful. No matter the wearer, he had always felt that armour was something to be respected - the refined, shaped metal of a cuirass or helm was all too frequently what separated a man from a long, happy life and a violent death on the field of battle. He lifted the visor almost reverently.<br/><br/>His eyes went wide - his lips parted, and he inhaled involuntarily. "I- I'm..." the word 'sorry' froze on his lips and he swallowed it. Suddenly, he dearly wished to apologize profusely, but he had no call to. His brain bubbled over like a tankard of violently foamy beer as it was barraged by an emotional bombardment of surreal ferocity. His cheeks burned red with the realization that he had come so close to defeat at the hands of so fair a being - immediately, his previously unquestioned acceptance of the order of the world began to shift as his subconscious started to rationalize desperately to preserve his ego. A pang of sorrow impaled his heart like a crossbow bolt when he saw the tears streaming her cheeks.<br/><br/>A powerfully protective part of him took hold and drove his next actions. After only a scant second or two of disbelief, the visor clanged shut and he stepped back. He didn't say anything - but eye-slit to eye-slit, his blue eyes to hers, he fixed her with a stare that spoke many words in many languages - rebuke, respect, apology, confusion being just a sampling. The sheer meaning in the look was overwhelming. Then, with reluctance, he turned away and strode towards the arming tent, where the next competitor was already being readied, practically panting with relief that he would not be forced to face the mysterious knight later on in proceedings. As he moved away, clasping his sword by the section of blade immediately after the crossguard, a solitary voice called out from the hushed crowd. Jean.<br/><br/>"What did you see, Sir Alberic?" Alberic's voice was impassive. "Kellan." He disappeared into his tent, and the crowd muttered amongst themselves in a state of shared fascination as they awaited the next duel.<br/><br/>---<br/><br/>Verity was aghast as she stared from the opening of the opposite tent - her hand was clasped over her mouth, and she exhaled with a slight whimper of sheer concern in each breath. Her pristine face was pale, and her free hand gripped the hem of the tent-material with white-knuckled ferocity. Her questions were many, and she fully intended to barrage her friend and liege the moment they were free - what would come of them now? Had the knight who'd unmasked her said anything? She'd heard him lie as he moved away. Perhaps everything was going to work out fine - though she doubted it. Men could be like hounds when they became fixated - this Alberic would undoubtedly be back, making demands and asking impudently after truths he had no right to possess. She idly wondered if perhaps it were best he were killed...<br/><br/><b><i>Regan<br/>
</i></b><br/>Regan's heart felt like it was clattering against the armor. But he said nothing much to her, he was only surprised. As soon as it came open, it was shut, and to her shock he only said that he saw her father. She felt dizzy now. Without making much a scene, she as well made her way to the tent she had gotten ready in. Verity watched her discreetly and stepped back when Regan came inside.<br/><br/>Off came her helm, clattering to the table. The fresher air felt better to breathe. Her face was rosy and her eyes were wet. As well as her cheeks. But she was not crying. Verity was unsure what to say to her, as she stood idly as Regan splashed her face from the basin.The cold water helped refresh her. She was silent, but her actions spoke for her. Stiff and limp at the same time...<br/><br/>"Damn fool. I'm a damn fool." She stated curtly to herself more than once. Verity shook her head and came around to her lady, facing her as if her presence would be of little help. "My mother must have fainted in the stands." She turned away from Verity and took the cloth cap off of her head, slapping it onto the table next to her helmet.<br/><br/>Elizabeth kept her composure, eventually excusing herself with a servant. She made her way down and around the stands, letting herself into the tent where her daughter was resting. "Gods, Regan-" The servant she had brought with her waited patiently outside. Elizabeth took long strides over to her daughter, and took her face in her hands. Tears could not be held back any longer. "Tell me what you'll do," she begged. "Should he speak I'll-"<br/><br/>"Mother, please," Regan surprisingly managed to keep it together now. "He'll not say a word, I'll make sure of it."<br/><br/>"You can't say that! There is nothing keeping him from revealing you!"<br/><br/>Regan sternly looked at her mother, placing her armored hands atop her mother's. "You are wrong." She looked determined, but both her mother and servant had no idea what to expect from her now. But neither did Regan. Her words were hollow for now. She only wanted calmness. Should they lose hope, things would turn out the opposite from what they wanted.<br/><br/>--<br/>Hans watched Alberic drag back toward the tent. His brow was stern,and he glanced to the side as he passed him inside. "You saw Kellan?" he asked. "Y'seem a little shaken to me. Did he have a nasty look in his eyes?"