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Description
Title:                            A Tarnished Cousland – The Tilt
Author:                        mcomommy
Game:                          Dragon Age
Characters:                  Tarnished Cousland, Fergus, Ser Gilmore, Darren Packton
Disclaimer:                   Dragon Age and all characters from it belong to Bioware.
Content Warning:          Combat, Language, Pain, Violence

A Tarnished Cousland
The Tilt

     "My Lady, I beg you.  Please reconsider," Ser Gilmore frantically pleaded from Daemon's muscular shoulder as he gazed up at Tarnished.

     Grimacing, Tarn shook her head.  "You know I cannot turn away," she said through clenched teeth.  Carefully, she flexed her left hand, fingers spreading and curling as she tentatively tested its strength.  Barely enough to hold her shield, she thought.  Hopefully Ser Darren wouldn't go for a slow win.  While a shield strike would only give him one point at a time, it would shatter the fragile mend Aldous had managed on her arm.  Her teacher had been adamant that she not perform magic while at the tournament.  Tarn would just have to grit her teeth and bear through it should the worst come to pass.

     "My way is forward," she offered a grim smile to the knight.  "Not back."

     "My Lady, I…," Rory paused, swallowing against the fear that threatened to choke his throat.  "Tarnished.  Good luck," he said, his voice low and thick before he turned away, back stiff as he wove his way to the stands to report to the Teyrn.

     "Honestly, Tarn, this is quite possibly the most idiotic thing I've yet to see you do," Fergus snorted.  "I agree with Ser Gilmore," he crossed his arms, glaring up at her.

     "And yet, dear brother, you'll stand at the chute, fretting every moment, but supporting me non-the-less," she forced a grin in the face of his scowl.

     Sighing, Fergus let up, running a hand over his mouth in exasperation.  "Just…be careful, okay?  I don't like seeing you hurt."

     "Then you shouldn't watch, brother," Tarn told him solemnly, looking to the tiltyard.  "I don't see a way out of this without pain."

     "Then why," he threw up his hands in frustration.  "Why in Andraste's name are you doing this?"

     She blinked down at Fergus in surprise.  "It's simple," she smiled.  "The wicked should not be rewarded for their deeds.  If Darren wins by my forfeit, he still wins," her mouth drew into a flat line.  "I'll not see him rewarded."

     Fergus groaned, his shoulders slumping in defeat.  "Well, he certainly is wicked.  That whole family is rotten," he added vehemently.  "The Howe's, too," seeing the sharp look Tarn threw his direction, Fergus smiled, raising his hands in defense, "Nathaniel being an exception, of course."

     "And Delilah," she nodded briskly, raising a delicately arched brow as Fergus glanced at her.  "What," she asked, "Delilah is a decent sort."

     "Decent, but far too afraid or ashamed to speak out against Rendon," Fergus snorted in reply.  "I know the Arl is up to something, but father won't let me move against him without solid evidence," he kicked at the dirt.  "If she would just come forward, I'm certain she could have all the information I need to convince him."

     A dark look crossed over Tarn's face.  "Perhaps when this is over, I will speak to her," she said thoughtfully.  "Nathaniel asked after her in his last letter.  It may be the push she needs."

     "Yes, well," Fergus crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged, the clink from his massive plate armor lost in the growing din of spectators, "let's just get through this first, shall we?"

     "As you wish," Tarn grinned down as Fergus rolled his eyes.  Daemon pawed at the ground, snorting impatiently at their chatter.

     "It looks as though he's ready," Fergus commented, eyeing the Friesian.  "And so is Ser Darren," he added dryly, nodding toward the opposite end of the tiltyard were a bulky brown mare could be seen side stepping nervously as her rider spurred her mercilessly toward the chute.

     "That's our cue," Tarn clucked to Daemon, ignoring the twinge she felt in her arm as she tightened the grip on her shield.  There was only one way out of this, as she had told Ser Gilmore, and that was forward.  Settling her helm into place, Tarn took up her lance and kneed the mighty warhorse beneath her into place at the chute.  Her mind buzzed as she listened to a page announce the two competitors to the impatient crowd.  Cheers and applause for her, followed by jeers and spitting at the mention of Ser Darren.  He was not, Tarn decided, a crowd favorite.

     Taking a deep breath, Tarn settled firmly into her saddle, the high cantle pressing comfortably against her.  Five points, she thought.  That was all it would take to finish this.  One point for a shield strike, two for the chest, and three for the helm.  It was possible to get all five with one lance, but only if you unhorsed your opponent.  The idea was to try to take the strikes on the small jousting shield each contestant carried while making your own strikes on your opponents chest or head.  Not exactly an easy task.

     The page turned toward her expectantly; Tarn offered the customary salute with her lance to indicate her readiness.  With a nod, the page turned toward Ser Darren for a similar sign.  Raising the green flag he carried over his head, the page cut it sharply downward and dashed toward the safety of the sidelines.

     The tilt was on.

     Tarn took a deep breath and squeezed her legs around Daemon's sides, launching the Friesian from his stand still.  Eagerly, the warhorse lunged forward, half rearing in his exuberance to meet his opponent in battle.

     Gritting her teeth, Tarnished leaned forward in her saddle, gripping her lance tightly.  She could feel Daemon's power beneath her, muscles bunching and stretching as he hit top speed, ears flat against his head and nostrils flaring as he charged forward.  A bead of sweat dripped from her lashes to tickle its way across her cheek as Tarn blinked, plum eyes shifting to the knight in dark armor charging toward them, sunlight gleaming off the shield he carried with the Amaranthine herald.  Heart thumping loudly in her ears, Tarn tipped the point of her lance upward, aiming for a chest blow that would get her two points and hopefully an early lead.  Only a stride apart, Tarn tensed her muscles in anticipation of the impact.  She tried not to think about how much it would hurt.

     There was no way out of this without pain.

     An explosion of splintered wood and burning pain enveloped Tarnished's left arm as Ser Darren's lance struck true, and she wasn't sure if she heard herself scream, or Daemon shriek in defiance as the pain enveloped her mind.  Skidding to a stop, she felt the great horse beneath her slide to a halt and spin, taking off back the direction they had come from, teeth bared as he chased after Darren's brown mare.

     Helpless, Tarn bobbed in her saddle, desperate to hang on.  She'd dropped her shield, the left arm flopping uselessly at her side with every ground eating stride, sending pain jolting through her.  Daemon was catching the brown mare as she slowed, nearing the end of the tiltyard.  Sudden understanding of what her mount intended flooded Tarnished, dumping panicked adrenaline through her.  Daemon was going to run them down, intent on trampling the offending horse and rider.

     "No," Tarn whispered hoarsely, releasing her grip on the pommel of her saddle to grab at his reigns.  Pulling frantically at them with one hand, Tarnished was startled to see Ser Gilmore run in front of the charging warhorse, bringing Daemon up short, rearing and striking out with his front hooves over the knights head.

     "My Lady, are you all right," Rory asked, a desperate look in his eye as Daemon's rage slowly came under control.

     "No," she gasped, resolutely keeping her gaze away from her left arm.  One look had been more than enough to turn her stomach.  From the break down, the arm was turned in the wrong direction, twisted 180 degrees from normal.  It was no small relief that the nerves had been severed, leaving the limb numb and dead.

     "Best keep your beast under control, lest someone put it down for madness," Darren called to her, his mare shying at Daemon as they passed.  He had pulled off his helm, sneering at Tarn as he eyed her arm.  "Or perhaps you should quit while you're still able."  Smirking at her in superiority, Darren trotted off before anyone could find out what the guttural noise Ser Gilmore let out as he stepped threateningly in his direction could lead to.

     Daemon snorted, ears laid back as he stood trembling with rage, eyes rolled till the whites could be seen.

     Fergus ran up to them as Rory led Daemon to the chute, coming to an abrupt halt and turning away to cover his mouth at the site of his sister's injury.  "Well," he said, as he fought the nausea, "now we all know how Daemon feels about the Lady Packton's son."

     "Would that everyone could see a snake as easily," Ser Gilmore replied dryly.

     Looking to his sister, Fergus snorted.  "Indeed."  His eye turned stern as he caught Tarn's gaze.  "Withdraw," her brother's voice was rough as he scowled at her, "you cannot take another hit like that!  I won't see you crippled just to beat that arse."

     "I will finish what I've started, brother," Tarn replied, jaw set stubbornly as she swung her leg over Daemon's rump to cautiously slide down his side.  Turning his head, the Friesian whiffed at Tarn's chest, careful to avoid her injured arm.  Taking strength from her horse, Tarnished stood a little straighter than she would have on her own as she leaned into his reassuring bulk.  "I will see this through," she told him firmly.

     "Oh, my Lady," Aldous called, rushing to her side.  Her tutor stifled a sob with the back of his hand as he caught sight of her arm.  Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, the mage turned toward Fergus.  "Get her armor off," he directed briskly, "You," he pointed toward a hovering servant, "Fetch some flat strips of wood for a splint.  And you," he glared menacingly at Tarnished, "Sit down.  Now."

     Meekly, Tarnished sank down on one of the hay bales lining the chute to the tiltyard, gritting her teeth as Fergus began unbuckling the straps trapping her inside the plate.

     "We've been granted a short break before the next tilt.  How bad is it," Bryce Cousland asked, concern coloring his voice and showing on his face as he walked up to them.

     "My Lord," Aldous started, his voice cracking slightly, "If I only had some lyrium, it would be a simple thing," his shoulders sagged in defeat.  "But being a mage outside the Circle, I am not permitted to carry any.  If only I were younger...To have the energy reserves of a man half my age-"

     Bryce interrupted him, clapping a hand to the older man's shoulder and giving it a squeeze.  "You've been good to my family, Aldous.  I can only ask that you do what you can."  The muscle in the Teyrn's jaw twitched, but he nodded reassuringly to the tutor.

     Mouth set in a firm line, Aldous carefully took hold of Tarnished's arm.  "I'm afraid this will hurt a bit my girl," he said, catching Tarn's eye with his own.  She swallowed nervously, her face pale.

     "Here, take this," Fergus offered her a rolled strip of leather to bite on.  "It will help."

     "Did I at least get a point on him," she asked before taking the leather between her teeth.

     "No," Bryce answered her quietly.  "Ser Darren rolled his shoulder back.  Your lance made a glancing blow, but slid off without breaking.  You were awarded no points.  The standing is one lance to none."

     Squeezing her eyes shut, Tarn grunted her understanding around teeth clenched firmly on the leather in her mouth.

     "I'm about to start," Aldous told her quietly.  Whimpering, Tarn nodded, a silent tear creeping from the corner of her eye.

     There was a crunch followed by a muffled scream as Aldous pulled Tarn's hand, straightening the girl's arm before letting it pop back into place.  Tarnished sobbed against the leather in her mouth.

     "I guess you shouldn't let a girl play a man's game," Ser Darren's voice sneered down at them.

     Tarn raised her eyes to gaze through sweaty bangs.  She pushed the leather from between her teeth, breath coming out in little huffs as she glared.

     "You will look up at me from the flat of your back," she ground out roughly.

     "We shall see," he snarled, kicking his mare to trot off.

     "I'm so sorry, my Lady," Aldous voice cracked as he knelt at her side.  "There is nothing more I can do without lyrium."

     Tarn looked down at her arm, feeling slightly detached as she gazed over the splint Aldous had constructed over her upper arm.  It was like she was looking through a long tunnel at someone else's arm.  There was no pain, only numbness and the fuzzy feeling of the extra bulk of the splint.  She grimaced, telling her hand to flex and watching as her fingers twitching was the only response she got.  "It will have to do," she grit her teeth, waving to Fergus to strap the plate in his hands back on.

     "No, you cannot go through with this," Fergus told her, voice harsh with emotion that sent his jaw twitching as he looked down at his sister.  "I will not-"

     "Fergus," Bryce broke in, gaze steady as he looked down at his daughter.  "It is not for you to decide.  It is your sister's choice."  He sighed, running a hand down over his face and looking suddenly much older than Tarnished ever remembered her father looking.  "If her mind is made up, all we can do is support her," he jerked his chin in Tarn's direction.  "Help her," Bryce said softly to his son.

     Fergus stood for a moment, gazing down at the plate in his hand as he clenched his jaw.  Just as Bryce was sure he would have to step in, Fergus moved, kneeling in the spot recently vacated by Aldous.

     "If you don't come back in one piece, I will kill him," Tarn looked in surprise at her normally kind, gentle brother as his harsh words reached her ears.  He turned an anger filled eye upward to look at her.  "I promise you that."

     There was so much vehemence in her brother's words, Tarn could only believe him.  "Then I shall try to leave a few bits behind to give you an excuse," she smiled slightly attempting to lighten his mood.

     "Not funny," he growled, tightening the last strap securing Tarn's armor.

     "Well, at least we know her humor is still intact," Bryce remarked dryly as his daughter struggled to her feet.  She offered a weak smile, moving to Daemon's side to rest a hand on her horse's supportive neck.  Daemon sighed, hot breath snorting contentedly.

     "Give me a leg up, brother?"  Tarn looked to Fergus questioningly.

     His mouth drawn into a grim line, Fergus moved to Daemon's side, offering Tarn his knee and hand to make the climb onto the giant warhorse easier.  "Be careful," his voice was low and rough, a pinched look around his eyes.

     "I don't think I can promise that," she replied, adjusting her left arm to prop her shield up between her pommel and chestplate.  The hand couldn't grip, but hopefully the shield would stay in place long enough to take a hit.  Clucking, she lightly squeezed against Daemon's sides, glad that Bryce had insisted she learn the commands warhorses were taught to obey.  Without them, Tarn never would've been able to continue.  Her good arm was needed for the lance, and her broken one couldn't even grip the shield properly, let alone a shield and reigns.

     "My Lady," Rory offered up her lance as Tarn neared the chute to the tiltyard.  "Good luck," he whispered as she reached down to take it.

     Looking across the tiltyard, Tarn rolled her shoulders.  It wouldn't be long now; she could see Darren's mare side stepping toward the chute skittish of his cruel spurs digging into her sides.

     The flag was dropped; Tarn squeezed her legs tight, sending Daemon lurching forward, his strong legs stretching out, devouring the ground as they carried her toward the clash of metal ahead.   With each step, the shield jarred, sliding from its spot wedged against the pommel, pain lancing through the numbness to shoot from her hand, up the arm, through her shoulder.

     Weak fingers twitched as Tarn tried to keep her shield in place, but it was no use.  The shield had already slipped beyond where she could keep it from falling.  With a bounce and a clang, the shield spun through the air to land in the dirt.  Twisting her body, Tarn glanced backward to watch it go, as if she could will it back into her hand by knowing its location.  She turned back just in time to see Ser Darren's lance bearing down on her; her own lance was well off the mark.

     The sun burst behind Tarn's eyes at the impact of Darren's lance.  A raging inferno of pain enveloped her from the inside blocking out everything in a blinding flash as it turned her to ash.  Even this wasn't a relief, Tarnished realized, as the initial burst subsided, leaving her hanging forward over Daemon's neck gasping as her vision swam back into focus.  The ruined arm was still there, not the ash she wished it was.  Daemon snorted, stomping a foot in distress, his ears flicking back and forth and the cords of his neck standing out as he strained to keep Tarn from toppling off.

     Groaning, Tarn pushed herself back her saddle, grimacing at the shocked gasps from the spectators.   She refused to look at her arm, instead she looked to the score keeper.  Ser Darren had three points.  One more tilt like the last, and he would win.  Mouth set in a grim line, Tarn kneed Daemon around to trot back toward the chute.  She would need to unhorse him to win.

     "My Lady," Aldous pleaded with her, his voice broken, "You cannot continue.  You risk losing the use of your arm completely if you take another hit like that," concern shown in his eyes as he wrung his hands together.

     "Then I'll have to make sure I don't get hit," Tarn replied through grit teeth.

     "Master Fergus, you have to stop her," Aldous voice turned slightly hysterical as he looked to her brother for support.

     For a moment, Tarn thought Fergus would cave, supporting their tutor.  Finally, he frowned giving his head a shake.  "I cannot go against father's word," he told the mage.  "I can only support her decision."  Raising an eyebrow, Fergus turned a grim look to Aldous.  "As should you."

     Aldous let his shoulders slump in defeat, his head lowered as he stared at Tarn's knee.  "There is...one...thing," he said softly, unwillingly.

     Raising his arms in exasperation, Fergus looked to Aldous.  "If there were ever a time to pull out all the stops, this is most definitely it."

     Sighing, Aldous reached inside his robe to pull out a vial of slightly green liquid.  His hand shook as he offered it up to Tarnished.  "This is a draught formulated to kill pain.  It is very powerful and  not meant to be taken lightly," sorrow filled his eyes as he looked up at the young Cousland.  "I had hoped to be able to talk you out of your insanity before it came to this."  Aldous locked his eyes to meet Tarn's as she reached to take the vial.  "Please.  Be careful," he told her before letting go.

     Eyeing the liquid in the vial, Tarn popped the stopper.  "Here goes nothing," she said quietly, tipping the vial to her lips.  She grimaced as the bitter taste hit her tongue, leaving behind a slimy feeling as it slid down her throat.  "Ughh.  I do not want to know what is in that," she scowled as she passed the rest of the draught back to Aldous.

     "No," he smiled thinly.  "You really don't."

     "It's time," Fergus told her quietly, laying a hand on her knee.  "Do you want your shield," he asked, brows drawing together.

     "No point," Tarn's mouth twitched to the side.  The fingers of her left hand spasmed.  "Can't hold it."

     Closing her eyes, Tarn took a deep breath.  Despite how revolting Aldous' draught had tasted, it was doing as advertised:  she couldn't feel a single thing, like she'd been rolled into a bale of cotton.  Slowly exhaling, Tarn kneed Daemon to the chute for the next tilt.

     Her breath came in hot little gasps inside her helm.  The sweat, grime, and tears of the day were slick on her skin as she looked across the arena toward Ser Darren's brown mare entering his chute.

    "Andraste," she whispered as she watched the page raise his green flag to signal the tilt.  The flag was dropped, sweat dripped from Tarn's lashes, the brown mare lurched forward.  "Guide my hand," she prayed as her knees squeezed against Daemon's sides, sending the Friesian springing forward.  The seconds stretched on as the two horses raced to meet each other on the tiltyard. Tarn's heartbeat thundered in her ears, louder than the sound of driving hooves drawing the two riders closer.  Pupils contracted, Tarn's eye followed the bobbing tip of Ser Darren's lance.  Her eyes flashed, snapping to Darren's helm, his head bowed as his gaze fixated on her injured arm.  That was what he aimed for.

     Tarnished tilted the tip of her lance upward.  It would impact square between Darren's eyes.  Tarn braced herself against the cantle of her saddle, readying to take the impact of his weight on her lance.  She took a deep breath and watched as time sped up, the horses suddenly racing impossibly fast toward each other, the crowd screaming for blood and the point of her lance staying true to its course to impact with Ser Darren's face.

     Surprise, followed by outrage, flooded Darren.  The tip of a lance had filled his field of vision, coming from seemingly nowhere.  He twitched, body jerking of its own accord as instinct screamed at him to protect himself, but it was far too little too late:  the lance was well within striking distance, the very next half step of his own mare, or Tarn's stallion, driving it into his helm.

     Raising her broken lance over her head, Tarn grinned in relief behind the plate of her helm as she trotted past the fallen form of Ser Darren to stand in front of the Royal Box.  Watching him fall had been nothing short of spectacular, his body somersaulting end over end, rotating through the air in a sort of morbid grace before belly flopping into the dirt on the floor of the stadium while the audience roared its approval.

     Daemon pawed at the ground in front of the Royal Box, pretending to be a vicious warhorse as Tarn offered the customary salute to the King and Queen with her broken lance.  But he only pretended, not putting half the effort into stomping theatrically as he usually did.  Even as he reared when the salute was cut, it was a very controlled movement that he came down lightly from, trying not to jostle Tarnished more than necessary.

     There would still be an awards ceremony to conclude the Fall Tournament on the following day, but it was already official:  Tarnished had won the mounted joust in the final round against Ser Darren with a score of five to three, despite the great odds stacked against her for having a broken arm.  Trotting back through the chute, Ser Gilmore met her, beckoning for her to follow him to the area marked off for Highever among the participants' tents.  Gratefully, Tarn took the arm he offered to let her dismount.

     "Daemon-"

     "Will be cared for by me, personally," Rory told her, carefully wrapping an arm around her waist as he supported her, half dragging her toward the large pavilion type tent meant for only the Cousland family.

     Weakly, Tarn struggled against him.  "Havoc-"

     "Is inside, eagerly awaiting to pounce all over you, I expect," Rory told her irritably.  "Maker's sake, woman, your arm is about to fall off and you can do nothing but think how I'm to incompetent to look after one warhorse and a Mabari pup."  He rolled his eyes, pushing aside the heavy fabric flap that served as a door to the large, central portion of the tent - the 'common room', as it were.

     Bryce and Fergus turned as the two entered, rushing to relieve Ser Gilmore of his precious burden.  Carefully, the two eased her across the room toward the part of the tent that had been sectioned off for Tarn.  Rory stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot indecisively as he watched them before finally ducking back outside to remove Daemon's tack and armor plating.

     Depositing his daughter on the edge of her bed, Bryce knelt in front of Tarn.  He carefully removed her helm and cupped his hands along her jaw, calloused thumbs brushing across the grit covering her cheeks as he smiled up at her while Fergus busied himself with taking the massive plate armor off of her.

     "Dad," she said in a slightly quavery voice.

     "Shh," Bryce hushed her, still smiling up at her as a tear leaked from the corner of his eye.  "I'm really proud of you, Tarnished."

     A wide smile spread across Tarn's face as she sighed.  A wave of dizziness passed over her, blurring her vision.  Tarnished felt herself falling to the side as the world went dark.

Description
Title:                            A Tarnished Cousland – The Tilt
Author:                        mcomommy
Game:                          Dragon Age
Characters:                  Tarnished Cousland, Fergus, Ser Gilmore, Darren Packton
Disclaimer:                   Dragon Age and all characters from it belong to Bioware.
Content Warning:          Combat, Language, Pain, Violence

A Tarnished Cousland
The Tilt

     "My Lady, I beg you.  Please reconsider," Ser Gilmore frantically pleaded from Daemon's muscular shoulder as he gazed up at Tarnished.

     Grimacing, Tarn shook her head.  "You know I cannot turn away," she said through clenched teeth.  Carefully, she flexed her left hand, fingers spreading and curling as she tentatively tested its strength.  Barely enough to hold her shield, she thought.  Hopefully Ser Darren wouldn't go for a slow win.  While a shield strike would only give him one point at a time, it would shatter the fragile mend Aldous had managed on her arm.  Her teacher had been adamant that she not perform magic while at the tournament.  Tarn would just have to grit her teeth and bear through it should the worst come to pass.

     "My way is forward," she offered a grim smile to the knight.  "Not back."

     "My Lady, I…," Rory paused, swallowing against the fear that threatened to choke his throat.  "Tarnished.  Good luck," he said, his voice low and thick before he turned away, back stiff as he wove his way to the stands to report to the Teyrn.

     "Honestly, Tarn, this is quite possibly the most idiotic thing I've yet to see you do," Fergus snorted.  "I agree with Ser Gilmore," he crossed his arms, glaring up at her.

     "And yet, dear brother, you'll stand at the chute, fretting every moment, but supporting me non-the-less," she forced a grin in the face of his scowl.

     Sighing, Fergus let up, running a hand over his mouth in exasperation.  "Just…be careful, okay?  I don't like seeing you hurt."

     "Then you shouldn't watch, brother," Tarn told him solemnly, looking to the tiltyard.  "I don't see a way out of this without pain."

     "Then why," he threw up his hands in frustration.  "Why in Andraste's name are you doing this?"

     She blinked down at Fergus in surprise.  "It's simple," she smiled.  "The wicked should not be rewarded for their deeds.  If Darren wins by my forfeit, he still wins," her mouth drew into a flat line.  "I'll not see him rewarded."

     Fergus groaned, his shoulders slumping in defeat.  "Well, he certainly is wicked.  That whole family is rotten," he added vehemently.  "The Howe's, too," seeing the sharp look Tarn threw his direction, Fergus smiled, raising his hands in defense, "Nathaniel being an exception, of course."

     "And Delilah," she nodded briskly, raising a delicately arched brow as Fergus glanced at her.  "What," she asked, "Delilah is a decent sort."

     "Decent, but far too afraid or ashamed to speak out against Rendon," Fergus snorted in reply.  "I know the Arl is up to something, but father won't let me move against him without solid evidence," he kicked at the dirt.  "If she would just come forward, I'm certain she could have all the information I need to convince him."

     A dark look crossed over Tarn's face.  "Perhaps when this is over, I will speak to her," she said thoughtfully.  "Nathaniel asked after her in his last letter.  It may be the push she needs."

     "Yes, well," Fergus crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged, the clink from his massive plate armor lost in the growing din of spectators, "let's just get through this first, shall we?"

     "As you wish," Tarn grinned down as Fergus rolled his eyes.  Daemon pawed at the ground, snorting impatiently at their chatter.

     "It looks as though he's ready," Fergus commented, eyeing the Friesian.  "And so is Ser Darren," he added dryly, nodding toward the opposite end of the tiltyard were a bulky brown mare could be seen side stepping nervously as her rider spurred her mercilessly toward the chute.

     "That's our cue," Tarn clucked to Daemon, ignoring the twinge she felt in her arm as she tightened the grip on her shield.  There was only one way out of this, as she had told Ser Gilmore, and that was forward.  Settling her helm into place, Tarn took up her lance and kneed the mighty warhorse beneath her into place at the chute.  Her mind buzzed as she listened to a page announce the two competitors to the impatient crowd.  Cheers and applause for her, followed by jeers and spitting at the mention of Ser Darren.  He was not, Tarn decided, a crowd favorite.

     Taking a deep breath, Tarn settled firmly into her saddle, the high cantle pressing comfortably against her.  Five points, she thought.  That was all it would take to finish this.  One point for a shield strike, two for the chest, and three for the helm.  It was possible to get all five with one lance, but only if you unhorsed your opponent.  The idea was to try to take the strikes on the small jousting shield each contestant carried while making your own strikes on your opponents chest or head.  Not exactly an easy task.

     The page turned toward her expectantly; Tarn offered the customary salute with her lance to indicate her readiness.  With a nod, the page turned toward Ser Darren for a similar sign.  Raising the green flag he carried over his head, the page cut it sharply downward and dashed toward the safety of the sidelines.

     The tilt was on.

     Tarn took a deep breath and squeezed her legs around Daemon's sides, launching the Friesian from his stand still.  Eagerly, the warhorse lunged forward, half rearing in his exuberance to meet his opponent in battle.

     Gritting her teeth, Tarnished leaned forward in her saddle, gripping her lance tightly.  She could feel Daemon's power beneath her, muscles bunching and stretching as he hit top speed, ears flat against his head and nostrils flaring as he charged forward.  A bead of sweat dripped from her lashes to tickle its way across her cheek as Tarn blinked, plum eyes shifting to the knight in dark armor charging toward them, sunlight gleaming off the shield he carried with the Amaranthine herald.  Heart thumping loudly in her ears, Tarn tipped the point of her lance upward, aiming for a chest blow that would get her two points and hopefully an early lead.  Only a stride apart, Tarn tensed her muscles in anticipation of the impact.  She tried not to think about how much it would hurt.

     There was no way out of this without pain.

     An explosion of splintered wood and burning pain enveloped Tarnished's left arm as Ser Darren's lance struck true, and she wasn't sure if she heard herself scream, or Daemon shriek in defiance as the pain enveloped her mind.  Skidding to a stop, she felt the great horse beneath her slide to a halt and spin, taking off back the direction they had come from, teeth bared as he chased after Darren's brown mare.

     Helpless, Tarn bobbed in her saddle, desperate to hang on.  She'd dropped her shield, the left arm flopping uselessly at her side with every ground eating stride, sending pain jolting through her.  Daemon was catching the brown mare as she slowed, nearing the end of the tiltyard.  Sudden understanding of what her mount intended flooded Tarnished, dumping panicked adrenaline through her.  Daemon was going to run them down, intent on trampling the offending horse and rider.

     "No," Tarn whispered hoarsely, releasing her grip on the pommel of her saddle to grab at his reigns.  Pulling frantically at them with one hand, Tarnished was startled to see Ser Gilmore run in front of the charging warhorse, bringing Daemon up short, rearing and striking out with his front hooves over the knights head.

     "My Lady, are you all right," Rory asked, a desperate look in his eye as Daemon's rage slowly came under control.

     "No," she gasped, resolutely keeping her gaze away from her left arm.  One look had been more than enough to turn her stomach.  From the break down, the arm was turned in the wrong direction, twisted 180 degrees from normal.  It was no small relief that the nerves had been severed, leaving the limb numb and dead.

     "Best keep your beast under control, lest someone put it down for madness," Darren called to her, his mare shying at Daemon as they passed.  He had pulled off his helm, sneering at Tarn as he eyed her arm.  "Or perhaps you should quit while you're still able."  Smirking at her in superiority, Darren trotted off before anyone could find out what the guttural noise Ser Gilmore let out as he stepped threateningly in his direction could lead to.

     Daemon snorted, ears laid back as he stood trembling with rage, eyes rolled till the whites could be seen.

     Fergus ran up to them as Rory led Daemon to the chute, coming to an abrupt halt and turning away to cover his mouth at the site of his sister's injury.  "Well," he said, as he fought the nausea, "now we all know how Daemon feels about the Lady Packton's son."

     "Would that everyone could see a snake as easily," Ser Gilmore replied dryly.

     Looking to his sister, Fergus snorted.  "Indeed."  His eye turned stern as he caught Tarn's gaze.  "Withdraw," her brother's voice was rough as he scowled at her, "you cannot take another hit like that!  I won't see you crippled just to beat that arse."

     "I will finish what I've started, brother," Tarn replied, jaw set stubbornly as she swung her leg over Daemon's rump to cautiously slide down his side.  Turning his head, the Friesian whiffed at Tarn's chest, careful to avoid her injured arm.  Taking strength from her horse, Tarnished stood a little straighter than she would have on her own as she leaned into his reassuring bulk.  "I will see this through," she told him firmly.

     "Oh, my Lady," Aldous called, rushing to her side.  Her tutor stifled a sob with the back of his hand as he caught sight of her arm.  Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, the mage turned toward Fergus.  "Get her armor off," he directed briskly, "You," he pointed toward a hovering servant, "Fetch some flat strips of wood for a splint.  And you," he glared menacingly at Tarnished, "Sit down.  Now."

     Meekly, Tarnished sank down on one of the hay bales lining the chute to the tiltyard, gritting her teeth as Fergus began unbuckling the straps trapping her inside the plate.

     "We've been granted a short break before the next tilt.  How bad is it," Bryce Cousland asked, concern coloring his voice and showing on his face as he walked up to them.

     "My Lord," Aldous started, his voice cracking slightly, "If I only had some lyrium, it would be a simple thing," his shoulders sagged in defeat.  "But being a mage outside the Circle, I am not permitted to carry any.  If only I were younger...To have the energy reserves of a man half my age-"

     Bryce interrupted him, clapping a hand to the older man's shoulder and giving it a squeeze.  "You've been good to my family, Aldous.  I can only ask that you do what you can."  The muscle in the Teyrn's jaw twitched, but he nodded reassuringly to the tutor.

     Mouth set in a firm line, Aldous carefully took hold of Tarnished's arm.  "I'm afraid this will hurt a bit my girl," he said, catching Tarn's eye with his own.  She swallowed nervously, her face pale.

     "Here, take this," Fergus offered her a rolled strip of leather to bite on.  "It will help."

     "Did I at least get a point on him," she asked before taking the leather between her teeth.

     "No," Bryce answered her quietly.  "Ser Darren rolled his shoulder back.  Your lance made a glancing blow, but slid off without breaking.  You were awarded no points.  The standing is one lance to none."

     Squeezing her eyes shut, Tarn grunted her understanding around teeth clenched firmly on the leather in her mouth.

     "I'm about to start," Aldous told her quietly.  Whimpering, Tarn nodded, a silent tear creeping from the corner of her eye.

     There was a crunch followed by a muffled scream as Aldous pulled Tarn's hand, straightening the girl's arm before letting it pop back into place.  Tarnished sobbed against the leather in her mouth.

     "I guess you shouldn't let a girl play a man's game," Ser Darren's voice sneered down at them.

     Tarn raised her eyes to gaze through sweaty bangs.  She pushed the leather from between her teeth, breath coming out in little huffs as she glared.

     "You will look up at me from the flat of your back," she ground out roughly.

     "We shall see," he snarled, kicking his mare to trot off.

     "I'm so sorry, my Lady," Aldous voice cracked as he knelt at her side.  "There is nothing more I can do without lyrium."

     Tarn looked down at her arm, feeling slightly detached as she gazed over the splint Aldous had constructed over her upper arm.  It was like she was looking through a long tunnel at someone else's arm.  There was no pain, only numbness and the fuzzy feeling of the extra bulk of the splint.  She grimaced, telling her hand to flex and watching as her fingers twitching was the only response she got.  "It will have to do," she grit her teeth, waving to Fergus to strap the plate in his hands back on.

     "No, you cannot go through with this," Fergus told her, voice harsh with emotion that sent his jaw twitching as he looked down at his sister.  "I will not-"

     "Fergus," Bryce broke in, gaze steady as he looked down at his daughter.  "It is not for you to decide.  It is your sister's choice."  He sighed, running a hand down over his face and looking suddenly much older than Tarnished ever remembered her father looking.  "If her mind is made up, all we can do is support her," he jerked his chin in Tarn's direction.  "Help her," Bryce said softly to his son.

     Fergus stood for a moment, gazing down at the plate in his hand as he clenched his jaw.  Just as Bryce was sure he would have to step in, Fergus moved, kneeling in the spot recently vacated by Aldous.

     "If you don't come back in one piece, I will kill him," Tarn looked in surprise at her normally kind, gentle brother as his harsh words reached her ears.  He turned an anger filled eye upward to look at her.  "I promise you that."

     There was so much vehemence in her brother's words, Tarn could only believe him.  "Then I shall try to leave a few bits behind to give you an excuse," she smiled slightly attempting to lighten his mood.

     "Not funny," he growled, tightening the last strap securing Tarn's armor.

     "Well, at least we know her humor is still intact," Bryce remarked dryly as his daughter struggled to her feet.  She offered a weak smile, moving to Daemon's side to rest a hand on her horse's supportive neck.  Daemon sighed, hot breath snorting contentedly.

     "Give me a leg up, brother?"  Tarn looked to Fergus questioningly.

     His mouth drawn into a grim line, Fergus moved to Daemon's side, offering Tarn his knee and hand to make the climb onto the giant warhorse easier.  "Be careful," his voice was low and rough, a pinched look around his eyes.

     "I don't think I can promise that," she replied, adjusting her left arm to prop her shield up between her pommel and chestplate.  The hand couldn't grip, but hopefully the shield would stay in place long enough to take a hit.  Clucking, she lightly squeezed against Daemon's sides, glad that Bryce had insisted she learn the commands warhorses were taught to obey.  Without them, Tarn never would've been able to continue.  Her good arm was needed for the lance, and her broken one couldn't even grip the shield properly, let alone a shield and reigns.

     "My Lady," Rory offered up her lance as Tarn neared the chute to the tiltyard.  "Good luck," he whispered as she reached down to take it.

     Looking across the tiltyard, Tarn rolled her shoulders.  It wouldn't be long now; she could see Darren's mare side stepping toward the chute skittish of his cruel spurs digging into her sides.

     The flag was dropped; Tarn squeezed her legs tight, sending Daemon lurching forward, his strong legs stretching out, devouring the ground as they carried her toward the clash of metal ahead.   With each step, the shield jarred, sliding from its spot wedged against the pommel, pain lancing through the numbness to shoot from her hand, up the arm, through her shoulder.

     Weak fingers twitched as Tarn tried to keep her shield in place, but it was no use.  The shield had already slipped beyond where she could keep it from falling.  With a bounce and a clang, the shield spun through the air to land in the dirt.  Twisting her body, Tarn glanced backward to watch it go, as if she could will it back into her hand by knowing its location.  She turned back just in time to see Ser Darren's lance bearing down on her; her own lance was well off the mark.

     The sun burst behind Tarn's eyes at the impact of Darren's lance.  A raging inferno of pain enveloped her from the inside blocking out everything in a blinding flash as it turned her to ash.  Even this wasn't a relief, Tarnished realized, as the initial burst subsided, leaving her hanging forward over Daemon's neck gasping as her vision swam back into focus.  The ruined arm was still there, not the ash she wished it was.  Daemon snorted, stomping a foot in distress, his ears flicking back and forth and the cords of his neck standing out as he strained to keep Tarn from toppling off.

     Groaning, Tarn pushed herself back her saddle, grimacing at the shocked gasps from the spectators.   She refused to look at her arm, instead she looked to the score keeper.  Ser Darren had three points.  One more tilt like the last, and he would win.  Mouth set in a grim line, Tarn kneed Daemon around to trot back toward the chute.  She would need to unhorse him to win.

     "My Lady," Aldous pleaded with her, his voice broken, "You cannot continue.  You risk losing the use of your arm completely if you take another hit like that," concern shown in his eyes as he wrung his hands together.

     "Then I'll have to make sure I don't get hit," Tarn replied through grit teeth.

     "Master Fergus, you have to stop her," Aldous voice turned slightly hysterical as he looked to her brother for support.

     For a moment, Tarn thought Fergus would cave, supporting their tutor.  Finally, he frowned giving his head a shake.  "I cannot go against father's word," he told the mage.  "I can only support her decision."  Raising an eyebrow, Fergus turned a grim look to Aldous.  "As should you."

     Aldous let his shoulders slump in defeat, his head lowered as he stared at Tarn's knee.  "There is...one...thing," he said softly, unwillingly.

     Raising his arms in exasperation, Fergus looked to Aldous.  "If there were ever a time to pull out all the stops, this is most definitely it."

     Sighing, Aldous reached inside his robe to pull out a vial of slightly green liquid.  His hand shook as he offered it up to Tarnished.  "This is a draught formulated to kill pain.  It is very powerful and  not meant to be taken lightly," sorrow filled his eyes as he looked up at the young Cousland.  "I had hoped to be able to talk you out of your insanity before it came to this."  Aldous locked his eyes to meet Tarn's as she reached to take the vial.  "Please.  Be careful," he told her before letting go.

     Eyeing the liquid in the vial, Tarn popped the stopper.  "Here goes nothing," she said quietly, tipping the vial to her lips.  She grimaced as the bitter taste hit her tongue, leaving behind a slimy feeling as it slid down her throat.  "Ughh.  I do not want to know what is in that," she scowled as she passed the rest of the draught back to Aldous.

     "No," he smiled thinly.  "You really don't."

     "It's time," Fergus told her quietly, laying a hand on her knee.  "Do you want your shield," he asked, brows drawing together.

     "No point," Tarn's mouth twitched to the side.  The fingers of her left hand spasmed.  "Can't hold it."

     Closing her eyes, Tarn took a deep breath.  Despite how revolting Aldous' draught had tasted, it was doing as advertised:  she couldn't feel a single thing, like she'd been rolled into a bale of cotton.  Slowly exhaling, Tarn kneed Daemon to the chute for the next tilt.

     Her breath came in hot little gasps inside her helm.  The sweat, grime, and tears of the day were slick on her skin as she looked across the arena toward Ser Darren's brown mare entering his chute.

    "Andraste," she whispered as she watched the page raise his green flag to signal the tilt.  The flag was dropped, sweat dripped from Tarn's lashes, the brown mare lurched forward.  "Guide my hand," she prayed as her knees squeezed against Daemon's sides, sending the Friesian springing forward.  The seconds stretched on as the two horses raced to meet each other on the tiltyard. Tarn's heartbeat thundered in her ears, louder than the sound of driving hooves drawing the two riders closer.  Pupils contracted, Tarn's eye followed the bobbing tip of Ser Darren's lance.  Her eyes flashed, snapping to Darren's helm, his head bowed as his gaze fixated on her injured arm.  That was what he aimed for.

     Tarnished tilted the tip of her lance upward.  It would impact square between Darren's eyes.  Tarn braced herself against the cantle of her saddle, readying to take the impact of his weight on her lance.  She took a deep breath and watched as time sped up, the horses suddenly racing impossibly fast toward each other, the crowd screaming for blood and the point of her lance staying true to its course to impact with Ser Darren's face.

     Surprise, followed by outrage, flooded Darren.  The tip of a lance had filled his field of vision, coming from seemingly nowhere.  He twitched, body jerking of its own accord as instinct screamed at him to protect himself, but it was far too little too late:  the lance was well within striking distance, the very next half step of his own mare, or Tarn's stallion, driving it into his helm.

     Raising her broken lance over her head, Tarn grinned in relief behind the plate of her helm as she trotted past the fallen form of Ser Darren to stand in front of the Royal Box.  Watching him fall had been nothing short of spectacular, his body somersaulting end over end, rotating through the air in a sort of morbid grace before belly flopping into the dirt on the floor of the stadium while the audience roared its approval.

     Daemon pawed at the ground in front of the Royal Box, pretending to be a vicious warhorse as Tarn offered the customary salute to the King and Queen with her broken lance.  But he only pretended, not putting half the effort into stomping theatrically as he usually did.  Even as he reared when the salute was cut, it was a very controlled movement that he came down lightly from, trying not to jostle Tarnished more than necessary.

     There would still be an awards ceremony to conclude the Fall Tournament on the following day, but it was already official:  Tarnished had won the mounted joust in the final round against Ser Darren with a score of five to three, despite the great odds stacked against her for having a broken arm.  Trotting back through the chute, Ser Gilmore met her, beckoning for her to follow him to the area marked off for Highever among the participants' tents.  Gratefully, Tarn took the arm he offered to let her dismount.

     "Daemon-"

     "Will be cared for by me, personally," Rory told her, carefully wrapping an arm around her waist as he supported her, half dragging her toward the large pavilion type tent meant for only the Cousland family.

     Weakly, Tarn struggled against him.  "Havoc-"

     "Is inside, eagerly awaiting to pounce all over you, I expect," Rory told her irritably.  "Maker's sake, woman, your arm is about to fall off and you can do nothing but think how I'm to incompetent to look after one warhorse and a Mabari pup."  He rolled his eyes, pushing aside the heavy fabric flap that served as a door to the large, central portion of the tent - the 'common room', as it were.

     Bryce and Fergus turned as the two entered, rushing to relieve Ser Gilmore of his precious burden.  Carefully, the two eased her across the room toward the part of the tent that had been sectioned off for Tarn.  Rory stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot indecisively as he watched them before finally ducking back outside to remove Daemon's tack and armor plating.

     Depositing his daughter on the edge of her bed, Bryce knelt in front of Tarn.  He carefully removed her helm and cupped his hands along her jaw, calloused thumbs brushing across the grit covering her cheeks as he smiled up at her while Fergus busied himself with taking the massive plate armor off of her.

     "Dad," she said in a slightly quavery voice.

     "Shh," Bryce hushed her, still smiling up at her as a tear leaked from the corner of his eye.  "I'm really proud of you, Tarnished."

     A wide smile spread across Tarn's face as she sighed.  A wave of dizziness passed over her, blurring her vision.  Tarnished felt herself falling to the side as the world went dark.