The Merry Bowmen of Dale II - May be locked

[Maradir]

Maradir (in the middle) at your services, miladies.

[SilverScribe]

The Scribe boldly looked the newcomer over from head to foot, one eyebrow climbing high.

'Interesting,' she thought, then spoke aloud. "Mae govannen. I cannot speak for the other 'ladies' present, but address me by that title again, and it will be at your peril."

[Maradir]

"What would you like to be addressed as instead then?" Maradir asked, almost undaunted by the woman's stare. She was taking in his way-worn, though clean, dark tunic and leather breeches, the unadorned longsword at his side and the bow he had slung over his shoulders.

"Glad I could make it in time for the event," he said and smiled at Canamarth.

[Canamarth]

"So am I," Canamarth answered. "Will you be serving drinks only, or will you join in the competition as well? I know you can do both. And at the same time, if need be."



For the further proceedings -
I suggest we wait till the start of next week if any new entrants are willing to step up. If not, I am happy to do the honours and sort out who has actually hit the mark better than the rest. It's pretty easy. I'll throw a dice and get a number from 1-10. All you have to do is describe your shot in RP and call out a number (from 1-10, obviously) no one else has chosen yet. The one closest to the number I rolled will have hit the mark true. Will think about the rounds/elimination process later. Now, I'd be happy to leave the rolling job to rwhen who said she will not participate so that I can send my alter ego Maradir into the competition. Only if you're willing, of course.

[SilverScribe]

"Just call me Scribe," she said with a faint, fleeting smile, wondering to herself just how good he might be with the plain sword that swung at one hip. 'Archery',' she reminded herself mentally, 'you're here for a little relaxing archery, not bladework . . . '





ooc: Sounds good to me Canamarth, on all counts. I think we used the dice=-soring method once upon a time with Lys and it worked out pretty well . . .

:D:D

[Frelga]

Frelga return the Mistress Archer's courteous greeting, while stepping daintily out of her way. Or so she thought, before she found herself standing by the archery range. "Oh. Well... I am in no shape to compete with anyone here, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt to get some practice. It's been too long."

[Canamarth]

Another contestant!

Canamarth reassured Frelga that in these competitions, actual archery skill was just a minor factor. "Nerves is what it takes. And who has better nerves than a Rohirrim forced to handle nervous horses all day, huh?"

Contestants for our little archery practice so far:

Maeglin
SilverScribe
Leoba
Frelga

Entry is still open! And everyone is welcome.

Yeah, I also remembered that that seemed to work quite well, SilverScribe.

[SilverScribe]

Yeah, I also remembered that that seemed to work quite well, SilverScribe.

SilverScribe?? Que?

Plain ol' Scribbles will do :) . . . and Frelga, the Rohirrim are also known for their ability to shoot from horseback . . . you may have yet undiscovered skills, eh wot?

:D:D

[Canamarth]

Plain ol' Scribbles will do

Guess I need to get back into stride, you know. Dear, dear Scribbles!

Frelga can shoot from a horse if he likes to. There's nothing in the rules against it.

[Frelga]

OOC: Not to correct you two posts in a row but Frelga is a she.

IC: "Nerves are not a problem," Frelga replied, laughing. "I do have a small boy at home, and that requires nerves of mithril."

[Leoba]

Leoba laid her bow down for a moment, taking advantage of the ladies' distraction by the tall blonde youth to collect her arrows from the target. Her aim was passable but shockingly off what it had used to be; maybe it would have been better if she hadn't have felt all the while as though a hole was being burned in her back by someone's stare.

"Good to meet you, Frelga", Leoba said in greeting to the newcomer, as she returned to the line.

Canamarth was looking around, counting up the number of competitors on her fingers.

"I think you should count Dirk in too" Leoba added. "Even if I have to go over there and string his bow myself!". She winked at Lady Canamarth before sauntering over to where Dirk sat, still in his own little la-la-land. "Come on then, I can't stand it any longer!", Leoba said, producing a clean handkerchief from her sleeve and dipping it in the glass of water on the table, before setting to scrubbling his face clean until it gleamed.

[Canamarth]

Not to correct you two posts in a row but Frelga is a she.

You see what long absences from TORC does to your memory. Just don't do it. Sorry.

Hope to get back to you tomorrow. It's been a rough day at work and home.

[Khorazir]

Túrin (to the right) approached the range at a quick walk, almost a run, one hand on the quiver of arrows on his belt to prevent the missiles from spilling out, the other on the bow of ash-wood he was carrying over his shoulder.

"My apologies, ladies, if I'm late," he greeted the assembly with a slight bow. Then his eyes fell on the fair-haired man in the dark tunic, and his eyes widened in surprise. Then his face split into a broad grin.

"I don't believe it, Maradir!" he cried out. "I didn't know you were round here. But then, I should have guessed. Hm, seems I'll have to reconsider competing when you do," he added with a rueful glance at his friend, followed, however, by a smile. "Doesn't look like I'll stand much of a chance here, in such exalted company."

[The,real,Maeglin]

Maeglin casually strode out of the guildhall, dressed in more practical clothes meanwhile rubbing his hands together and with a sly smile around his lips. "I wonder if real dwarves are as useful for fireplaces as this dummy..."

His eyes went wide open when taking in the scenery outside the guild hall

"Well, this starts to look more and more like a real competition, nice looking serving wenches, old friends returning to participate and intesting targets..."When uttering the last words his eyes looked at the blond newcommer who had arrived. He then shook his head, reminding himself that blond elves or humans , or an occasional obnoxious dwarf were all well accepted targets where he came from, but they were not yet widely accepted at the surface.

"Greetings everyone, good to see everyone. The more the merrier! "

Ooc ; Been a long time Khorazir *hugs* Good to see you here again! Same too you Frelga

[Canamarth]

"Wonderful. Then I say - let's start the competition! The entrants are as follows:

Maeglin
SilverScribe
Leoba
Frelga
Dirk (Leoba said so!)
Túrin

After a second glance at the "ladies", Maradir has realised that serving them and shooting at the same time is too much for him after all. So he will just - thanks my dear but I wanted no olive with that. *sighs*

Where was I? Ah, the proceedings. There will be three rounds. In the first two of which, two competitors will be eliminated. - No, not by shooting them, Maeglin. - And in the final round we find out who the winner of this little competition is. So, why don't the contestants take their places in front of the range? I shall be the judge of who hit the mark closest to the centre."

The sound of fanfares startled the bowmen,-women and -elves who made their way over to the archery range.


OOC: Alright, now for the behind-the-scenes to make this work.

The contestants describe their shots in RP-style - with more or less uncertain terms on how they actually hit the target. Then you put down a number from 1-10. A number none of the other contestants has picked before. There is no particular order in which you have to shoot - just post when you pop in. After everyone has put down their number I'll roll a dice and announce the number (which signifies the "centre" of the target). The one or two persons furthest away from the number will have to leave the competition. If you have any further questions - don't hesitate to ask.

Ooh, I'm so looking foward to this - and am a bit sorry it took me so long to get this underway. Work's been a little intense this week.

[Maradir]

Maradir slapped Túrin on the back, almost letting go of the tray full of cocktails he was holding in the process.

"Glad you could make it, old friend. And no worries. I am solely here for entertaining the women... It seems like we have reversed our roles, doesn't it? The womaniser is trying his luck at the archery range and the ... you know, is trying to please the women. Interesting..." Maradir muttered and put a glass of vodka in Canamarth's hands. Apparently, she did not want the olive.

Munching on the offensive fruit he found himself face to face with a dark elf glaring at him. For a moment it looked like the elf was about to draw the bow on him, then he greeting everyone rather friendly. Maradir extended his free hand to the elf.

"Maeglin, I presume? Canamarth has told me so much about you. I am Maradir, a plain old soldier in the Steward's service. And the fop with the grin that has just arrived is on old friend of mine. Túrin, son of Húrin of Minas Tirith."

[Khorazir]

"Pleased to meet you, Master Elf," said Túrin, inclining his head to Maeglin. "If you grin because of my name, yeah, well, my parents do have that sense of humour," he added with a wink, before turning to Maradir. "I'll have one of those drinks you just served to the Mistress Archer. And I don't mind the olive."

[Maradir]

"As decreed by the Scribe, I only serve women. You'll have to apply to that beautiful elven lady over there for your drink, Túrin." Maradir pointed at rwhen who stood by the range, a little absent-mindedly watching the contestats take their place. "That won't be hard for you now, will it?"

[SilverScribe]

to all the Bowmen (and most esteemed and welcome guests)!



Scribbles watched all the comings and goings with her usual stony expression. At the Mistress Archer's invitation, she hefted her bow and checked that her quiver still rode easily behind one shoulder. As she passed Maradir, she spoke softly.

"I'll have two fingers of single malt, neat, Bowmore if you have it."

Continuing on to the range, she looked around. Seeing herself pretty much as first up, she found the targets and took her place behind the line marked on the short, sturdy turf. She reached back and drew a blue and silver fletched shaft from her quiver, set it to the bow and drew the large Elven longbow smoothly to full draw.

She sighted the target and let fly without hesitation. The breeze ruffled her rather unkempt hair as she watched her arrow's flight.

I'll call a 7.

:D:D

[Frelga]

OOC: Khorazir and Maeglin, I'm so pleased to be in the same thread with you!

Frelga watched what looked like a pair of old friends and a somewhat more intimidating figure that joined them. She was beyond been intimidated, however. She was mortified! Whatever in the world possessed her to enter a competition? With luck she could still remember which end of the arrow went first, but that was about it.

Stringing her bow took more effort than she remembered, even though it was much lighter than the Scribe's. The Rohan woman chewed on the end of her flaxen braid as she watched the peredhel pass the blond waiter with a glance and an order. He must have mistaken Frelga's fixed, unseeing stare for an interest in drinks, because he approached her next.

Frelga fairly jumped when he addressed her. She tried to speak without releasing her braid, sputtered, and felt like running for cover. Her cheeks burned and she knew that her face was about the color of strawberries.

"Oh, let me just get it over with!" she cried out.

Maradir backed away with a hasty, "As you wish." Frelga stomped off and reached the range just as the Scribe released her arrow. She didn't look at the peredhel's target, but the Scribe's form was so perfect, Frelga was certain she struck straight into gold.

Frelga stepped up to the line, nocked her arrow and faced the target. Without giving herself any time to feel her fright again, she raised her bow, drew and let fly. The thud of the arrow hitting the target almost made her weep with relief. As long as she hit something she didn't care what it was!

OOC2:
I call a 4.

Scribbles, if you don't appreciate the dashing Maradir, perhaps this fellow ought to fetch your drinks?

[Leoba]

"Come on then!" Leoba tugged Dirk to his feet. She then picked up his bow from its resting point against the table, leant it against her in-step to string it. And failed miserably, it being just too tight for her strength to master. Aiming to convey an air of nonchalance, she handed it back to Dirk, who followed her down the flagged steps to the archery range.

There, Leoba picked up her bow once again and took her turn at the line. She drew an arrow from her quiver and nocked it. She paused a second or two, just looking deep into the centre of the target, feeling where she wanted the arrow to rest. Then with one sweeping motion she drew the bow upright and the string back and loosed her arrow; neither moving nor breathing until it hit home.



OOC: 3 for me please.

If SB doesn't show then I'll write Dirk myself - he has been poked (he'll probably complain about the bruise).

[Khorazir]

Somewhat caught by surprise by the sudden start of the competition, Túrin considered briefly whether to approach the Elven waitress for a drink first or to shoot. He decided to loose an arrow swiftly, in order to have more time for chatting with the Elf who looked stunningly beautiful indeed.

Thus, he set his bow to the ground and strung it swiftly, watching the other contestants shoot, and shaking his head slightly. With archers this skilled, it was likely he would be out in the first round. He had never been an expert with the longbow, and he had not really practised for a long time. At least I can still string the bow, he thought with a wry smile.

Positioning himself, he drew the string a few times to accustom himself to the weight again. He had forgotten the bow required that much strength. Then fitting an arrow, he cast a swift glance at the target, and released. Without watching the missile's progress, he lowered his bow and hurried to catch up with the Elf.

OOC: 9 for me, please.

[SmaugsBane]

... maybe it would have been better if she hadn't have felt all the while as though a hole was being burned in her back by someone's stare.

( it was a bit lower, dear... )


After having been un-sticky-fied and unceremoniously hauled to his feet, Dirk stifled a snicker as Leoba attempted to string the bow for him. He didn't think it would be a good idea to either laugh at her, or to attempt any sort of humor in the stringing of the bow. Therefore, he solemnly wedged one end of the bow into a "v" created between the junction of two of the paving stones on the patio and bent the bow effortlessly, slipping it's string into place without a word.

He was led by the hand to the line by Leoba and took his stance, then mockingly reached over his shoulder to where his quiver of 10 black-fletched arrows once hung.

"Oh my, it seems I have no arrows. I suppose I shall have to forfeit," he shrugged.

His attempt to wheel about and make a hasty retreat to his plate and mug was foiled by no less than three proffered darts: Scribbles', Leoba's, and Canamarth's. Wisely, he chose the white-fletched arrow of Leoba and re-took his stance at the line.

Dirk nocked the arrow and then screwed up his face in clown-like fashion, feigning deep concentration with his eyes squinted and his tongue poking out and up as he aimed down-range.

Then, with a quick and deliberate movement, raised the bow so that he aimed directly at the sun and released the arrow with a flourish of his hand. He watched it fly for a moment, until the dart was lost in the sun's glare.

"Damn the luck," he said overly-emotionally, "The sun got in my eyes. Eliminated already," he turned away from the line, "and I was so looking forward to matching you, Mistress Archer, shot-for-shot."

He only took one step before he stopped dead in his tracks by the sound of an arrow striking a target. Apparently, his missile had arced like a great rainbow and fallen into the target and a nearly vertical angle. Just then, rwhen arrived and handed Dirk a fresh flagon of stout ale, from which he quaffed deeply before turning around to see where his shot had ended up.

"Nice shot," said Leoba with a sing-song, mocking tone, "seems you'll have to wait for the results and perhaps participate in the contest further."

OOC: 7, if you please.


By the way, nice pics, Canamarth! I like your haircut. I hope you won't be too offended if I use the Santa Nazgûl pic in my sig on Christmas.

[Canamarth]

[Pick another number, SmaugsBane. The 7 has already been claimed. Other than that - very nice shooting all around!
Go ahead with the sig pic. I doubt the Nazgûl in question has any objections.

Oh, just realised we are over the 2000 post count. Which means we have to move house now. Post in here as long as you still can. I'll start setting up a new thread tomorrow.]



"Nice shot indeed," Canamarth echoed Leoba when she saw Dirk's attempt at failing. "But there will be no extra credit for trick-shots."

She turned to watch Maeglin as he finally made his way over to the targets.

[The,real,Maeglin]

"Well met Maradir and Turin, I sure hope we can get better acquainted after the archery contest".

Seeing that everyone had taken their shots already he figured it was about time he would take a shot at the target. He made his way to the targets and took aim, but not before he gave Canamarth a reassuring smile, if to tell her he was sober enough to not be a danger to anyone

He carefully took aim, his eyes narrowing, trying to "call"the target and then he let the arrow fly

I call a 5

[rwhen]

Rwhen first checked to see that all contestants had at least their first round finished before she set out platters of roasted meats, steaming potato dishes, fruit plates, cedar plank salmon and two cakes, one italian fruit and the other pure chocolate. Then she made her rounds taking note of who was in need..

"Dirk, nice shot. Didn't know you had it in you, so to speak. Here is another for you." She placed a frothy brew down for the contestant.

"Master Turin, I do not believe we have met before. I look forward to learning more of you as the contest goes forward." She refilled the martini glass and left two olives floating in the clear liquid.

[b]"Maeglin, you seem to be dry. How about a nice chilled ale?" She handed Maeglin his drink and headed back to the counter where Maradir was making drinks for the ladies.

"sigh...it's like this every year. But one great thing is the tips. Flattery gets me a full pouch at the end of the day." The elf noticed that Scribbles, Leoba and Canamarth were looking her direction, surely they were checking out her male counterpart, so she headed back towards Maeglin.

"So, how do you shoot these little things anyway?" She fingered the fletching on one of his arrows. "Is it all that hard?" She produced a winning smile and then sauntered off to charm the other two males contestants.

[SilverScribe]

Scribbles, if you don't appreciate the dashing Maradir, perhaps this fellow ought to fetch your drinks?

OOC: Oooo you saucy wench you! Distracting me with That Hunky Lord Failon!! And making me feel guilty too . . . [/end ooc]

[Canamarth]

[Alright, I'll make an exception this once, Smaug's Bane... I rolled a 2.]

When all participants had finished shooting, Canamarth walked over to the target.

"Hmm. Closest to the middle, almost spot on, is Leoba. " Cheers came from the other participants. "Only a little further away is Frelga." More clapping could be heard. "Then we have..." Canamarth squinted at the target and found Maeglin's black-feathered arrow the next in line. "Maeglin." She beamed a smile at her knight. "Those people are definitely through to the next round.

Now, unfortunately Túrin's arrow was furthest off the mark." A round of pitying "awwwws" could be heard. "But then - I don't know. There are two arrows that are exactly the same distance away from the centre. Maradir, would you be so kind as to have a look?"

[Maradir]

"Awwww, Túrin. Had your thoughts with the elven lass already, huh?" Maradir hurried to get to Canamarth before Túrin could turn around proper.

Maradir and the Mistress Archer stood in front of the target, poured over the two arrows, squinted, measured and shook their heads till they finally reached the same conclusion.

"They are both the same distance from the centre. Dirk's arrow hit the target from a strange upper angle, the Scribe's hit straight and with considerable force. But the distance from the centre remains the same. Now it's your call what to do with them," Maradir winked at Canamarth and went back to serving drinks.

"Ah, Leoba, excellent shot. Would you like a shot from the bar to hone your skill to perfection for the next round?"

[Canamarth]

Canamarth stood, lost in thought for a moment. So, Dirk wanted to get out the easy way? Not in the Bowmen he won't.

"Folks, it's a pretty easy decision. I am not going to eliminate three in one round so this time, only Túrin has to leave the competition. Though I sure hope he'll stay to see the outcome and the ... sights." She smiled at his back as he had already turned his full attention on rhwen.

"So, contestants, get ready for the next round."