Open (Himbo)dy and Soul

She had sworn to herself she would not be part of any event planning after experiencing perhaps the worst hangover she ever felt in her entire life two days after the after party.

And yet here she was, yet again, coordinating and delegating, overseeing the preparations of today's contest are set and ready. It would be an hour before the first main event, but already she could see many of her brothers and sisters-in-arms wandering about and taking it all in. She was glad to see many dressed in their finest, as there would be a prize for the best dressed at the end of the day. A maiden hailing from Astenvale Town had been overheard earlier that she would vote for anyone that ripped their pants just as a certain someone had at the inaugural contest.

While there were three main events, there also would be a fair few smaller events for all to join for fun.

Coming to a stop, Monroe observed those at the archery range. Her eye keenly watched those taking up a bow for the first time, and her perfectionism wished to pipe up with helpful notes before Saskia appeared at her side. "I heard rumours you would be participating this year, Syr Cathmore." In the dusker's eyes that gleamed gold, Saskia's usual mischievous flair could be seen.

Worry bordering upon fear struck in Grumproe's eyes. "Oh, no."

"You said man and woman and all in between are free to join, and I for certain, am incapable of competing when I have a sore foot!" The dusker lifted said injured foot, hidden beneath the lovely dress she wore over a white shirt. Before Monroe could look for a bandage, Saskia dropped her foot and hobbled on the spot. "Before you object, remember all the funds raised today are going to very good cause!"

Monroe frowned, blindly reaching for a bow and stooping to grab an arrow to nock into place. "Glad you are always looking out for me, Kerraelas." She turned away, drawing back the string and loosing within heartbeats. The arrow sung forth, sinking into the bullseye of the furthest target. All those that had stepped up to try their hand at a new skill stilled and slowly turned to Monroe, but she was already placing the bow back down and stalking away.

"You are to compete in the main three events, and I signed you up for the tug-o-war... I think you would have tampered with my bath oils if I signed you up for the wrestling, so I did not do that, but if you change your mind, I think you will have fun!" Saskia beamed, unfazed by the grump. "It really will be such a fun day!"

Amongst the many eyes which turn to Syr Monroe, at least one pair lack the surprise of their fellows… which is not to say they’re any less impressed by the sight of that maiden shot landing true. These eyes were in White Port on that night of ill moons; saw just how much target practice Cathmore had gotten in then. Enough to brush the rust off from her two years away, it would seem like.

Osytha moseys on up to a free space and lifts the bow there in her curious hands. Looks down range at that shaft taunting them all from the bullseye of the furthest mark. First try. No practice draws to get a feel for the bow — had learned everything she needed to in the same pull as she’d fired it. The dusker tries it for herself: nock, check wind, draw, aim at that distant speck of a target, loose. All within a couple of seconds.

Her arrow thwaps pathetically into the turf, a few yards shy of her mark entirely.

Well, that’s what you get for going up against Syr Monroe. Had Osytha actually expected any different?

She’s still there a minute later when Esota Laverock and Katie Donovan find her. The woman has hit her stride after a couple more calibrating shots, and is now reliably landing them within the painted circles. Yet to score a bullseye of her own, though. She’s also leaving that arrow of Monroe’s where it is; in part because it’s kind of nice to have little signs her sister in Dawn is back, and in part because Osytha doesn’t feel like she’s earned the right to touch it. Not until she’s matched that shot for herself.

“Os,” she hears Esota say as footsteps rasp up the grass behind her. No ‘syr’ there, not from her protégé. By this stage, they’d both probably find it too strange were she to start with it now. “Katie’s here. She's brought you-know-what.”

A glance backward reveals the weak-chinned, perpetual seething machine of Esota, and the much more meek, awkward countenance of young Katie the seamstress. Well, apprentice seamstress, technically. Back before Hvithelm forces burned her apprenticeship, and a lot of other things, down. Now she’s here, holding a big lumpy sack and a nervous smile.

“’Ow do, Katie love,” Osytha welcomes her — then, turns back to the range. The archery practice was more to fill time until her delivery arrived, but now she’s begun, she’s not quite ready to step away. It feels like unfinished business. “Ane more shot, sorry. Then let’s see ’ow et’s turned aht, aye?”

Nock. Account. Aim. Draw. Exhale. Loose.

Sometimes, you can just feel how right a thing is, even before you see the outcome. Osytha can tell the moment that arrow shrieks away; watches as that lonely shaft in the bullseye finally gets a twin. One of them the first, one of them the last. Dawn and Dusk together. She laughs to see it.

“Right. And… how many shots did it take you to get there?” asks Sotie.

“Sithee, that’s enow of thy bloody cheek, Esota Laverock.” Still has a bit of that chuckle in her voice as she sets the bow down, though. “We best be gettin’ on now, anyroad. Ready to show me thy masterpiece, Katie?”




“… you’ve almost— waitwaitwaitit’sstuck, let me just, hold on… there. Try pulling it through now.”

Osytha resumes her preliminary wrestling match with Katie Donovan’s creation, and after a fraught little tussle, the thing is at last donned. While the seamstress fusses over her to see what final adjustments might need making, Osytha gestures impatiently at Sotie.

“T’mirror, lass,” she urges. “Quickly — Ah wants to see et.”

Esota rolls her eyes and, picking up a tiny looking glass off the bed, angles it this way and that so Osytha might glimpse herself in its black-specked face. The knight peers back at that reflection slowly sweeping over her, an expression of awe swelling with each new facet it reveals. After a couple of seconds, she lets out a low whistle.

Esota does not seem to share the dusker’s enthusiasm. “This,” she announces, “is one of the most gods-awful things I’ve ever seen. And that’s saying something.”

“It’s certainly a very, um… unique commission,” Katie remarks, uncertainly.

Osytha, however, is beaming from ear to ear. “Et’s perfect,” is what she declares.

This is received with some scepticism.

“I knew I should have gone a shade lighter,” Katie frets, stepping back and frowning. “It doesn’t match your complexion at all…”

“Oh, that?” Osytha’s eyes fix on her arm as she flexes it, apparently still enthralled. “Sort of, adds to t’aesthetic, Ah reckon.”

Meanwhile, Esota’s scowl of apprehension deepens. “Were the nipples absolutely necessary, Os?”

The knight glances down. “Well, Ah wondered on that. But Ah thought et’d look kind of weird if they wasn’t there.”

The three of them gaze at the sewn absurdity.

“Yeah,” says Esota. “Weird. We wouldn’t want it to look weird.”

“I’m sorry.” Katie’s little voice, piping up. She stares at her handiwork, mouth covered, looking like she might cry. “I’ve never made anything like this before. It’s not— it really isn’t very good. I’m so sorry… if I’d just had a little more time—”

Before she can go any further, though, Osytha shuts her up by wrapping the girl in a big, cushy bear hug.

“Ah said et’s perfect,” she hushes into Katie’s ear. “An’ Ah means that. Now,” she goes on, leaning out of the embrace, “let’s go knock a lot of folks’ socks off.”




All in all, it’s not that long after Monroe’s almost bored-looking conquest of the archery range that she hears a confident voice address her from behind.

“Syr Monroe, Syr Saskia,” it drawls. Words delivered languidly, at ease; a bull hippo utterly unfazed by these paltry crocodiles floating in the water around it. And there, all slabs of beef and cocky grin, shirt barely holding together against its mighty frame — a most frightful visage regards her fellow Knights.

“Quite t’contest you’ve ’elped organise,” Himbosytha continues, sweeping her gaze over the festivities. “Thought Ah’d give you my thanks… an’ see if there’s owt Ah can ’elp wi’ betwixt events.” She coils her arms up, admiring the finely sculpted musculature that Katie has bestowed upon her. “Ah’m good at liftin’ things. Big things. ’Eavy things. Lots of things all at once. You need only say t’word. Dusk an’ Dawn ’ere,” and as she speaks their names, Osytha flexes each ‘bicep’, “’ave got you covered.”

The Knights of Anathaeum were supposed to help people around the Vale with magical things. Asher had come to the Monastery seeking aid on behalf of his village - but when he arrived, it seemed like the ancient weave-knights of yore were in the middle of a party. The smell of sweets and fried food and ale filled the air, which was good because otherwise it would have smelled like sweat and trodden mud, given the number of half-clothed people around doing acts of athleticism.

It looked like some sort of forestry festival, with wood cutting and log climbing and the like, which was not what Asher had expected. He thought knights were more into their swords and jousting.

He wandered up to a woman with a book and quill, who seemed like she knew what was going on.

"Excuse me," Asher said. "Do you know where I can--"

"Ah, you're here to compete?" the woman interrupted him cheerfully. "You're in the right spot, there's still some slots open for late sign-ups."

"I don't want to sign up, I just--"

"No need to be shy, dear! There's a himbo in all of us, tall or short, and I'm sure you'll do wonderfully." Keeping his mouth shut, Asher looked past the woman at the arena set up behind them. He didn't know what a himbo was, and so was unsure how to respond. "What's your name, dear?" the woman asked him.

"Asher Vanak-Duth, from the village of Wend."

A few scribbles against the book's page, and a flourish of the feathered quill as she nod to herself. "...and all signed up! The first event will be starting soon, you can set your things down and get ready over there."

With quiet resignation, Asher followed orders, wondering what he'd just gotten himself into.

"You look... agreeable." A casual remark tinged with a hint of suspicion.
Walter turned his gaze away from studying the landscape outside the carriage and trained it on his sister with a smile in the corners of his mouth.
"It is an agreeable day," he echoed, tone almost questioning her sudden shift after hours of quiet on the road.
"Like the month I couldn't get a hold of you because you were arse deep in those manuscripts - on homunculi, was it?"
"Let's just say I'm in a good mood because we finally arrive today. We're going to make contact with our formal colleagues. Meet new people." He tried his best to sound reassuring.
She didn't buy it, of course. "You. Excited about meeting people. Can you put my surly washwoman of a brother back, please, whoever you are that managed to possess him?"

He scoffed, and trained his gaze outside, quirking an eyebrow. "Oh."
"What, now?" Dolores leaned over beside him. Her forget-me-not blue eyes shone immediately. "Oh, you aren't trying to play me. There is some kind of gathering, isn't there?" She grabbed onto the door latch, not much caring for the fact that the carriage was moving.
"Dol. Please stay proper. We don't know what the crowd is like."
"Oh look, my brother's back." She gave him a half-jesting, half-determined glare. "Wally, I need air, else we will both become seat-shaped flat as the waters of Tefren bog during deadwind. I'm going."

*

She caught one of the Huntsmen, appropriated their drakehorse, and set off - only to return in less than half an hour, as the carriage was coming to a stop.
"Body contest. I've signed up."
He'd almost stumbled in climbing out. "I- beg your pardon?"

Dolores dove in, lifted a seat, and begun pulling out her clothes trunk.
"You know. Athletics?"
She could almost see all the doubts cycle behind Walter's unnatural eyes before he smiled and nodded with a non-committal 'hm', and let her get some privacy.

*

Dolores reemerged, in her own opinion, bloody resplendent. The blouse sleeves draped off-shoulder, doing little to hide the trapezoid or the arms when she moved. The corset, deep suede grey with silver briar flower embroidery and accented seams did not exactly shape or constrain her obliques, or tits for that matter - it struggled to contain them. With a dainty rim of the blouse peeking from the top of it. She was still wearing a skirt, but the best part about this skirt was that it was detachable.

With the corner of her eye, she could see Walter's grey-blue clad form seeking some sort of elevation with a shade to watch. Oh, let him, at least he'd get some time in the adjacency of having fun again. Catch some good looks, if there were men competing just as well. She was already in the win with her eye-prizes.

Hey, there was another woman flexing her biceps in turn. The lady of Thornhall rolled up with a wink and a gesture that had more with flexing a bicep back in solidarity than with adjusting any damn part of her braided updo.
"Good noon. Any more like you and there will be good competition."