Raimon told tales of forbidden liaisons and petty intrigues, some of which may even have been true. Perrin half-listened, scanning the crowd for any he knew - especially ones he knew he could best, and look good doing it.
"...so drunk that he slid beneath the table, loudly declaring that only a blind fool would hang a bear's head there, so Juillard grabbed the first thing he could, an enormous leg of mutton, and ..."
It certainly wasn't as easy as at the local tourneys, not that he expected any differently. The ground felt quite firm too, no surprises to be had there...
"...insists that the fish are mainly on his side of the river."
One damsel in the stalls caught his eye. She blushed slightly, but did not look away. Dressed quite fashionably too, he noticed. Not A Chance, interrupted his more practical side. She was sat among the high nobility, and a minor knight was lucky to even see her this closely. Still, he could dream, no?
"...gallops across the drawbridge, Berlioz is bellowing that if he sees him again, he'll have him gelded!"
Deep breath. A quick, muttered prayer.
"Raimon, my sword. Time to get on with it."