Defiance Hill has been absolutely obliterated over the long cold night with snow. What was once a well defined square is now an unending topography of snow dunes that mimic whats beneath. Rickety wooden stands have been put into place under somebody's poor supervision the previous days and now Michael is standing atop one of them with fists pinned to his hips in quiet contemplation of the upcoming battlefield.

Lyra's come out for the first snowball battle of the Winter. She's wrapped herself up warmly in a long brocade coat that swoops down to the ankles and traps an insulating bubble of warm air beneath. Long blonde tresses are pinned atop her head and hidden from view by a sumptuous hat of arctic fox. Ice crystals have already formed on the longer guard hairs that halo her head, and her boots leave a steady trail of prints all the way to Defiance Hill from Byrne Manor. A hand is lifted to wave at Michael when she sees him perched atop the quilted landscape of the square. "Are you taking part in this yourself?" she asks with a slightly wry smile. She has plans....

Medeia is just arriving, bundled in layers of wool under and over her dress for warmth. There is a handful of guards behind her, none seeming bothered by the cold. As she looks around she spots Lyra, then Michael, and lifts a hand in greeting. She takes a few steps closer. "Countess, Duke."

Snow AND battle? Artur is so down for that! The Redrain prince approaches Defiance Hill with what can only be described as a bounce in his step. As he pauses to take in the sight of the fresh-fallen snow, he draws in a deep, satisfied breath and spreads his arms wide. "By the spirits, it's beautiful," he commends with a ready grin.

Standing by the door of the Badger Boardinghouse, Liam is lifting his eyes up to the snow before down to the scaffolding. His gaze noting Michael on it before murmuring quietly to himself, "That explains why I saw this going in. Now I understand."

"Lady Medeia Essswynd." Michael greets Medeia first because he gets to make her name sound slightly silly before turning to start to wink towards Lyra...except it just turns into a blink. "Well. Of course. I am the Compact's foremost knight and war planner." Courage fails him though and he begins to side-eye the Countess something fierce. "Good! Lord Liam. To me!" Because at least Liam won't abandon him to the pummeling of snowballs from the jealous. A frantic hand waves fiercely in that direction.

"Lady Medeia," Lyra smiles her greeting. "How lovely to see you again. It's been an age, hasn't it?" Gloved fingers pick a strand of escaped hair that's found it's way to the line of her mouth and tuck it back beneath her hat, her attention quickly turning to Michael with the return of his greeting. Is he side-eyeing her? He certainly ought to given she's brought back-up firepower with her in the form of four Byrne guards and two that might have been bribed to swap loyalties /just/ for this event. A respectful nod of her head is given her patron before she shoots a smile to both Artur and Liam. "Are you here for the fun?" she calls.

"It has," Medeia quietly agrees with Lyra, pointedly ignoring Michael's attempt to make her name sound silly. "We should not let so long pass after we defeat the men, hm?" Big words from a small lady. Her expression slips into a sly grin as she turns to look at both Liam and Artur - both unfamiliar. She dips her head and greets them, "Lady Medeia Eswynd, nice to meet you."

"Duke Michael!" Waving a hand up the scaffolding, Liam's boyish smile is lighting up his features, "I see you are up there. Why? Don't tell me it is to peer down upon us now." Laughing while stepping into the crunching snow, he is nodding to Lyra and then to Medeia, "Thank you both. I am, at least a little while." Rolling shoulders, "Lord Liam Riven. Knight of Solace."

"I heard something about snowballs and cider," Artur replies with a winning grin, by way of answer, as he wades through the snow towards the others. "I could hardly refuse such a thing," he adds with a laugh. Still grinning, he nods to Medeia's introduction. "Prince Artur Redrain. A pleasure to meet you, Lady Medeia." He arches an intrigued brow. "Are we doing women versus men then? That hardly seems a fair fight. You two look like ringers to me," he accuses in jest, squinting at the two women as if suspicious.

"I think they /are/ ringers, Prince Artur." Michael eases away from the pair of women now that Redrain Prince has joined them so he might lean over the edge to look down at Liam. "You've come to participate haven't you? We're about to start target practices before chaos reigns. SET UP THE TARGETS!" The call sends a few people scurrying out into the field to plunk down paintings held up by sticks. They are portraits of people and Michael's is the first one set up. Then others of notable or less than notable Arx nobles. A guildmistress Caprice. A Marquessa Mia painting is out there as well.

"Countess Lyra Byrne," Lyra introduces herself to both Artur and and Liam. "It is good to meet you, your Highness, Lord Riven." She bends to scoop up a little snow between her hands as she speaks, forming it into an irregularly-shaped ball that she works hard to round off. A glance to Medeia, and a grin at Artur's comment. "Not a fair fight? You should never underestimate the unknown. I learned this recently first-hand." She pat-pat-pats away at the snow in her hands, one brow lifting as the targets are brought out and plunked down. The huff of her breath when exhaled is visible in the air. "Really? Targets?" The snowball in her hand is tossed from one to the other, then without apology she turns and /pelts/ it in Michael's direction.

Lyra checks dexterity and athletics at normal. Lyra marginally fails.

"My lord, Your Highness," Medeia nods to Liam and Artur, and then grins aside at Lyra. While the countess explains to not underestimate the unknown, she's already crouched down and scooping some snow between her hands to compress it into a ball. The women seem to have the same idea, her own snowball hurtling toward Michael within a second of Lyra's.

Medeia checks dexterity and athletics at normal. Medeia is successful.

Marigold, a cheeky pygmy goat, Barf, the Bog Dog arrive, following Amari.

"Lovely to meet you both." Smiling broadly to Lyra and Medeia, Liam is soon lifting his eyes to Michael. "I would but I need to ready things back in my room still. The Marquessa has left me a package to sort through." His hand turning to make a fist over his head before bowing to those gathered, "So I shall have to stand by the sides and cheer for you from the window." Stepping through the crunching snow, passingly to nobody in particular, Liam shares, "The target is not what Michael drew. It is the Duke himself. Hundred thousand silver if you catch him."

"Nice to meet you all, and pelt you mercilessly with snowballs," Artur responds to the introductions. "Oh, I would _never_ underestimate the unknown," he replies with mock-solemnity, bowing his head soberly. "Lost many a good man to a rogue snowball." He looks up again as the two women each pelt one towards Michael, watching with eager, amused interest. "Oh! You fight dirty! What fun!" he laughs approvingly, scooping up a handful of snow himself and quickly working it into a round shape, lest they catch him unarmed! "Oh no! Man down!" he cries melodramatically as Liam takes his leave.

Of course Lyra's snowball misses Michael rather completely. But he gets to watch it sail past his head with consternation. This is rapidly getting out of hand. He'll turn to look back towards Lyra with a scowl, "How very unsports.." only to catch Medeia's snowball full in the face and fall backwards against the rather shaky railing....then to topple back and over it to poof into the snowbank below.

Did Amari even intend to walk into a snowball fight? Maybe? She's here now though, so naturally she stops to watch, at the very least. In one gloved hand is the leash for a very big and smelly dog, and the lead to a hilariously small goat. The latter is wearing a very fetching green knit sweater of sorts. If the dog ever was, he isn't now. He may have eaten his. Spying some familiar faces, she lifts her free hand to wave but not too much. Just a little. Not too distracting.

Lyra's snowball whistles past Michael's head to the left, though he's not so lucky where Medeia's missile is concerned. She lets out a cheer as Michael disappears over the railing and into a snowdrift. "Another man down!" She's not crowing about a victory here, or perhaps she is, but she grins in Artur's direction before snagging Medeia's arm. "This way! You too!" That last to Amari who, though she's no clue if she's here for the battle or not, she's spotted arriving nonetheless. She points at one of the larger drifts which, even to the casual observer, might be noted to have been built a little higher. The Byrne guards are behind it, along with a couple of Bisland which /do/ look a wee bit guilty. Some are making piles of snowballs, and others are building the top of the drift just that little bit higher.

Medeia's laughter fills the square, thoroughly unconcerned about Michael's wellbeing. Or, rather, concerned but confident he'll be just fine. As she's caught by Lyra, she sees Amari and calls out, "Baroness, join us!" The

Medeia's laughter fills the square, thoroughly unconcerned about Michael's wellbeing. Or, rather, concerned but confident he'll be just fine. As she's caught by Lyra, she sees Amari and calls out, "Baroness, join us!" The drift is a welcome reprieve, the sounds of commendations being given to the Byrne and Bisland guards coming muffled from behind.

"Another-!" Artur begins to moan before Lyra beats him to it. He flashes a grin before shaking a fist in her and Medeia's general direction. "Oh no! They've brought reinforcements!" he commentates, as Lyra tries to rope Amari into things as well. Over dramatically, he _dives_ behind the nearest snowbank and elbow-crawls towards where Michael seemed to disappear. "My good man, do you require medical aid?" he calls out in a stage-whisper, clearly already deep into imagining this as some life-threatening military battle.

Amari doesn't shirk. When she's called to battle, she doesn't hesitate. Into the snow she goes, favoring one leg but making good time all the same. She even scoops up a handful of snow on the way, and tries to pat it into some semblance of a projectile. Dog and goat run after so she has to stop out in the open to shoo them back and encourage them to stay out of the line of fire. They both look put out by this somehow, but comply. Barf whines from the sidelines. Marigold does some kick zoomies to work out her frustration, perhaps. "Truce!" She calls out, so she's not struck before she can get to the snowbank where Lyra and Medeia have taken cover.

Michael's landing was soft with only his pride truly wounded. Thankfully, a large leather coat keeps him from the initial impact of dampening snow. Artur will discover Michael sitting up with a growing pile of *several* snowballs having been collected to lay in wait. Artur's appearance spurs him on to sling snowballs to where he /thinks/ people are upon the stands. "We should retreat to cover, prince."

Michael checks dexterity and athletics at hard. Michael is successful.

There's a very decent pile of snowballs just waiting to be thrown behind the girls' snowfort. The guards have been /very/ busy. "Fore-planning..." Lyra grins with the tap of one forefinger to her temple. She gathers up her projectiles, one for each hand, and pops her head above the wall. She barely crests the top of it before she takes Michael's snowball right to the centre of her forehead, and she stands quite comically frozen for a moment before keeling back and out of sight. "ARRrrRRgGgH...." Her cry is muffled.

Medeia checks dexterity and athletics at hard. Medeia fails.

"If he does," Medeia yells toward Artur and Michael, "He'll need pardon me for the vicious assault on his pride before I tend his wounds!" Because of course the double-crossing snow combatant is a physician. She goes to throw a snowball as Lyra is hit, distracted and launching the thing mostly straight up instead. It lands close by with little danger to anyone or anything. "Countess, are you alright?"

Artur checks dexterity and athletics at hard. Artur is successful.

"You're alive!" Artur rejoices when he comes upon Michael sitting in the snow. "And you've been busy!" he adds, blinking at the snowballs surrounding him. "Good shot, comrade!" he encourages as Michael manages to hit Lyra. Seeing Medeia stick her head out next, he leaps to his feet to toss one in her direction, before diving back to his stomach again. "Cover would probably be a good idea," he concurs. "I think we may have made them mad!" Thus said with a wicked grin.

Lyra shouts from nearby, "Duke Michael Bisland! You cad!"

Amari plunks down within the safety of the snow fort and tries to finish squishing a snowball together. It looks suspect. When Lyra is beaned, her eyebrows both shoot up. "Oh, that was vicious. Are you alright? This won't do at all for this sort of fight." Her not good enough snowball she hurls over her shoulder in the general direction of Artur and Micheal. She needs a better, faster, more potentially lethal one.

Amari checks luck and athletics at hard. Amari fails.

The snowball lands quite harmlessly in open ground, and it mostly breaks apart in the air anyway. It was a sad attempt.

"I am! Just enough that we might cover our own retreat." Michael's hands scoop up two or three snowballs that he might be able to carry with him. "Oh good shot!" Then he is rolling to his knees, up to his feet and staggering off into the cover of trees in a manner that is very conducive to throwing snowballs at. A snowball plunking to the snow beside him makes him skitter off sideways to linger behind a tree. "Follow after, Prince!" He turns and lobs one towards Amari since she must've been the one attacking them!

Michael checks dexterity and athletics at hard. Michael is successful.

Lyra has a bit of a red spot on her forehead where the snowball had struck, but she grins at Medeia and Amari after she's shouted at Michael. "No, no. I'm fine. I should have realised that anyone poking their head up would be an immediate target." She's gathering up snowballs into her lap as she speaks, her back pressed to the wall of the snow fort as retaliatory snowballs pepper the ground around them. "You. You. You..." she barks at the guards. "Draw their fire!" Merciless, she throws her guards into the line of fire so she can peek around the edge of the fort. "I SEE YOU!" she shouts at Michael and Artur as they sprint for the trees, and pushes to her feet to launch a counter-attack.

Medeia /squawks/ in indignation when Artur's snowball connects with the top of her head as she tries to curl back down behind the snowdrift. "Rude!" The accusation holds no weight as she delivers it through laughter. Seeing that Lyra is alright and in prime commanding form, she grabs another snowball from the arsenal to fling at the men as they seek the cover of the trees.

Lyra checks dexterity and athletics at normal. Lyra is successful.

Medeia checks dexterity and athletics at normal. Medeia is successful.

Amari does draw some fire, even if unintentionally. Micheal's lobbed snowball drops out of the air and more or less the back of her head. Since it's so hard, the snowball disintegrates in a shower of iciness that cascades down the back of her neck. An instant gasp is the result, and a shivery Amari. Also, a vengeful one. She grabs a snowball and hurls it after Medeia and Lyra have launched theirs.

Amari checks dexterity and athletics at hard. Amari is successful.

"Good thinking!" Artur commends, as he scoops up as many of the remaining snowballs as he can. It leaves him running more awkwardly than he might otherwise, as he staggers after Michael towards the trees, pausing every few steps to toss another snowball in the general direction of the opposing bank. Perhaps he would have been better to focus more on the running, as he ends up hit in the back of his head, snow tangling into his short hair. "Oh no! I've been wounded!" he cries out, increasing his staggering for dramatic effect, even if it means taking some additional fire. "If I don't make it, tell my sister she's a goober!" he moans to Michael.

Artur checks dexterity and athletics at hard. Artur fails.

Merek walks along and to the place the snowball fight's at, though he seems a bit late for it probably.

"Man the perimeter!" Michael shouts other orders to the guards who are now left deciding whether to listen to their countess or their duke. A very untenable position to be in for guards of any sort. His snowball finds a target, more or less, because theres a clump of silly nobles standing close together. Perhaps it would have been better not to stay leaned out from around a tree and pumping his fist victoriously. That would mean he wouldn't be open to the returning snowballs that return from guards or other enemy combatants.

"Prince Artur! Oh no!" Michael calls out to his comrade with a hand reaching like he might steady him from several feet away. "I'll tell Princess Gwenna shes a goober even if you make it!"

Amari takes one of the snowballs from the pile and slides low down until she's all but lying in the snow with her head resting on the snow rampart. Down there, a little safer, she begins to augment the projectile with more snow, patting it down and smoothing it all round with each addition. She's going to make it bigger, better and more snowball-y. The ultimate snowball. The snowball of legend. The form of the destructor. "YOUR SISTER IS A WONDERFUL PERSON." She loudly insists as she hears the goober comment, then more for her fellow ladies, a quieter aside, "How does it look up there?"

Merek lifts up a snowball while he packs that with his gloves. The man looks from that scarf which he wears and will take the time by pulling up the hood and will throw the snowball at the closest person he can find!

Merek checks dexterity and athletics at normal. Merek is successful.

It's appear that Lyra dodges all the incoming 'enemy' snowballs, though aware of being now in the open and of having broken cover, she drops to her belly. The freshly fallen snow 'splooshes' up around her so she makes a cute little 'snow angel' around her as she drops, and the suddeness of her avoidance tactics dislodge her treasured hat from her head. It flops off, and given that it's round, it rolls away and down the hill'. "MY HAT!" she squawks loudly!. "DON'T LET IT FALL TO ENEMY HANDS!"

"I knew I could count on you," Artur sniffs towards Michael. Being that he's still mostly in the open, he ends up the one who takes Merek's snowball on the shoulder, gasping as he grasps hold with his other hand, as though trying to staunch the bleeding. Noticing that it came from the 'wrong' direction, he pauses his dramatics to squint over that way. "Aren't you supposed to be on our side?" he cries out, betrayed, before waving Merek over towards the trees where he and Michael are trying to seek shelter from the women. He's just about made it there himself, when he hears Lyra's cry and can't resist the urge to look back towards said hat. "Dare we, gents?" he muses with an impish grin. Capture the hat?

The hat lies in NO MAN'S LAND!

As more snowballs fly, Loryk holds up his shield to dash over to Medeia. "My lady, Klavdiya received word from the house, we must go." Medeia sighs and slips away apologetically, covered by her guard's shield.

Michael is quick to stride up from his tree to another tree in order to ensure control of Defiance Hill remains defiantly within the grasp of Artur and Michael. At sheer irkment of Medeia's departure, Michael gives Medeia's guard some training in blocking projectiles by pummeling the retreating shield with snowballs. "We dare. But /only/ if you'll wear it!" Several more snowballs are volleyed towards the prone Lyra in an attempt to keep her head down before Michael charges down the hill towards a gallivanting piece of headgear.

Lyra checks dexterity and dodge at hard. Lyra fails.

Michael checks dexterity and athletics at hard. Michael fails.

Lyra's caught in the open, and peppered by snowballs which are thrown by the duke, she's no alternative but to remain where she's fallen. Face down, she eats snow, as the fate of her hat is decided by others.

Merek smiles a bit, he enjoys the snowballs while he takes the time to dodge about and throw them when he can.

"I thought you'd never ask," Artur replies, when told he'll get to be the one to wear the hat. As Medeia leaves to handle some real world something, he can only shake his head in disappointment. "Imagine having your priorities so skewed!" he notes aloud. Because obviously a snowball fight is much more important than... whatever that's about. As he turns to head back towards _No Man's Land_, he stoops for a handful of snow, loosely rolling it quickly and lobbing it over the snowbank. "To the hat!" he yells out as a battle-charge.

Artur checks dexterity and athletics at daunting. Artur fails.

Michael checks dexterity and athletics at daunting. Michael is successful.

Michael's dashes are staggered and haphazard enough to make it oh so difficult to nail him with a snowball! He'll duck down and slide a bit further down the hill to pluck up said hat before turning to look back up towards where Artur might be. "Prince Artur! AHOY!" A call raised out as he grasps the brim and flings it up the hill like one might toss a discus.

Amari checks dexterity and artwork at hard. Amari fails.

Lyra checks dexterity and athletics at hard. Lyra fails.

Amari checks dexterity and athletics at hard. Amari fails.

Amari's snowball is a monstrosity. It's not aerodynamic. It's all lumpen and irregular, like a big watermelon sized potato. Still, she pops up and tries to defend Lyra and her hat with it. HORRIBLE SNOWBALL AWAY! Look out... uh, Micheal, maybe. It's lobbed so high it's hard to tell where it's going to go, so high in fact, that it begins to break up in the atmosphere and falls to the snow below in harmless chunks.

Amari frowns.

"No!" Lyra sees her hat being frisbee-flung towards Artur and pulls herself up and out of her snow bed. As treasured as her hat is however, she's unable to intercept its flight, and it goes sailing over her head and off into goodness only knows where. Her attention flickers between Michael, Artur, Amari and Merek, and her hands curl into fists which she plants on the angle of her hips. "I call it a draw!" she suggests. Implies? Coerces? A grin finds her face as she bats one hand to her derriere to dislodge snow and ice from the bac of her pants, and she looks around for the much promised cider.

Artur checks dexterity and athletics at hard. Artur is successful.

Artur's blind throw over the snowbank results in not much at all, just the loss of a snowball. But he's distracted watching Amari's snowball fly upwards until it's eaten by the atmosphere. "You almost got me!" he calls back, before Michael's shout pulls his attention back around. Despite the hat's questionable aerodynamics, he manages to just snag it as he leaps through the air when it sails by. "Draw?" he muses, rising back to his feet, the hat swinging teasingly from an outstretched index finger. "Well, all right. As dashing as I was about to look!" he mutters, extending his arm to offer Lyra back her chapeau.

"You'll accept the terms of the cease fire then, Countess Byrne?" Michael calls from where he was kneeling in the snow and looking uphill towards both Artur and Lyra with an expression composed of a mix of bemusement and victorious exultation. He stomps up the hill a way before lifting a finger to wag at Artur. "You were going to look splendid, I think we all deserve to see it, don't we?"

Merek checks dexterity and athletics at daunting. Merek fails.

Merek picks up two snowballs and then keeps doing that, trying his best to take on everyone he can in the entire field, which means all of them miss and hit the walls and anything else in the way.

"What? Do the dashing thing!" Amari encourages, even if she doesn't seem sure what it's supposed to have been. She makes no attempt to throw more snow, but applauds instead. Good fun all this. Then, she did only get struck once and spent most of her time hidden in the snowfort.

"Truce!" Lyra calls, the snowballs she'd secreted in her pockets and various other places about her person being dropped to the ground. "But only if my hat is returned!" She drives a hard bargain it'd seem, and trudges back to the the snowfort to loop an arm through Amari's, dusting a little snow from her compatriot's shoulder before bumping it with her own and adding, "But only if the warm, spiced cider which was promised is served to both Baroness Amari nd myself by your own fair hands!" . A pause. "Deal?"