Thomas spurned his horse as soon as the trumpets blasted, charged down the pipe at his opponent. The man looked as if he was almost unsure of his actions, which would be perfect for Thomas to take advantage of. Thomas placed the lance into a cradle position. Time seemed to slow down as the two men charged at each other, for Thomas. Thomas didn't hear the sounds of the crowd, or the sounds of the galloping horses, or even the sounds of his own armor clanging. As Thomas got closer, he could tell that he would likely win this tilt, as the man's grip didn't look as well placed as his. With a sudden surge, Thomas shoved the lance forward, propelled by over 20 years of practice behind it, aiming for the upper torso of his foe, making a good effort on bypassing the man's shield. At the same time, he felt a sudden blast to his left shoulder, and felt himself slid back in his seat, but he remained horsed.

Roderick briefly felt his shield brush against the opponent's lance, but somehow the man had slipped it by. His own struck against the shoulder, far from home, but enough to crack the lance to its core. As the blow passed, it the weapon split and its length fell away, well enough to be qualified as broke lance. More pressing to him at the time was the blow done to himself, as Thomas' lance shattered against his chest in a full impact. Under that tremendous force, he bent backwards and away, careening harshly to the right.but managed to hold fast to the horse and keep himself on. At the time, they were equals, if not in performance then in points, but it wasn't to last. He had been slipped just too far, and before his horse had made it to the end of the lane he felt himself losing control and falling. A loss, but a graceful one for the circumstances. His shoulder clearly touched the ground, but he managed to fall onto his back rather than onto his face, and stand to his feet even as the score was set. An unhorsing was a win for his opponent, and the trumpets were sounding again to show this. Boyle left the field, not quite boiling but discouraged at the least.

Thomas had hit true, and hard, enough to knock his opponent to the side of his saddle. As Thomas managed on down the runway, he did not look back at his opponent, as it wasn't honorable to watch your opponent fail, but once he heard the trumpets, he knew what had happened. He smiled to himself, under his helmet, and turned to look back at the dejected and defeated Roderick leaving the field, squires and horse in tow. As he made his way to the end of his lane, Thomas handed his broken lance to his squire, and raised his fist up in the arm, to signify his victory. As he stay saddled at the end of the lane, he awaited the next opponent he was to face. If he won his next match, he'd make it to the finals. Then, the next group of the bracket would start, and whoever won that group would face Thomas in the finals. Thomas was brought another lance, and he cradled it in his arms as he awaited his next foe.

Blue eyes were fixed on the current joust, and they calculated the moves of the competitors to the best of the eye's ability. Thomas's form was excellent and beautiful, and the opponent's grip and defense were lacking and weak. Harker proudly watched Thomas land a blow strong enough to dismount the other knight, and trumpets blared to acknowledge Thomas's win. A sure victory came to the knight he chose to champion for the tournament, and Gareth came to his feet with fervorous clapping and cheering while the crowd behind him whooped with equal strength. This victory early on would set the standard for the rest of Thomas's charges for the day, quite possibly setting him up to make it into the final tiers. If he could, he would have ran out onto the field himself to hug the man, but it was far too early for premature celebration and not to mention out of proper public conduct. He would enjoy the first win, but a victory over the entire tournament would be a feat worth more cherishing. Gareth looked at Thomas with such joy in his face from the stands, and he silently hoped the next opponent would be defeated just as easily.

The Lyoki duo reached the room after a few minutes of walking. Jezin opened the door, and walked over to a nearby table where he had placed his polished shield, spear, and helmet the night before. He removed his cloak reached for the helmet, placing it carefully onto his head. The helm's long crimson plume reached his mid-back, and the brilliantly polished bass shimmered in the sunlight that shone through a nearby window. He picked up his spear, examining the blade carefully and slowly twirling the weapon to get a feel for his grip. As he prepared, he noticed Sophia staring out the window, a faint look of sadness on her face. "Milady, is something the matter?" The princess seemed distant, preoccupied with some far-off thought.

Sophia turned, the sunlight illuminating the side of her face, and spoke. "Jezin, do you remember when you were knighted?" The bodyguard looked confused for a moment. "Of course I do, princess." Sophia looked off out the window again. "Five men. Five armed men beating down my door, thirsting for my blood. They would've killed me, and probably worse, if you hadn't been there." Jezin's look of confusion held. He wasn't sure what the princess was getting at. He remembered that night clearly. It was before he was in the Brass Hand. He had recently joined the ranks of the Palace Guard, and had been stationed outside the room of the Empress' youngest daughter. Nothing had seemed wrong that night, but in an instant that peace had been shattered. A group of Tauran soldiers had somehow made their way into the palace. It had been he and one other guard, the Brass Hand had been meeting with the Empress. FIve men had come barreling down the hallway, swords drawn. His comrade had been killed almost immediately, leaving him to fight five men by himself.

Sophia continued. "No one even knew the Taurans were still capable of something like that after the rebellion, but nonetheless, five men were outside my door. I was ten years old, I was terrified. But you saved me, Jezin." She took a deep breath. "You kept fighting. They hurt you, badly, but you kept fighting." Being hurt badly was an understatement, the bastards ran him through twice, by all rights he should've died that night. "I remember, one got past you, and he kicked open my door. I was so scared, but then I saw you. You struck him in the back with your spear." She shook slightly. "I was so scared, because you fell after that. You were bleeding so terribly... But you told me everything would be okay. Here you were practically dying and you were comforting me..." A single tear rolled down her face. "I never want to see you like that again, Jezin."

Jezin stood in silence for a moment. He had nearly died in the assassination attempt, but when it became clear he would survive his wounds he had been summoned by the Empress. She had knighted him for his valor, and he had been offered a position in the Brass Hand as soon as he recovered. It had been the most important event in his life. He looked at the princess, his ordinarily fiery gaze fading into a somber look. "You won't princess. I promise you that. You have nothing to worry about." Sophia wiped the tears from her eyes. "Please be careful out there Jezin. Please." Jezin nodded. "I will. I promise." Sophia forced a smile. "Do you think I prayer would help?" Jezin smiled. "It couldn't hurt."

The two of them knelt, and Sophia spoke aloud. "Oh Eternal Serpent, progenitor of all, mother of all life, protect Jezin this day, shield him from harm and strengthen him so that he may be victorious." She looked up at the bodyguard and reached behind her neck. She unclasped the golden necklace she had been wearing and handed it to the soldier. "And take this, for good luck." Jezin smiled, wrapping the thin gold chain around his neck. "I will not fail you, princess. I will make Lyok proud." Jezin rose, picking up his shield. Sophia turned towards the door. "We should hurry back, we don't want to be late." Jezin nodded, and the two of them began heading towards the fairgrounds.

The new opponent rode out, a man in far less shabby armor, ornate and fluted in the styles of the east coast. The heraldry upon his armor was the blue trident of the country of Bureo, signifying his status as a knight of the state. This was Sir Benedict Ansell, a relatively unknown knight with the good fortune to have been born in the peaceful southeast. An interesting breed, the knight had never seen war but had instead spent the majority of his career in the sheltered realm of the tournament circuit, mostly out of obligation rather than any actual desire to compete. He rode to his position at the end of the runway, controlling his dark horse and bracing his lance properly as he waited for the signal to start. The harsh, staccato cry of the trumpets cut in, buffeting the combatants and crowd with their shrill declaration, the round had begun. Benedict rode forth as he was bid, preparing his lance and taking aim at his opponent as he rode in hard on his target. It was mechanical at this point, although he recognized the significance of his opponent.

Thomas was surprised at the speed in which his new opponent had gotten ready, and went. Thomas spurned his horse forth, raising his lance to hit true once more. This opponent seemed much more prepared and confident in his abilities than his previous opponent. Thomas put the lance, once more, into a small tight cradle as he his horse gather more and more speed. Once more, all sound disappeared from his hearing, and the only thing that existed was his lance, and the man it was to strike. As the got closer and closer, once more everything Thomas possessed surged forward from the lance, aiming for the opponent's upper torso. The next thing Thomas knew, he was at the end of his lane, his vision uninhibited by the metal of a helmet. He could once more feel the breeze on his face. Warm. Warm liquid washed over Thomas' face. Where was he? He seemed to be on his back, but he wasn't on the ground. As he felt hands prodding at him, he sat himself up. He had been struck well, and fierce. His white plume decorated helmet now decorated the dirt of the runway, forcing a squire to run out and fetch it. Thomas had been knocked unconscious for a moment, and had a small cut on his forehead, but besides that he was fine. Thomas, after a moment of self-recovery, he turned his head back to his opponent, to witness the damage he had dealt, if any.

Ansell felt practically lifted from his saddle by the impact. Both of them hadn't budged an inch to ensure that their lances struck true, and to say that much was an understatement. He reeled in his seat, nearly toppling as his horse proceeded to the end of the line. Still, he pulled himself up and recovered, shaking from the hit and the resulting adrenaline rush. He looked at his hand, unable to feel through the gauntlet, and saw that his lance had broken down to the hilt, that made them about even then, as he heard no victory trumpeting going on behind him. He took his spot at the ready line as preparations were made for the next round. He was re-harnessed, and handed a new lance for the second tilt. He saw that he had taken his opponents helmet off somehow. That was unfortunate, reflected poorly upon him in particular but he doubted that he had missed, his opponent was both skilled and unlucky enough to have deflected the lance, in this case into his face. Well, he'd seen a strike like that end far more gravely, and was grateful that they could continue with scandal. He checked his new lance briefly, bearing down and preparing to go when the trumpets called.

A disbelieved shock filled the crowd in a harsh gasp, and Gareth grimaced, winced almost, as if he had been struck himself. That was a painful blow to watch, but Thomas wasn't done yet. The knight still seemed to have some fight in him, and he hadn't lost yet. Gareth prayed in the name of the Essence of Hope that next charge wouldn't so easily take Thomas back, that Thomas would lay an equal or stronger blow on his opponent if his opponent weren't already thrown off. 'Come, Thomas, strike him...' His calculating azure eyes looked down the lane to check on the opponent. He wanted to see Ansell go down, to the dirt, off his horse, he wanted Thomas to claim victory. Thomas could recover from a scratch, he'd seen the scars, and he believed that the next charge would truly reveal the victor.

Thomas, still shaky and hardly even able to feel his body, was handed his helmet, plopped right into his hand by a squire. He dutifully placed the helmet over his head, and took a new lance that was handed to him. Thomas shook himself for a moment, wondering when he'd be able to feel again, and righted himself. As he put the lance in it's cradle, the trumpets blew, and Thomas was the first off the line this time. Spurned by the hit, and spurned by the desire to repay his debt to the knight he was facing, he charged forward, raising his lance to slam into the upper left part of the knight's torso. Thomas' white cape billowed in the wind behind him, as he charged forward, before flying off his armor, no doubt loosened by the previous hit. Before Thomas thrusted his lance this time, he tilted his body slightly to his right. His hit wouldn't be knocking any man off his horse, but he was much more likely to have the opponent's lance glance of his arm, rather than break on his chest. The first tilt left the match to 1 broken lance to 1 broken lance, but if Thomas could break his lance while preventing his opponent from breaking his own, which would leave the score in Thomas' favor. Not nearly as impressive as unhorsing his opponent, but Thomas didn't win as many tournaments as he did by going for the sweetest victory.

Benedict surged forward as the tilt, began, leaning into his strike and bracing everything he could. His concern for strategy had left, and he was mostly concerned with planting a solid enough blow to throw his opponent. His lance caught, bowed, and in a moment of pure clarity, sprung free down the side of the man's titled body as his opponents lance seared into his braced shoulder, shattering and again sending the man spinning and reeling his saddle. Even his horse bowed slightly under the impact, slowing a bit before regaining its usual pace. Ansell pulled himself up, barely managing to keep his balance, but the trumpets calling the match told the tale. His lance remained unbroken, and he knew full well that his opponent had broken out a win against him. A fighting match, to be sure. The trained response, he bowed slightly on his horse to the victor before his squires led his horse away from the runway and off to his tent. The first bracket of the joust had concluded, and workers took to the field to prepare it for the first round of the melee, which would begin soon. A man with a horn began to speak from the stands, for the whole crowd to hear. "Sir Thomas to take the victory and advance in his bracket! Dear guests, we break now for a moment, to begin the first melee bracket here within the hour. Ready yourselves."

Thomas smiled as he stepped off his horse, and as he did so, he removed his helmet. Blood had smeared over the top portion of his face, but he couldn't been happier. He was going to be in the finals against the winner of the other bracket group. Thomas handed his helmet to a squire, and tossed his broken lance on the ground. Thomas then raised both of his hands into the air, and cheered. While he was slightly sore, he was also happy to be in the finals. Thomas scanned the stands of the audience, looking for Gareth. Once he found Gareth, he pointed up at the young man, a beaming smile on Thomas' face. Thomas' horse was led away, and his cape that had been blown off his back was brought back to him, which he dutifully clasped back onto himself.

Jezin and Sophia arrived just in time to see the end of the last joust. Jezin smiled. It seemed Thomas was doing quite well in the joust. An announcer's voice rang out over the field. It seemed the first melee match would begin soon. Jezin wondered if he would fight so soon. He was ready. No matter who he faced he felt he could pull out a victory. As long as he had the support of his country and his princess he was untouchable as far as he was concerned. Sofia gave Jezin one last nod as she made her way to the stands. She noticed Gareth, the young man she had met at the feast, and took a seat next to him. "Hello there, Gareth, wasn't it? I hope I haven't missed to much of the tournament." She smiled brightly. Truthfully, she was still worried about the fighting.

Gareth smiled at Thomas in reply and his hand gestured in the direction of the tent. "Ah, yes, Sophia." He tipped his head to her. "Good to see you. I hope you don't mind me slipping away, though. I will return in time for the melee!" He rushed his explanation, then dashed off for the tent, with a grin on his soft features. When he made it there, Thomas had yet to arrive, thus he waited, still smiling as he bounced on his heels with his hands clasped behind his back. They had time to speak before the melee, he hoped.

Thomas watched at Gareth sprinted for the his tent, so as to meet Thomas once he was done. Thomas, after sorting some things out with his squires, quickly made his way to the tent. Blood still smeared on his face, he entered the tent, with a smile akin to that of a boy who had just received a ton of candy. Thomas was filled with the same excitement he had felt when he first started jousting when he was 14, "Well, what'd you think?" Thomas said, his beaming smile turning to a huge grin. He was still sore, especially after the huge hits he had taken, but he didn't care for now. He was going to be participating in the finals. Thomas started to take his arm off, so that he could breath easy once more.

Jon Easten clapped slightly as the knight known as Sir Thomas won the match. He wasn't too impressed with the match. The knights fought too smart and too concerned with winning. If Thomas had been out there, he would of gone for the unhorsing on Sir Ansell. Jon Easten watched from the stands as the prepped the field for the melee. Jon secretly hoped he'd be paired up against Sir Thomas, so that he could put the knight in his proper place, although, he'd take any opponent he could get. This was Jon's first step on a road of proving himself.

"It was wonderful!" Gareth felt like an eager child again, but his happy expression turned down into a worried one when he saw the blood on Thomas's face. "Here, um, please, sit down." He dampened a rag in a bucket of water on the floor, presumably left for participants to clean their wounds, and using it for its intended purpose, he wiped it across the wound, hoping the blood wouldn't continue flowing. A smile reached his lips again. "Much better." He seemed glad, and a sweet tone took its place in his words to match. "Oh, my, you made it into the finals. I do hope you hold out victory over this tournament."

Thomas smiled, as he watched worry spread over Gareth's face. He dutifully sat down, but he knew the wound was not a serious one. It was just a mere cut. Once the blood was wiped away, it was revealed the cut had stopped bleeding already, "Thank you, I appreciate your concern, Gareth." Thomas replied, with a smile, as he relaxed in the chair he had sat in, "I'm sure I can win the finals. If Redwyne Cole makes it to the finals, it'll be an interesting match, but I'm sure I can prevail." Thomas said, as he finished removing his armor, opting to leave on his padded tunic, while taking off the plate armor and chain mail, "I'm glad we're friends." Thomas said, with another smile. While Thomas had a lot of friends in the capital, Gareth was different in the aspect that he was apart of the same race Thomas was, which was somewhat special to Thomas. Thomas rubbed his collarbones, slightly, knowing they would be extremely bruised from Sir Ansell's hit.

"It is only what is right." Gareth affirmed his hospitality, as he felt Thomas, like many others, deserved that sort of caring treatment. He softly smiled back at Thomas. "Yes, in his age, I'm sure besting him, though no small feat, won't prove intensely hindering to a man of your caliber." Sweet was Thomas to Harker, and he liked the idea of a blooming friendship between them as much as Thomas did. "Are you in the melee?" Gareth hoped Thomas's answer would be a no, for he wanted to buy Thomas some time to relax and rehabilitate himself before more fighting ensued. He watched the knight's hands with concern while they rubbed the knight's collarbone. Without a doubt, Harker knew that Morgan had some sort of painful injury there.

Thomas nodded, indicating he was in the melee, "I won't be fighting until after the next round of jousts. They'll do one match of the melee, then do two rounds of the joust, then once more do a round of melee. I won't be fighting in the melee for a while." Thomas replied, with a smile. "Don't worry, I have plenty of time to rest, and this isn't my first tournament." Thomas added, with a small chuckle. He never had time to relax, as of late, and sitting here relaxing in a chair, enjoying the company of Gareth, was the closest he had gotten to complete relaxation for a while now. Thomas stood up slightly, before going straight back down in his chair. Thomas almost smiled to himself as he did so. He was still a little too sore to move, a growing sign that the 20 years of tournament had taken a severe physical toll on his body. Maybe Gareth was right, relaxation would be a must if Thomas was too win the tournament.