The Homecoming 19.

A Festival...

The games have got underway, and sir Percavelle Lé Dic makes his way from the massive castle that's been his family's home for centuries.
The heavily armoured knight makes his way down to the tourney field in the company of his niece Linara and other members of his extended family, and the nobility of the fief.
As they head down the road towards the busy field on this cool, but sunny winter's morning. People make way for the young lady of the fief and those with her.
And as they near the field, the former earl of Lé Dic, who is holding his full helm tucked under his right arm, sourly smiles as he spots someone on the field, taking part in one of the first events of the games. It's pretty hard to miss him after all.
"Look uncle" says lady Linara Lé Dic, the nobleborn girl continues with "There's your friend the big green fellow".
"I wouldn't exactly call that beast a friend" loudly mutters sir Percavelle Lé Dic, who sourly smiles again when his niece says "Come uncle, let's go watch him".
The nobleborn knight loudly sighs, then makes his way with his niece and the others to the side of the field where the first events of the games are taking place.
People move out of the way for the noble party, and the former paladin of the first rank in the order of Saint Mar-che spots the rest of the group nearby, also watching the event that's taking place at the moment.
Sir Percavelle, or Percy to those that know him, even though it's a nickname he deplores. Who is usually oblivious to everything around him, and that's on purpose too.
Spots the mercenary ranger, and temporary leader of the group, Riley Hait looking this way. The heavily armoured knight nods in reply to the head nod from the mercenary ranger.
Then Percy looks over at Dorc da Orc who is out on the field with the other competitors in his event. The former earl of Lé Dic rolls his eyes, as he knows this is a foregone conclusion.
The nobleborn knight might not like the ork warleader, but he'll freely admit that nothing will stop the large ork from winning the event that's just got underway.
"Hell!" says sir Galmot who is to the left of sir Percavelle Lé Dic, the nobleman who is the commander of the army of the fief continues with "He lifted that up with ease" followed by "I had always heard orks were strong, but i had no idea".
"If you're going to make a wager as others are doing" says sir Percavelle as he gestures around at those, both noble and commoner, who are making bets "I'd put all your coins upon the green fiend over yonder" adds the heavily armoured knight, who will freely admit that no one will beat Dorc da Orc in this event.
"I think i will" murmurs the army commander as they watch the strongman event, where the large ork from the polar region at the bottom of the world has just lifted up a barrel, pack full of rocks, with ease, with one hand.
The other competitors if they didn't struggle, some not even able to pick it up off the ground. They could barely lift it off the ground for a few moments. And none of them are exactly small, all standing over six foot, with a couple of big men over six and a half feet tall, weighing well in excess of three hundred pounds.
But none of them are a match for the weaponsmith from the wolf tribe of orks. Who in the next part of the event, does it with ease once again.
The watching crowd who have figured out that the big, burly ork who stands seven and half foot tall, and weighs over seven hundred and fifty pounds. Is immensely strong. Start cheering for him.
Which causes sir Percavelle to sourly smile. A couple of people who know the large ork's name, start chanting "Dorc, Dorc" over and over again, which a lot of the rest of the crowd start chanting too.
As he and his five fellow competitors in the strongman competition, each pick up an anvil from the ground when the sergeant at arms in control of this event, tells them to, then shouts at them "Go!".
This part of the event you're supposed to lift an anvil, and get it to thirty yards away, where a pair of soldiers stand at a marked off line of white chalk that has been drawn on the winter green grass.
Some of the competitors struggle to just pick up the heavy anvil, let alone carry it the thirty yards. Not so Dorc da Orc, who is drinking from a barrel of ale. Who puts it down, burps and picks up the anvil with one hand.
Dorkindle doesn't even bother carrying the anvil to the thirty yard line, he throws it instead, loudly grunting as he spins in a circle a few times on the spot, before he sends the anvil hurtling through the air.
The two soldiers at the chalk line thirty yards away, dive to one side, and the anvil goes flying over them and hits the ground a few yards beyond the chalk line.
The watching crowd loudly cheer, and start chanting the ork warleader's name again, as he looks around at them with hands raised to his sides, lifting them up and down, encouraging them to cheer for him even louder.
While his competitors, those that have been able to lift the anvil off the ground, have only taken a few steps towards the line thirty yards away.
The former earl of Lé Dic sourly smiles as the nobles around him shout "Bravo!" and "Hurrah!" as well as a few well dones. He shakes his head as his niece claps enthusiastically at the antics of the large ork.
The former paladin, who has been demoted to a knight of the third rank in his order, and unknown to him, is in line to be kicked out of the order of Saint Mar-che if some influential people in the government of the kingdom get their way.
Scowls as he looks at Dorc da Orc, who looks his way, with a large, not to mention, a rather smug looking grin upon his broad, green, feral looking face.
"Giant green buffoon" mutters Percy after the ork warleader and his fellow competitors in the strongman competition move away to the next part of the event they have to do.
It's a wagon pull. Where each competitor has to go against a pair of draft horses. They take hold of a rope tied to the back of the wagon. And pull against the two horses in the traces.
Competitors in this part of the strongman competition never win. Though sometimes, someone might get lucky and pull back the wagon a few feet, or a couple of yards. Before the large horses pull the wagon away.
This doesn't happen to the first competitor, who once the command is given by the sergeant at arms. He hits the ground face first as the rope is yanked out of his hands as the two draft horses pull the wagon away.
As the dazed competitor is carried away, Dorc da Orc who has drawn the second lot, steps forward after finishing the ale in the barrel he's been carrying around.
Sir Percavelle Lé Dic glances over at lord Milburn, his nieces grandfather, who says "That ork fellow is strong alright, and he might haul that wagon back for a bit, but i doubt he'll pull it backwards for long".
The former earl of the fief sourly smiles as he knows how wrong lord Milburn is. The ork warleader who has just grabbed the rope off the ground. Has more than one advantage in this part of the event. He doesn't just have the advantage of being immensely strong. He also has the advantage of having animals, such as horses, being afraid of him.
The heavily armoured nobleman sourly smiles as he sees how skittish the two draft horses are with the large ork warleader being so close.
And as the sergeant at arms yells "Go!" to Dorkindle and the wagon driver, and the crowd starts  chanting "Dorc, Dorc!" again and again. First one horse, then the second, rear up in fright for a moment, before they start pulling the wagon.
Not that they pull it far, the wheels barely roll forward, when it stops as the ork weaponsmith pulls back on the rope with all his strength.
The warleader of the ork race grunts, then turns around, and with an angry scowl upon his face, and the rope over his right shoulder, the large ork starts walking, going slowly, putting one foot infront of the other. As he does, he's swearing in the totally incomprehensible language of the orks with every step he takes.
Sir Percavelle rolls his eyes as Dorc da Orc starts dragging the wagon behind him.
"By the gods!" exclaims lord Milburn, who then adds "Hell!". While lady Linara Lé Dic who is busy clapping, cheers on Dorc by chanting his name as the commoners are doing.
"I do hope you were able to put some coin on that beastly fiend?" says the former paladin to the army commander "Huh?" says sir Galmot, who then adds "Oh yeah" when the sergeant at arms calls a halt as the two draft horses have lost their footing, and are on their rumps as the ork warleader drags them and the wagon they're attached to, behind him.
It goes without saying that the large ork easily wins the strongman competition. Which he didn't particularly care about until he was given the winning prize, which is his weight in ale, and an auroch.
Dorkindle has the wild like oxen slaughtered immediately by the cooks at the firepits, and has them cook the large cattle beast.
As the ork weaponsmith drinks from his many barrels of ale he know has, and waits for his auroch to get cooked.
Sir Percavelle Lé Dic and the other nobles make their way to the stands that's along part of the field. The part where the lists are, where the joust will take place.
As they walk there, the one time earl of Lé Dic finds himself walking beside the lady Hollis, the governess of lady Linara. Lady Hollis who is Percy's sister inlaw, well former sister inlaw.
"That ork friend of yours well and truly won the strongman competition" says lady Hollis, sir Percavelle  who is sick of everyone referring to Dorc da Orc as his friend, refrains from sourly smiling, and instead he says "That he did".
The two of them quietly chat as they and the others with them head to the stands. Walking a bit behind the former earl of Lé Dic, lord Milburn watches the heavily armoured knight and the governess in silence. Not saying anything to those around him, as he carefully watches sir Percavelle and the lady Hollis . . . . . .