#cancrorum

with the squire's joust, archery, racing, axe-throwing, and the melee concluded, what remains of the tourney itself is two agonizing days of jousting before the coronation. vharyn is having some difficulty discerning of the buzzing in the air is from the violence that has laid itself across the event during the melee and what they're about to witness, or the fact it all just doesn't feel ... right. when he settles next to aelinor, he doesn't say anything, at first, watching the first bout pull their horses into position, their squires hastening across the field to fetch lances and swords, tighten saddle straps, adjust helmets. he enjoyed these times more when he could participate — when it was the crowded weight of armor on his shoulders, a morningstar clenched in his hand, the nervous movement of his mount beneath him, when he had something more to prove to his brother, his father, every other. now? there are no words for the brittle feeling in his bones he just can't shake. he tilts his head towards the master of whispers, and speaks through nearly-gritted teeth. " i remember these days. " they were younger, once, just as foolish as the men down in the dirt, now, waiting to hit each other hard and fast with no other option in mind besides victory. a beat. lowly: " have you seen them? " the bastards. they're everywhere. he turns his head and feels like he sees at least one of his father's ill-begotten progeny.