[center][h1][color=silver]Recruitment[/color][/h1]

[i][color=silver]Ser Quentyn "Fireball" Ball[/color][/i]
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	From a roll of bone, rose a raucous roar, followed by a drunken curse. A short ride from Summerhall, the castle town’s inns hosted a great number of expectant knights and tourney attendees, packing the taverns full to bursting. Ale flowed free, and gambling ran hot as men tested their fortunes on games of dice and tiles. Here, amidst the rough folk, far afield from the suffocating mask of the castle grounds, famed hero Ser Quentyn Ball, oft named Fireball bounced a half-dressed tavern maid on his knee. Wielding a rapidly draining tankard of best brown ale in his four fingered left hand, he tossed carven bone di in his other, all drunken mirth and wild as a youthful buck. A distant picture of the chivalrous knight ladies dreamed of from the fables, Fireball demonstrated himself more than willing to fraternize with these men, and banter with the best of them. Surrounded by over a score of hedge knights and squires he played a competitive game, finding many to be far more a match than those he faced in the Targaryen court. Losing a particularly costly round he tossed away his unlucky bones reaching for his tankard and downing the half pint in one go, letting the alcohol carry away the worries of lost silver lining the pockets of more skilled players. The comfortable atmosphere helped him relax, relieving the dark thoughts that had plagued his mind these past years. The scent of roasted pork, the cheery repartee of good company, and the gentle warmth of a beautiful woman occupying his lap. All worked to loosen his tongue and share tales of his youth, not that it took much loosening.

	“Where was I? Oh aye. There I was, in the midst of that Dornish ambush near abouts Kingsgrave, a few leagues south of the marches. Naught but a broken lance in hand and a dirk in my belt. A boy of ten and four, and lost in the moment of it all. Never seen anything quite like it. There were near two hundred Dornish riders, all dressed up in orange and green and purple, fast as deer and fierce as lions. Part of Lord Yronwood’s vanguard. They snuck around our outriders and fell on our flanks, scattering the footmen reserves to the winds, leaving none but the three Kingsguard and ten knights to defend the King. His honor guard, and all that was left to see him through that fateful hour. What a day for the songs it was. Every man there fought like the Warrior himself, all while the greater battle raged below the ridge. I remember Ser Grell wielding his mace in a bloody dance. Ser Swann, whose axe alone claimed three Dornishmen, and whose horse slew a fourth. I was squiring for Ser Farman of the Kingsguard, and no greater man could a boy hope to squire for. He was a blur of blade and cloak, soon more red than white. The seven hells were packed in the evening hours, and many met the Stranger with the name Farman on their lips. He slew six Dornishmen and his lance had shattered on the last. He rode to me and demanded another, and he rode out again. Not hesitating or fearing death for a moment.” Fireball’s eyes were distant, lost in the memory of a battle long passed. He drew again from his drink, watching as his opponent rolled dice, once and again. Knowing he was keeping the eager spectators in suspense he continued his tale, his voice growing ever more somber. Fireball could weave an excellent yarn, and his deep baritone wielded an inviting tone that drew the listener in. The men about him were hushed, enamored by this retelling. Leaning forward they hung onto every word as if it were gospel from the High Septon himself. “He met his fate with the seventh man he faced… Baleysh the Vast they called him, descended of giants they said and I would believe it. Dornishmen should not grow that tall and strong, but he did. And he felled brave Ser Farman in a single blow, cleaving the white helm in twain. I cried out as my knight perished, whether of fear or anger I remember not. The good knight must have been dead before he struck the ground so deep set was the giant’s axe.  When Ser Farman died the line was broken not but for a second, closed again by the whirling melee, yet it was enough for the giant to slip through and advance upon the King himself. Aegon, fearless noble Aegon would not be intimidated, but even a dragon proved little match for such a foe. He was knocked from his horse and disarmed. Baleysh was on him in a heartbeat, to capture or kill I cannot say. Perhaps he fancied himself a king slayer, mayhap all he desired was the glory of forcing the King to yield. Whatever his intentions, it was not his day for such a prize.”

	“What happened next?” A squire asked, utterly enraptured by the narrative. No doubt he already knew, this one was a popular story for young lordlings eager to imagine themselves on a distant battlefield, the last line of defense for the King himself. Such were the childhood fantasies of young men, whose minds were all of battle and blood. To hear it from Fireball himself though who lived those very acts of valor, that was worthy of its own story and Fireball was more than happy to oblige them, eventually.

	“I intervened.” He said with a grin. Ignoring the impatient groans of his audience he tapped a copper coin on the table calling for another drink. “Storytelling is thirsty work.” He protested as a few of the rowdier patrons jostled him to continue.

	“Best save your coin.” One of his dice opponents chuckled as he rolled well once again. “You’ll owe it all to me soon enough.”

	Waving their protests and jabs away Fireball tortured them for a minute more until his tankard was filled and the maid was paid. “Alright, alright let’s see… I recall it well, the lance Ser Farman handed me had shattered in such a way that it left a jagged point. Even as the king fell from his steed, I forgot all reason of self-preservation and ran the giant’s horse through. Straight into its hearts. I was strong, even as a boy and the wood bit deep. What a powerful destrier it must have been, a shame it had to die. It launched the giant up into the air, away, away with its death throes and he fell. I swear upon the Father it caused the earth itself to tremble when he crashed upon the dirt. Up he came with a roar like a lion, barely a heartbeat after he fell as if it hadn’t happened at all. He rose in a fury unmatched and raised his axe to do me in. I tell you true, I had no desire to die. I drew my dirk and made as if to parry his blow, and what a fool I was to think I could. The power that man possessed… Like the strike of a bear, it cut through the steel of my knife’s guard and took my finger, near enough my entire sword hand.” Fireball lifted his left hand to show all present, where a terrible scar remained. Unseemly white skin pulled taunt over where his left pointer once resided. The wound cast a spell over the audience, as all present gapped at it, trying to imagine the terrible scene in their mind’s eye. The desperation and ferocity of the mismatched fight, as a boy made his final stand against a terrifying foe. The evidence made it all seem more real. Fireball wasn’t done, not here and not in the story. His pitch grew louder, more intense and  triumphant as the tale drew towards its glorious conclusion.

	“I collapsed; my own blade driven into my helmet by the force of it. My knees simply could not hold me upright under enduring his wrath. He must have thought he had done me the same as Ser Farman, because he stepped right over me. Not a second glance towards the boy who had killed his mount. A word of advice lads, this is why you always ensure the man you face is dead or done. Underestimate no foe, no matter how small for death resides in carelessness. I freed my knife and cut straight through his breeches as he passed. A cock the size of my arm fell from him, and a spray of blood blinded me, and oh you should have heard him scream. You see, the thing about Dornishmen is, they love their fighting as much as they love their fucking. And when they aren’t fighting their fucking, and I had just made a great many women down in Sunspear very sad. For the giant was now a eunuch and bleeding like a stuck pig. Not that it slowed him down, or weakened him. A wound that would cut the fight from most men just made him angrier. He picked me up by the throat as if I weighed no more than a feather, intending to snap my neck with a twist of his hand. The Mother smiled on me that day, for after six buckets of blood drained from his sliced groin the strength faded from his arms, and I thrust my dirk beneath his helmet, straight unto his dark eyes. He died then, at long last and the day was won. The Dornishmen routed by a charge of Vale knights and the giant lay slain at my feet.” His tale concluded Fireball grabbed the girl upon his lap and kissed her and the men cheered raising their tankards in salute they drank deeply.

	“To dead Dornishmen and soiled Dornishwomen!” One knight called to a roar of approval.

	Watch your tongues, lest the Prince cut them out.” Cautioned another who had witnessed Maekar's justice.

	“Wait… I heard you used Blackfyre to slay the giant.” A squire protested when the ruckus died down and Fireball broke away from his woman. “You took up the King’s sword and defended him, lopping off the monster’s head in a single blow.” A few murmurs rose up as men considered their own favorite retellings of that day.

	“I lopped off a [i]head[/i] of his with a single blow,” Fireball jested into his drink, foam clinging to his red beard as he rumbled a laugh at the lad’s disappointed face. The boy’s version did sound more worthy of the songs, but rarely did Fireball exaggerate. He never needed to; others would do that for him. “Just not that one, and not with the King’s sword. Nay, I castrated Baleysh and he bled out. Near crushed me when he collapsed, but King Aegon pulled me out from under the corpse. Gave me a knighthood that very day before all the army, but I didn’t feel much the knight.”

	 “No? You had saved the King. Such an act is worthy of knighthood most would say.” Came the inquiry. 

	“Aye, that I did.” Fireball’s dice opponent was waiting expectantly. He shook the cubes, raising his clenched fist for the woman in his lap to blow upon them. The roll was followed by the expectant moan as Fireball’s terrible luck continued. He mused for a moment, listening to the crackling of the fire and the excitable conversation all around. The truth of it was rarely as pretty as the singers claimed. Luck more than skill had brought him alive through that day, fortune he should never have possessed. After all the retellings, with the events of the battle still burned into his memory and dreams, he could not fathom how he managed to survive. He could still recall the terrible strength, as the fingers closed tight around him throat. Blinded by the giant’s blood he kicked and fought to no avail. The desperate slashing of his knife scraping uselessly off the steel helm as he squirmed helpless like a mouse caught in a lion’s jaws. The wash of relief when his blade sank home, and the power in those arms suddenly receded like the tide as they fell in a heap of blood and metal. He shook the memory away like dog drying itself from a swim, a wry grin on his lips. “The truth of it is, while the King charged me to be brave in the name of the Warrior, I still stank of mine own piss.”

	The unexpected line brought a peal of drunken laughter as the men and boys rolled about on the dirt floor, unable to contain themselves at the thought of the legendary figure pissing himself out of terror. That would be a story to share with their grandchildren. It was no loss to him, and one day they might find encouragement in the knowledge that even heroes felt fear in those crucial moments. Fireball joined in on the banter as a few other experienced warriors shared the stories of their first battle. None of course could top slaying the giant of Dorne and saving the king, but that is what separated the wheat from the chaff. The ability to seize opportunity when it came, and Fireball did not waste a moment. Cheering for victories of all the men around him, no matter how small. Raising spirits and building rapport and memorizing names, he had always been good at that. He never forgot a face and the name attached. When the hours grew long, and Fireball deep into his cups felt his purse grow worryingly light he called off his game conceding defeat to the better players. “Away with you robbers, or I shall have no coin left for the lists. I exhausted all my luck years ago clearly.” He threw away the dice and took one last draw of his empty tankard, catching a few stray drops on his tongue.

	One man, a younger and cocksure fellow counted out his winnings, smug in his victory he bantered boldly with the elder warrior. “Say, my Lord Fireball, should I bet these on you in the joust? I assume your lance is better than your di.”

	“I am no lord, merely a knight such as yourself. However, on that final point you can be certain pup. My lance never misses its mark.” Fireball stood and stretched; his muscular arms crossed behind his head until the old joints popped to his satisfaction. He had lost track of the hour, and his family would be arriving soon at the height of the afternoon sun. Summerhall was a good half hour ride away and he wouldn’t want to miss them. “Save your coin for another, lad, I intend to allow some other champion a chance at victory this time. I cannot win every tourney, or else the bets grow stale don’t you know? No, these next few days I intend to relax and spend some time with my kinfolk, whom I rarely see these days. I’ve swung enough swords and lances in my day to sate my lust for such activity. Though I wish you all good fortune, and the Warrior’s courage and Father’s strength.” There were other reasons he would not be participating, namely he did not have the time. There were a great many conversations to be had, lords to meet, hedge knights to rally, but that he left unsaid. He leaned close, his voice lowering so that he only spoke to those present, the dozen or so still listening. His words lost their slur, and though his breath stank of alcohol his voice held a certainty you would not hear from a drunk. He turned his emerald gaze on each in turn, making them feel known and respected. “Lads, if you do want someone upon which to risk everything, I would wager every last copper on Blackfyre. You can take that, as the word of Fireball.”

	Straightening he adjusted his sword and kissed the maid one last time before swaggering from the tavern, steady and straight as an arrow, as if he hadn’t drank a single drop.




[hider=Summary]
Legendary hero Fireball builds rapport with a company of Hedge Knights, and sets off to meet his family arriving for the tourney.
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