Boost Tatooine Doom-Joust Tournament

[Lodd Grimmin]

The endless dunes of Tatooine have witnessed everything from podracing legends to Hutt-sponsored blood sports, yet even the twin suns have never shone upon a spectacle quite like this. Seeking to introduce one of the galaxy's most brutal sporting traditions to a wider audience, Viceroy Lodd Grimmin has commissioned the first Galactic Doom-Joust Tournament, importing the famed Serphidi pastime to Tatooine in a grand exhibition of courage, precision, and controlled chaos.

Originating on the distant world of Serphidi in the Belial system, Doom-Jousting is a contest of nerve rather than slaughter. Competitors charge one another atop powerful mounts at tremendous speed, relying upon timing, balance, and the perfect strike to unseat their opponent before being thrown from the saddle themselves.

Though traditionally a dangerous affair, the Trade Federation has invested heavily in modern safety technology, ensuring the tournament remains thrilling while minimizing permanent injury. Merchants, mercenaries, Jedi, Sith, bounty hunters, nobles, soldiers, pirates, and adventurers from every corner of the galaxy are invited to test their mettle beneath Tatooine's blazing suns.

Whether you seek glory, fortune, or simply the satisfaction of proving yourself the finest rider in the galaxy, only one competitor will leave the arena bearing the title of Galactic Doom-Joust Champion with the Neimoidian Monarch soon raising the flag from his private booth in the stands, signaling the matches to start.

Matches​

Sevrin​	Vs​	Otto​
Ronhar Tane​	Vs​	Aurelian Sigismund​

Spoiler: Tournament Information

Tournament Equipment

Every participant will receive standardized equipment upon entering the arena:

• A scaled-down Tonitran mount, specially bred and trained for tournament competition.
• A Personal Force Field Generator with 50 Hit Points.
• An Energy Lance for striking opposing riders.
• A Blast Shield for defensive maneuvering.

The objective is simple: Reduce your opponent's force field to zero and knock them from their mount.

Combat System

At the end of each combat post, both competitors will roll the Chaos Dice Bot which will be hosted in another sub-thread:

1d10

The dice determines the strength of your successful lance strike during that pass.

Roll	Damage	Result
1	0 HP	Complete miss
2	5 HP	Glancing strike
3	10 HP	Solid hit
4	15 HP	Strong impact
5	20 HP	Powerful strike
6	25 HP	Excellent hit
7	30 HP	Devastating blow
8	35 HP	Near-perfect strike
9	40 HP	Crushing impact
10	50 HP	Direct hit! Your opponent is immediately knocked from their mount.

This scaling keeps most matches competitive while preserving the excitement of a rare one-hit victory on a natural 10. Competitors are encouraged to incorporate the dice result into their writing rather than treating combat mechanically.

Match Structure

Each match consists of three roleplay posts per competitor.
After the third exchange:

• Total the damage dealt by each competitor.
• The competitor who has dealt the greater total damage wins the match and advances.
• If one competitor reduces the opposing force field to 0 HP before the third pass, the match immediately ends in their victory.

This format keeps the tournament moving quickly while allowing enough room for dramatic storytelling and cinematic action.

Tournament Rules

• Competitors may use their own skills, agility, and martial prowess.
• Direct Force Attacks (such as Force Lightning, Force Crush, Force Drain, etc.) are strictly prohibited.
• Subtle Force Techniques are permitted, including minor pushes, pulls, balance adjustments, or similar effects that complement the joust
• Attempts to deliberately kill or permanently injure opponents are forbidden.
• Good sportsmanship and entertaining writing are encouraged.

Grand Prize

The champion shall receive:

• Payment of 100,000 UCs
• The prestigious title of Galactic Doom-Joust Champion, earning unrivaled bragging rights across the galaxy.
• A personal commission from the Trade Federation, which will design and manufacture one custom creation of the victor's choosing, built to their exact specifications

 

[Sevrin]

Tags: Open | Lodd Grimmin | Otto | Ronhar Tane | Aurelian Sigismund ​

Severin was not a wealthy man by any means. Truthfully, earning an honest living was not something he had ever been taught how to do.

He had worked plenty of days. Grueling days. Long hours beneath the eyes of his keepers, hauling, digging, lifting until his muscles shook and his hands split open. He had fought, too, thrown into the pits to entertain those who came to watch him suffer and bleed for sport. Work was not foreign to him....Pain was not foreign to him.

But credits?

Credits were different.

He had never done anything to earn them for himself. Never bartered his own labor, never chosen the layout of his day, never held coin enough to decide where he might go next. So when word reached him of a tournament, one with a grand prize large enough to make people lower their voices when they spoke of it, the prospect sank its hooks in deep.

The problem was distance.

The tournament was far away, farther than a man like Severin could simply walk on stubbornness and hunger. Travel could be figured out, he told himself. Somehow. Eventually. Yet 'eventually' had meant days spent taking odd work from the locals where he had been staying, chores at first, then heavier labor when people realized he could shoulder what others could not. Crates, scrap, or stone. Whatever needed moving, clearing, hauling, breaking.

Little by little, he scrounged enough credits to make the idea seem less like a fantasy and more like a door left cracked open.

When he saw the technology and equipment involved in the sport, the price of entry began to make a kind of sense. The machines, the maintenance, the armor, the weapons, the training grounds, all of it had a cost attached. A cost beyond anything he could properly fathom.

Upkeep, sponsorships, registration fees, travel permits… it all belonged to a world he barely understood.

Credits were still so new to him. Strange little promises passed from hand to hand, capable of opening gates, buying silence, and purchasing passage. He had once been worth money to other people.

Now, for the first time, he was trying to make money belong to him. Sevrin sought out the entry booth where he could pay his credits and take a spot in the competition anxious to see whom he'd be pitted against.

 

[Otto]

​

Location: Tatooine
Tag(s): Sevrin
​

​

At last a tournament befitting a knight such as Otto. Hosted and sponsored by such a notorious organization. Most important to the stubborn knight was the legitimacy of the Trade Federation as well. An organization with a longer legacy than most galactic governments.

The setting for such an event left a bit to be desired however. Tatooine was not a planet that Otto would consider particularly dignified. Additionally the fine grains of sand could easily find their way under his metal plates and into his joints requiring a thorough cleaning. Or he could find his paint and finish blasted away if caught out in a dust storm.

He found himself currently dismounted from his typical trusty steed. A sturdy mule droid that served as his primary mode of terrestrial transportation. Still Otto found himself flanked by his courageous squire. A humble LEP droid he has taken under his wing to mold into a chivalric champion of virtue and good habits such as himself.

Before he readied himself for the joust Otto’s hidden photoreceptors spotted his opponent. A tall shapely male, presumably human. He approached, his limbs moving in a stiff and inarticulate manner before addressing the young man.

“Greetings honorable opponent. I am Ser Otto of Pelegon.” He introduced himself and where he hailed from. An oceanic planet that was practically the opposite of where he found himself now. His voice echoed under his helmet with an unremarkable and mild mannered tone. The artificial voice and robotic movements belying his archaic choice of wardrobe and gear.

“I wish you well, and that your aim is as true as your heart, noble one.” Otto added as his comparatively small ‘squire’ nervously kept close to his side.​

 

[Aurelian Sigismund]

✠ Avenging Knight of the Empire ✠

Aurelian

Imperator · Lord Indomitus · Hegemon

✠ Directive ✠

Reconstruction

✠ Sector ✠

Lothal · Resolute

✠ Wargear ✠

Armor · Sword

Tatooine was not a world made for pageantry.

Its beauty was brutal rather than noble, all glaring light and scouring wind, the twin suns hammering down upon stone, metal, hide, and flesh with equal indifference. The arena raised in the dunes stood like an act of defiance against that wasteland; a ring of banners, durasteel barriers, merchants' awnings, armed sentries, roaring spectators, and carefully managed violence. It was vulgar, magnificent, and absurd in that particular way only galactic spectacle could be.

Then came Aurelian.

He did not arrive as a gambler, nor as a mercenary hungry for prize money, nor as some anonymous thrill-seeker drawn by the promise of speed and impact. His entrance had the measured weight of ceremony. A shuttle descended beyond the tournament grounds, its engines stirring pale sand into a brief storm around its landing struts. From it emerged a small retinue first: attendants in dark formal livery, a pair of silent guards, and a herald carrying no banner high enough to challenge the organizers' own, yet bearing enough heraldic dignity to mark that its master did not come as common spectacle.

Aurelian followed.

He wore no full war panoply, for this was not a battlefield, but neither had he dressed as a civilian. His attire was unmistakably martial: fitted armor worked in noble lines, polished but not delicate, with a cloak drawn over one shoulder and secured by a clasp that caught the suns in a cold flash. The design belonged more to a tourney ground than a parade square, more to a dueling yard than a council chamber. It suggested a man who considered refinement and violence not opposites, but disciplines of the same tradition.

He paused at the edge of the arena approach and looked upon the lists.

The mounts. The lances. The shields. The crowd. The ridiculous audacity of importing a Serphidi pastime to Tatooine beneath Trade Federation oversight and calling it controlled chaos.

A faint smile touched his expression.

Not mockery. Approval.

"There is honesty in this," Aurelian said, more to those beside him than to the crowd. "A straight charge. A fixed line. A clear opponent. No committees, no assassins behind curtains, no polite poison hidden beneath diplomacy."

One of his attendants inclined his head. "Then you approve of the tournament, my lord?"

"I approve of anything that remembers courage is not merely a word used by men too far from danger."

The attendant glanced toward the arena, where the standardized equipment awaited the competitors. "The organizers have emphasized safety."

"As they should," Aurelian replied. "Dead men make poor repeat competitors."

The smile sharpened slightly.

"But bruised pride is an excellent tutor."

As his name was entered and his presence acknowledged, Aurelian did not rush forward to claim attention. He advanced with deliberate calm, accepting the formalities of the tournament as though stepping into the lists of some ancient court rather than a commercial exhibition on a desert world. The crowd's reaction came in pieces at first: a murmur from those who recognized the bearing, then interest from those who merely recognized confidence, then the rising sound that followed any entrant who looked as though he might give them something worth remembering.

He inspected the provided equipment without disdain. The scaled-down Tonitran mount received the greater share of his attention; he approached the creature openly, one hand extended, allowing it to take his scent and measure his presence. A mount was no chair with legs. It was a partner in impact, fear, momentum, and recovery. Treating it otherwise was the first mistake of fools.

"Strong shoulders," he observed. "Good eyes. Temper?"

A handler answered quickly. "Competitive, but trained for the list."

"Good. A mount without temper is only furniture."

He took the energy lance next, weighing it, testing its balance, rolling the shaft once in his grip before setting its butt lightly against the sand. The blast shield followed, then the force field generator, each accepted as part of the game's compact: danger restrained, not abolished. The distinction mattered. Without risk, there was no sport. Without restraint, there was only butchery.

At last Aurelian turned toward the arena proper.

He had not come for money. He had little need of the title, though he would not refuse it if fortune and skill placed it in his hand. Glory had its uses, but it was not the whole of the matter either.

He had come for fun, in the broadest and most honest sense of the word.

For the clean pleasure of contest. For the thunder of the charge. For the ancient absurdity of two riders lowering lances beneath a hostile sky to see who could remain seated when courage met timing at speed. For the laughter that came after surviving something foolish. For the bruises that proved the body had been present where the spirit had dared to go. For the joy of reducing rank, doctrine, and reputation to one simple question:

Could he strike first, strike true, and remain in the saddle?

Aurelian mounted with practiced ease, settled into the seat, and adjusted his grip upon the lance. The Tonitran shifted beneath him, muscles bunching, impatient for motion. Around him, the arena swelled with noise.

He lowered his visor.

The knight had entered the lists.

And beneath the burning suns of Tatooine, Aurelian laughed softly to himself.

"Very well," he murmured, setting his shield. "Let us see who came merely to attend a spectacle, and who came to make one."

✠ Dispatch Directed To ✠

Ronhar Tane | Sevrin | Otto | Lodd Grimmin

Eternal Duty · Eternal Loyalty · Eternal Order

 

[Ronhar Tane]

CAPTAIN RONHAR TANE, TK-3301
TATOOINE
OBJECTIVE I: JOUST!

Doom-Jousting. It was, by all accounts, a rather old and archaic kind of sport, one that Ronhar had never heard of until recently, and one that he was fairly confident wasn't really practiced anywhere in the galaxy. It certainly wasn't on Mahporeem, which much preferred the high octane thrills of Podracing or the destructive spectacle of Droid-fighting. Yet, it seemed that Lodd Grimmin was determined to bring the sport back into fashion for some reason or another, which is why Ronhar had been invited to participate in the inaugural event that Grimmin was hosting on Tatooine.

From what Ronhar had read about the sport, it did actually seem like something his fellow Mahporeenians would have enjoyed had they had known about it. The principle behind the sport was simple enough: two contestants charged at each other atop an organic mount, aiming to either knock their foe from their mount with their laser lance or to spear them with the weapon's tip, inevitably resulting in a fatal blow. Such an exciting but dangerous sport would have done well with the people of the Imperial Remnant...had Grimmin NOT changed the rules to make the sport much, much safer than it might have been originally.

Now, each competitor had been provided with energy shielding and blast shields, and deliberately going for a fatal strike was prohibited. Ronhar would be solely aiming to knock his opponent off his mount, which in his opinion, greatly reduced the excitement one might have from both participating in and viewing the sport itself. Of course, he understood why the changes had been made, and in all honesty, he was quite thankful for them, considering he would be going up against Aurelian Sigismund , the great and powerful Imperial Knight. As an ally of the Imperial Remnant, killing him, even accidentally, would be a foolhardy endeavor, one that Ronhar had no intention of committing upon his acquaintance.

Still, Ronhar would need all the skill and courage he could muster, as he sincerely doubted that Aurelian would offer him any modicum of mercy. even if this event was no fight to the death. Ronhar sighed to himself as he made his way to the tilt, just being able to see Aurelian on the other side. Ronhar gave the man a nod of respect as he saluted him with his laser lance, and he and his Tonitran mount made their way to the start position, ready to charge forward as soon as Lodd Grimmin gave the signal to begin...​

Spoiler: Ronhar's Loadout

• Head
  • Helm of Authority
    • Rangefinder
• Torso
  • Tashai Coat of Coins
  • Mk 45 Protective Vest
  • "Kitetsu" Force Energy Cycler
  • Wampa-Pattern Industrial Exoskeleton
    • Miniaturized Smoke Grenade Launcher
    • Empty Automated Weapon Mounting Point
• Arms
  • Tashai Coat of Coins
  • Wampa-Pattern Industrial Exoskeleton
    • NZ Medpack Display
    • Retractable Vibroblade
    • NZ Pangolin Type 1/A Reactive Armor Plating
• Legs
  • Wampa-Pattern Industrial Exoskeleton
    • NZ MAM MkII Jet Maneuvering Gear
• Cybernetics
  • Mod V Cyberarms
  • Cyberlegs Mod III
• Weapons
  • Burnblade
  • Prototype Sonic Pistol
  • Mahporeem Acid Rifle
  • Model 216 "Big Game Hunter"
• Ordinance
  • Two Rhydonium Grenades OR Three Mk II Viral Bombs
• Medical Supplies
  • Carapace Knitters
  • ABC - Aerosolized Bacta Cannisters

TAGS:
Aurelian Sigismund
Lodd Grimmin

 

[Sevrin]

Tags: Otto ​

Ronhar Tane Lodd Grimmin Aurelian Sigismund

Severin seemed rather curious to see an odd droid coming over to him. He thumbed his pack straps and tightened them, offering the strange machine an odd look.

"Uh… alright, then," he said, looking down at it.

He wasn't sure what to make of a droid being his competition. Was it fair? He couldn't hazard a guess, but he supposed there were no rules against it. Then again, he'd never actually known any competition to be fair. Often, the pits of Sleheyron had been full of cheating, bought outcomes, and stacked odds dressed up as sport.

After getting ready, he mounted up and took a few practice rounds at the end of the lists, trying to get some minor feel for how the creature handled beneath him. The beast's weight, its stride, the way it answered pressure from the reins, all of it was strange enough that Severin kept his grip firm and his focus sharper than usual. He tested the lance's balance once, then again, letting himself learn the awkward marriage of rider, weapon, and mount before it could matter.

When the time came, he guided the creature into line.

 

[Lodd Grimmin]

From his private booth, Lodd watched the contestants arrive for the Doom-Jousting. He was disappointed by the few participants, viewing it as a sign that the Trade Federation's influence in the galaxy was fading and needed to be restored. This tournament was to be a key step towards that goal, with a champion being crowned and receiving a creation of their own design from the factories.

He did not know of the creature called Sevrin but they looked skinny and ill-equipped to handle the tough Otto as he looked down on the datapad for their listed stats to ensure that the crowd would be pleased with the selection of the warriors here today. They seemed to be as the betting stations recorded a record profit of 3-1 odds in favor of Sir Otto.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, and all delegates from distant worlds," the Neimoidian announced from behind his sun visor to the cheering crowd.

"Thank you for attending this remarkable event organized by the Trade Federation. Riders, you may begin your matches. May the force be with you." He gestured, waving the flag to signal the start of the matches, as the arena featured multiple zones. He reclined on the provided lounger, reviewing the details of the other competitors, Ronhar Tane and Aurelian Sigismund .

Both appeared to be Imperials, and Tatooine had never been particularly welcoming to them due to its long history of occupation. Therefore, he was not surprised to see the odds stacked against both competitors with them coming in at a 1-1 odds in favor. If he was betting man he would cancel the match in order to save his dignity but this was a contest of strength and he eagerly waited to see them crash into one another.

 

[Otto]

​

Location: Tatooine
Tag(s): Sevrin
​

​

It seemed as though his opponent was a man of few words, possibly even nervous or shy. If he was shy Otto could commend the young man for bringing himself this far. Crowds of onlookers could create plenty of extra pressure for a participant.

Giving Sevrin some space he backed away to his end of the arena and mounted the unfamiliar steed. He was more used to quadrupeds so he felt a bit higher up and reclined back instead of a more straight and upright position. A minor adjustment of his gyroscopic sensors and servo motors had him adapting well enough.

Otto wondered if two legs would allow the creature to steer easier. Parts to coordinate and control allowing it to turn on a dime. Not that it would matter much given that in this sport they would be mainly riding in a straight line against one another.

Bounding up to his side was Otto’s squire who had retrieved and held up the energy lance he would be using here. A similar weapon to his own personal power lance which he discerned once he held it for himself. With a blast shield in one hand and a lance in the other Otto believed himself to be ready.

Charging down Sevrin he pointed his lance in the general direction. Still getting used to the fit and feel of the steed caused his arm to falter some. Growing concerned that he would miss entirely until they clashed. Yet both of them made a contract, if only barely.​

 

[Aurelian Sigismund]

✠ Avenging Knight of the Empire ✠

Aurelian

Imperator · Lord Indomitus · Hegemon

✠ Directive ✠

Gallant Pageantry

✠ Sector ✠

Tatooine · Arena

✠ Wargear ✠

Armor · Sword

The attendants brought the mount forward with the care of men handling something that was not merely expensive, but volatile.

Aurelian watched it approach through the heat shimmer rising from the sand, his expression composed, his attention fixed entirely upon the creature. The Tonitran was scaled down by the standards of its own species, as the tournament demanded, but not quite so far as the others. Neither was the saddle, nor the shield harness, nor the lance that rested across the weapon rack beside him. A quiet adjustment had been made somewhere between registration and the arena floor, a practical concession to height, breadth, and the simple fact that Aurelian did not fit elegantly into common proportions. The mount stood a little taller through the shoulder, heavier through the chest, its tack reinforced and its stirrups lengthened. The lance was still standardized in power and purpose, still governed by the same rules as every other competitor's weapon, but its shaft carried a fraction more reach and weight to sit correctly in his hand rather than make a parody of balance.

He approved of that. Rules mattered. So did reality.

Aurelian stepped close to the Tonitran and placed one gloved hand against the side of its neck. The beast shifted, nostrils flaring, hide twitching beneath his palm as the noise of the crowd rolled over the arena walls in waves. He did not soothe it with soft nonsense. He let it feel him instead; the steadiness of his stance, the absence of fear, the command contained in stillness. A mount could be calmed, but more importantly, it could be convinced. After a moment, the creature lowered its head by the smallest measure, accepting him if not loving him, and that was more than sufficient for a tourney.

"Good," Aurelian murmured. "We understand one another."

The force field generator was fixed into place next, its field cycling once in a pale shimmer over his form before settling invisible around him. He rolled his shoulders beneath the harness, testing the pull, then accepted the blast shield from an attendant. It was broader than most, shaped to cover the line of his body without catching awkwardly against his arm. He slid his forearm through the straps and flexed his hand around the inner grip, feeling the weight settle into the familiar language of protection, angle, and timing. Last came the lance. He took it in one hand, lifted it cleanly from the rack, and turned it once through the air, not for display, but to learn it. Every weapon had its own confession. This one spoke in straight lines, in commitment, in the brutal mathematics of speed multiplied by mass.

Aurelian set one boot into the stirrup and mounted with controlled ease. The Tonitran answered with a hard shift of muscle beneath him, testing the new burden. He sat deep, adjusted his seat, gathered the reins, and let the point of the lance dip toward the sand while his shield came in close against his side. For a moment, he was still amid all the movement around him. The arena became narrower. The stands became distant. The suns burned white above the lists, and ahead, across the marked distance, waited Ronhar Tane.

Aurelian looked upon him as one knight might look upon another in the lists: not as an enemy to be hated, nor as an obstacle to be dismissed, but as the necessary half of a ritual. Without the opposing rider, there was only performance. With him, there was contest.

He raised his lance high.

The gesture was clean, deliberate, and unmistakably formal. A salute first to Ronhar Tane, then by extension to the field, the assembled witnesses, and the old logic of the joust itself. There was no flourish beyond what dignity required. The lance remained upright for a heartbeat beneath the twin suns, its energy edge catching the light, before Aurelian brought it back down and settled it across his body.

The signal came.

His heels touched the Tonitran's flanks.

The beast surged.

Sand tore backward beneath its claws and hooves as it launched into motion, first in a heavy bound, then another, then into the gathering thunder of a true gallop. Aurelian moved with it rather than against it, hips absorbing the rhythm, knees locked into disciplined pressure, reins held with enough command to guide without strangling momentum. The arena walls blurred at the edge of sight. The crowd dissolved into sound. All that remained was the lane, the opposing rider, the distance collapsing between them, and the thin line of decision that had to be made before bodies, weapons, and beasts met at speed.

He lowered the lance.

Not all at once. Not clumsily. The weapon descended into position with the solemn inevitability of a portcullis falling shut. His right arm drew in, elbow braced, the butt of the lance secured against him. The point aligned forward. His shield angled across his torso, not hiding him, but shaping the target he presented. He felt the Tonitran's stride lengthen beneath him, felt each impact through saddle, spine, and shoulder. The world began to measure itself in hoofbeats.

One.

Aurelian narrowed his eyes behind the visor.

Two.

He adjusted the lance point a fraction inward, correcting for the mount's motion, for Ronhar's line, for the minute violence of speed.

Three.

The tip steadied.

Four.

He chose his mark.

Not the head. Not the throat. Not some crude killing instinct dressed up as sport. The centerline of the shield. The body behind it. The place where balance lived and failed. He aimed as a knight aimed: not merely to strike, but to unseat.

Five.

The Tonitran thundered on, breath hot and harsh, muscles driving them down the lane with mounting force. Aurelian leaned into the charge, cloak snapping behind him, shield set, lance couched, every part of him reduced to the single forward purpose of the list. There was no hesitation now, no room left for revision, no strategy beyond execution. The salute had ended. The ceremony had become velocity.

Across the narrowing distance came Ronhar Tane.

Aurelian held his line.

The lance point remained fixed.

And beneath the merciless suns of Tatooine, the knight rode into the final heartbeat before impact.

✠ Dispatch Directed To ✠

Ronhar Tane | Sevrin | Otto | Lodd Grimmin

Eternal Duty · Eternal Loyalty · Eternal Order

 

[Sevrin]

Tags: Lodd Grimmin | Otto | Ronhar Tane | Aurelian Sigismund
​

Sevrin lowered himself leaning over the Tonitran's neck, bracing the energy lance beneath one arm before spurring the creature forward. The mount surged down the lists, kicking up sand behind its pounding feet as Sevrin sighted along the humming weapon and aimed its point toward the odd, armored droid.

They met amid a sharp burst of blue-white light sparking outwards from the clash.

Sevrin's lance glanced across Otto's energy field rather than finding any meaningful purchase. Light rippled across the barrier, and the impact sent a hard jolt through Sevrin's shoulder before their combined momentum tore them apart. Neither rider gained a hold upon the other; they thundered past in opposite directions, leaving disturbed sand rolling through the space between them.

A bright chime sounded above the arena as the suspended scoreboard updated.

SEVRIN — 5 DAMAGE
SHIELD — 45/50 HP

Sevrin reached the end of the lists and hauled his mount around, its feet carving a rough crescent through the sand. He settled the lance against his side once more, narrowed his eyes upon his opponent, and began lining up the next charge. He rotated his shoulder on the side that held the shield trying to work out the dull pain before charging forth once more!