A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1429 - 1429: The Tournament - Part 7

"We will bar no holds, and limit no weapons," Oliver said. "There will be no tournament blades. After much discussion, we have decided it shall be thus. All contestants will be drawn out at first blood. Any who seek to intentionally mortally wound their enemies shall be disqualified. My men shall be amongst the field at all times, drawing out competitors that we know to be bleeding."

The crowd stirred far more at that than anything else that Oliver had said. Murmurs of shock were the principal emotion. "Edged weapons, sharpened to the fullest? Is that what he means?" He heard a mutter. "That can't be right! It'll be a bloodbath! A slaughter."

"I say again," Oliver said. "Any who mortally wound, or seriously maim, their opponents shall be disqualified. One shall not win on butchery. They will win on overwhelming skill. The mighty will need to limit themselves to a degree, but then, that should be no issue for them, for they are the mighty. This is a decision made in the light of the field that we stand on. We shall not sully Dominus Patrick's memory with half measures. We shall not change the heart of the battlefield too severely by limiting weapons, or equipment. We instead only intend to limit the outcome. Naturally, of course, the danger is still there. There is ever risk that you will lose your life fighting in this tournament. I would ask that you only enter accepting that fact."

Just barely, he seemed able to talk the crowd down. It felt almost like cunning, being able to use Dominus as an excuse in that sense. It felt as if, by invoking his name earlier, and declaring these plains a special place, he was allowed access to special rules and ways of doing things, and the others wouldn't be inclined to protest too strongly.

Oliver did note, however, that hardly a sane man in the crowd seemed to approve. Queen Asabel looked pale. Lord Blackwell's jaw was tight. Karstly was grinning wildly – which was never a good sign – and all the soldiers who were armed and seemingly ready to do their best in the tournament had affected a sudden air of the most extreme nervousness.

'Yeah… Greeves did say that we'd have a hard time getting that one approved,' Oliver thought to himself grimly. But he couldn't see any other way of doing it. He wanted the tournament to be as close to the real battlefield as possible. Though it had started out as something of a joke in its hosting, he didn't feel the need to allow it to descend into mediocrity. He thought it to be a genuine opportunity, and he wanted to allow the others to experience that properly.

"The first of the melee will begin in half an hour, on the field in front of us. I would ask that the warriors you will be taking part ready themselves. And those that wish to withdraw in light of the rules do so now. Now, I hand over to Lord Blackwell, patron of this whole affair."

Grimly, Blackwell walked up to the stage that Oliver had stood on, and nodded to him, his face tight with disapproval that he didn't yet have the opportunity to express. Oliver used that moment to make a swift escape, spearing the General a small salute, before he slipped back towards the crowd, where his Patrick men had carved up a small section for themselves.

"They didn't take it all that well, Verdant," Oliver noted quietly, once Blackwell had begun his own welcoming speech.

"Naturally, my Lord, that which is different will always bring with it a degree of scepticism. But this is far more in keeping with your character, is it not? As long as you have the opportunity to act honestly, I do not believe we have reason to cause complaint," Verdant said.

"I suppose, in the end, it will come down to the tournament itself. We can't have anyone die," Oliver said.

"There would be that risk with blunted weapons as well," Verdant said. "It isn't as if taking away the sharpness of a blade makes one immune to any head related injury. Perhaps, even, rules of this sort might make the whole affair safer, for it forbids the sort of extreme reckless combat style that would usually lead to those sorts of blunt-force injuries."

"That seems too optimistic," Oliver said, looking around him. He'd already told Nila of his intentions a few days before, so he didn't have to worry about her reaction. Naturally, she hadn't been particularly enthusiastic, but he'd managed to talk her around. The problem, he thought, would be getting Queen Asabel to not hate him for it. He'd seen the way her face had fallen. He didn't wish to intentionally wound her with his actions.

He scratched his head furiously, wondering what ought to be done. The ridiculous clothes that he was wearing didn't do much to calm him down, especially hearing the jewellery shake with each and every movement.

Soon enough, Blackwell had finished his introductions, to far more fanfare that Oliver had received. Oliver supposed that to only be natural. He was a man of the highest standing, and it wasn't as if his speech had been bad either. He delivered it with the sort of stern seriousness that one would hope for from the Commanding General of Stormfront's eastern campaign.

With the speeches' concluding, the soldiers were already set to gathering. The first of the melees would include a good deal of the peasantry. They'd attempted to roughly set up the different matches to contain the weakest supposed members first, so that they would at least have an opportunity of advancement. And also, if the disparity in strength between different members of the battlefield was not too severe, they hoped they would avoid the likelihood of too many injuries.

"If you are looking for Lady Felder, my Lord, I do believe she has gone to inspect her stalls," Verdant told him.