MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone who wants to attend
WHAT: THE GRAND TOURNEY
WHEN: Bloomingtide 20-27
WHERE: Wycome
NOTES: We'll be rolling one or two events per day, in the order listed, and posting the results here! That's also where you can find your diplomacy or espionage assignments and their results. There will be a second log post in about five days regarding the end of the tournament, to give people a place to RP about the competitions' results once they know them and to react to some other surprise developments, so leave some room for dessert.

The Grand Tourney is one of Thedas's greatest spectacles--all the nations of the world and plenty of others besides turned out to compete in this edition of the famous test of arms. The Duke of Wycome has granted the use of a broad plain outside the city, a vast open span of grass bounded on both sides by minor forks of the Minanter making their way to the sea, and split down the center by another. Scores of the duke's men have been hard at work since the announcement, constructing stands and arenas, the rough wooden rails and benches of the commons and luxurious boxes for the more exalted spectators, lifted above the masses and shaded by awnings, draped with bunting in Wycome's brilliant purple and gold.

Between and among the competition grounds are stalls and roving vendors selling anything and everything, most popular the vast open-sided tents filled with trestle tables and benches and neverending barrels of ale and wine as tall as a qunari. Stages of various sizes dot the grounds, hosting musicians, dancers, tumblers, performers of all kinds. Others wander through the crowds, putting on impromptu shows wherever it looks like there are enough people with free coin about.

A half-dozen new wooden bridges span the central river--more like a large stream, really--and connect the competition grounds to the camping grounds. Tents in all colors and styles are arrayed in rough groups, marked out with the banners of knights, houses, mercenary companies, kingdoms. The Inquisition has sprung for new tents for its delegation to make sure they look the part, dramatic black as a backdrop to the Inquisition banners that fly atop each of them, housing two to four people each. Nearest are some Orlesians with an array of brightly-colored silk structures, and on the opposite side, a mercenary company called the the Grizzly Legion, a particularly rowdy outfit, with banners market by a giant red bear, and bonfires and revelry late into the night every night.

INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS

The general atmosphere of the tourney is raucous and celebratory, but the rivalries inherent in the occasion seem less good-natured than they might have in past years. Nevarra seems divided into two camps rather than one, with a (not-yet-literal) line down the middle of their encampment and their crowds that's bridged only by the brave and slightly awkward few who still haven't chosen between the Pentaghasts and Van Markhams. And the Orlesians, despite rumors that the Empire is still struggling in the wake of its own civil war, seem particularly delighted to see their rivals teetering on the brink—some are even taking odds on how soon they'll be able to get Perendale back. But, of course, no one can rival Tevinter for smugness. If there was a fancy sword awarded for that, they would win it every year, and there's no sitting near their delegation without "overhearing" an unnecessarily loud conversation about the sorry state of the rest of Thedas.

Of course, not everyone is caught up in the affairs of surfacer empires: there are delegations from both Orzammar and Kal-Sharok, each apparently pretending the other does not exist, and the odd Avvar and Chasind who seems to think everyone else is being a bit ridiculous about everything. The most isolated attendees are those from the Anderfels, who stick close together and rarely speak to anyone else—not that anyone else seems much inclined even if they did want to. At the other end of the spectrum are the Free Marchers; this is the one occasion every-few-years when they look to one another as brothers, rather than distinct and often competitive nations.

FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT

The Grand Tourney's official competitions are scheduled to take place over five days, culminating with the prestigious Grand Melee and awarding of the Celebrant. Before then, the tournament progresses day by day through unarmed combat, archery, armed combat, and jousting competitions, each heavily attended by delighted spectators cheering for their countrymen and any foreigner who strikes them as particularly charming, plus the odd equal-opportunity heckler. A few extra fights break out here and there when tempers flare, between both competitors and observers, and when the alcohol flows more liberally at night the chance of trouble rises. But for the most part, the competitions are fair and the mood around them is celebratory.

Away from the main grounds, a few additional staging areas have been provided for events focused on magic—these are more sparsely attended, due to their unofficial nature and the fears of much of the populace that they might catch a fireball to the face if they wander too close, but enough people's curiosity trumps fear to form a thinner, quieter crowd. The two events open to mages, combat against fade-touched creatures and a version of the melee with teams that allow mages, take place in the early mornings, when they won't be competing with the official events for attention, and are most heavily attended by Tevinter mages who are very, very certain that they can't be beat.

Comments

Dolores

[somethingyettocome]

I. Games
The revelry and the spectacle of the Grand Tourney was like nothing Dolores had ever seen before. She spends hours upon hours just walking and staring--fortunately, though, that seems to be the state of most of the attendees of the event. It isn't long before she finds the rows of games and vendors and Dolores delights in trying everything she can. By midday she's playing a game with rolling balls, attempting to acquire a large stuffed bear, and failing gloriously. It's hot out and, despite herself, Dolores hasn't bothered drinking or sitting in the shade since sun-up. She loses the ball game for the fifth time in a row and looks quite ready to pass out.

II. Ice Cream
Ever since Dolores had strayed into Barnabas's ice cream shop and supplied him the name of the foodstuffs, she'd been working for him. It was something to do, a very firm routine, and he paid pretty well so she didn't think much of it. The entrepenureal little man had decided to bring part of his shop to the Tourney, but instead of purchasing and assembling a stand, he had made a moveable cart. It only carried three flavors, and the cold canisters that he packed them into weren't quite up to the task of the full sun, but it was worth it to haul it out and sell so he had Dolores do it for him. She didn't mind, the cart didn't weigh anything to her and walking around staring at things was something she already planned on doing.

"Ice cream, get your ice cream here," Dolores offered in a tone that was, quite possibly, too quiet and polite to really be used to pitch wares. Barnabas had given her a basic script and she was sticking to it, but he hadn't been so specific about tone and volume. "I have three flavors. They're cool and refreshing in the hot sun."

III. Unarmed Combat
Even Dolores is hard pressed to say why she joined in with this event, perhaps it was just all the normal folk gathered around having fun? In any case, she found she was a fair hand at it, despite herself, and while she was knocked out in the second round it wasn't for lack of effort. The man who beat her was a big, hulking fellow with a wide smile and kind eyes. He hadn't even punched her very hard at first, but he'd had to before the end. When he'd finally knocked her to the ground, he'd helped her right back up and offered her a drink. Then he'd gone on and won two more fights and tied in the third. It was fun to watch, even with her swellin' lip, and Dolores was beaming as she drank her--well, whatever this was. Frankly, it didn't taste like much of anything to her.

IV. Wildcard, surprise me!

II.

[hello_there]

Obi-Wan Kenobi has no money.

That is not strictly true. He has a very unimpressive stipend offered to him by the Inquisition, enough for a little extra each month, and of course there is the supplies offered by the Inquisition itself. It is more accurate to say that, whenever Obi-Wan has, in his adult life, had the chance not to spend money, he has chosen not to. After all, life had a way of... working out sometimes.

Call it karma.

Call it chance.

Call it a can falling out of Dolores' cart and rolling until it struck his foot, heel-first. Obi-Wan turned, picked up the offending canister and frowned at it. Cold storage? Here? But the source was readily apparant; the young woman, clearly a Rifter, half-heartedly selling iced cream from what seemed to be enchanted buckets.

"Pardon me," He says, as polite an interruption as he can manage, "I believe is is yours?"

[somethingyettocome]

Dolores turns on her heel as she is approached from behind and surprise flashes across her face. She looks at the man behind her, at the can in his hand, and smiles a bit abashedly.

"Yes, thank you," Dolores says and turns to face him. The cart is not so busy that she has to mind it constantly. She reaches to take the can from the gentleman behind her but pauses as she does, her brow furrowing as she looks up at him.

"I'm sorry, have we met before? You seem a mite familiar but I'm so bad with faces."

It is a rote response, something she has said a hundred thousand times, but she says it with the perfect sincerity of a person who has no idea it is a line in their script.

Loki of Asgard

[hwaaaitsme]

I. Schmoozing
The Tevinter camp was, by a wide margin, the most tolerable of the sections of the Tourney. Their countrymen were insufferable blowhards but, if nothing else, they were insufferable blowhards with excruciatingly good taste when it came to both wine and accommodations. Loki, currently draped on one of the many couches of Titus Blandus (who was all one could possibly expect a man of that name to be), was enjoying his imported wine, the tray of cheeses and fruits the slave had brought, and was watching the rabble go by as they scurried from one event to another. It was a lovely day.

Ia. Fabricating and Planting Evidence
The first evening was well enough. The parties were extravagant but Loki was, sadly, not in attendance. Unfortunately, because talking to Blandus made him want to carve his own ears from his head, Loki hadn't managed to obtain the information on his Venatori brother that he'd been assigned to acquire. It was a farce really, everyone knew Blandus the second was a Venatori sympathizer, the man practically wore it embroidered on his clothes. He absolutely would not stop spouting things about Making Tevinter Great Again--as if it had fallen from grace at any point, really, the nerve of that rhetoric. They were still miles ahead of any of these Souther--wait, not the point.

The point was: he couldn't tolerate more than ten minutes in Titus's company so, if he was going to have to question the man, he'd prefer to have some dirt on him first. To expediate things. Unfortunately, Blandus was also the most uninteresting fellow who had ever lived. So, as everyone else enjoyed wine and song and probably orgies, he hadn't checked to see where any of these parties were so he couldn't say for sure, Loki was fabricating evidence to plant on Blandus. It had to be something incriminating, of course, but not too much to believe. It had to be more than a scandal, of course--frankly, with the quiet ones, nobody would expect anything less than one or two extreme perversions. No, it had to be something delightfully awful, even by Tevinter standards. Something to get the man ostracized from everyone and everything if it came to light.

Loki knew immediately just how to handle this and engaged in it, forth with. Unfortunately, now he had to plant that evidence in Blandus's tent while his valet did the heavy lifting. That meant he was sneaking about, not enjoying fun, and that was a bit of a downer. It was also high risk of being spotted, which he was less fond of.

II. Magical Combat
Tevinter, without a doubt, reined supreme when actual, full magical combat was permitted. No country could possibly contend with them and, if the actual contest was anything, the House Asgard was without peer. Loki was in his element here, using unrestrained spellwork and knives to carve apart his opponents. The ram was felled with hardly an effort, and the lion was quite a show. He'd tossed the beast over onto its back when it lunged and had all but sliced it to ribbons as it tried to crowd him. He felt like one of those Antivan idiots who taunt bulls with capes and the crowd adored every moment of it. He'd barely had to use magic to fight that lion, it was so slow and powerful--it had no chance to avoid him and his knives.

Now, of course, he had used some magic. People didn't attend a magical combat to watch knife-work after all, but it was largely just to finish the beast off. The explosion was a bit much but Loki had never been accused of being anything less than dramatic. As he stepped from the ring to allow others the chance to fight, Loki basked in the adulation of his peers and was all but glowing as he reclined with his wine to watch the show.

III. After Magical Combat
The fade-touched creatures they summoned were, of course, as fearsome as they dared cart across Thedas, but Loki dispatched each that faced him with (relative) ease. That last one though, that bloody dragon, cost him first place. Thor, naturally, snatched it away from him at the last possible second and Loki was beyond words. He was livid, as was his right, and his fine mood was dashed as all the accolades of his peers fell, once again, on his elder brother. He congratulated Thor, as one does, by slapping him on a shoulder that had taken a fang not minutes earlier, and had excused himself to find a stall that served refined alcohol.

It was all well and good that House Asgard was seen dominating the field, Odin would be infinitely pleased, but the predictability of this outcome chafed Loki. He glowered as he found somewhere that served whisky and decided to spend his evening without his golden older brother.

Let Thor heal his own wounds.

IV Wildcard

III

[coquettish_trees]

Of course Alexandrie had been by to see the magical combat; open displays of magical power? How daring! The opportunity to see the oft touted skill of Tevinter's upper echelons? How exciting! She watches the two most seemingly effortlessly skilled of them with unfeigned interest; despite their representing the Inquisition, which makes it safe to add her own properly sedate support, cheering for them feels delightfully illicit. The burlier of the two takes it, his more svelte brother coming second-- which, from the slight stiffening of his shoulders, and brief flash of rage across his features, has happened before. And off he goes, after the least possible amount of time to still remain appropriate.

Well someone ought to console him, don't you think?

"It's a terrible pity they award points only for force," Alexandrie says as she approaches Loki at the bar with a sedately confident smile, her skirts sweeping just so to brush ever so lightly at his ankle when she stops. "Your victories were much more pleasurable to watch."

[hwaaaitsme]

Upon occasion, in Tevinter, Loki would attract a very clever sort of woman. They would be the sort who could look at the brothers of house Asgard and run the odds on Thor actually surviving his primacy. Most of them would flirt with Loki as befitting a second of a major house, but every so often one would risk tilting the table in their favor by disparraging Thor.

For the briefest second, Loki guesses this woman might be one of those, but then her accent hits him and he lowers his whisky. His expression is somewhat confused but he hides it fairly well. He looks at her face a moment but, as with most outside of Tevinter circles, cannot place her name.

"How glad I am that you took some pleasure in them...Miss?"

4.

[thorndergod]

The slap of his wound had absolutely been deliberate. Thor loved his brother, but he also knew him. Loki could be very, very petty and very, very jealous.

He swallowed his frustration, though, burying it in the praise and congratulations for winning for the rest of the evening and visiting a healer before hunting down Loki the next morning. It was rarely hard to find Loki and in no time he was clapping Loki very firmly on the back.

Maybe he hadn't entirely swallowed his frustration.

"Second place is not a bad finish!" he announces loudly, happily... and sincerely. They'd beaten everyone else from Tevinter and that was no small matter. That they beat the southern mages was one. He wonders what they're thinking after seeing that, if they realize they could be more. And then he promptly forgets that thought, because right now he does want to check on his brother and his brother matters more to him than every southern mage put together. "You have trained well, and there was much showmanship to your fights, Loki. We will make them tremble in the melee."

[hwaaaitsme]

The previous night, frankly, had been anything but a wash. True the second place in the competition still needled at him, but washing it away with alcohol and whirlwind sex was, by far and away, the best way to be rid of his irritation...that is, until his irritation found him and interrupted his mild hangover with a hamfisted blow to the back.

"Brother," Loki drawled his greeting and adjusted his grip on his small cup of strong coffee.

"Sit, I will not have any discussion with you looming," Loki invites and gestures idly to the couch across from him. He wasnt sure who owned these--Magister Maximus? Diikus? Who cared?

"And of course we shall, we shall take that competition as easily as we did this one."

1a

[altusimperius]

One such blowhard has been mostly hanging out with his blowhard friends, but Loki's presence here means Benedict has to make at least one appearance and show all his hangers-on that he's In with the Asgards. Because he is, of course.
Carrying a glass of wine, Bene approaches Loki with an easy smile, tossing his hair back out of his face and completely disregarding that Loki is probably doing something of great import and secrecy.
"I didn't take you for the looting type," he says, sipping from his wine with a shit-eating smirk.

[hwaaaitsme]

Loki must have been losing his touch, normally he was far stealthier than this, but tonight he's been spotted by a drunken Benedict Artemeus and is now subject to his attention and the attentions of his horde of onlookers. Fantastic.

Let it never be said that Bene did things by halves.

"And you would be right," Loki replies a bit flippantly with just a hint of irritation in his tone.

Perhaps he could spin this. Being caught out by a crowd of Tevinter's chattiest youth was...not ideal but also not completely un-ideal. The box in Loki's hands would be easy enough to keep their attention off of, but why do that when rumors were such wonderful tools?

"I'm doing a favor," he replies and pointedly tucks the box in his arm. The name T. Blandus is inscribed on the surface and only partly obscured by the fold of his sleeve. "And you are...enjoying the finer vintages? Thank the gods they've brought some with them, this Orlesian swill was getting to me."

Loki snaps his fingers at one of Bene's friends/cadre.

"You, fetch me a glass," he requests with a rakish grin and the full force of his charisma. The woman flushes and scurries off to obtain what he wants.

Galadriel

[laurenande]

I. Archery, Before the Contest
Galadriel arrived for the archery contest clad in a gown of white and grey. It was impractical for most things, but the sleeves were tight to her arms and the sun glittered off of the silver embroidery brilliantly. Thranduil had made it a point to avoid being a spectacle, insofar as he was able, but Galadriel had never subscribed to such methods. She dressed as she was wont, with all the skill she had learned in her long life, and her display was neither subtle nor lacking in beauty. She had even carved the bow she carried, just for the occasion--the wood was far more ideal than the last bow she'd made in Thedas.

The other participants began arriving as Galadriel did, trickling in to begin the contest, and Galadriel moved to take a seat in the first row. Her bow was still unstrung, but that was an issue easily solved--without pausing, she plucked a hair from her head and began to wind it around the upper arm of her weapon, stringing it as carefully as one might with any string.

I. Pre-Joust
Just as with the archery contest, Galadriel arrives before the joust in full form. It had been some time since she last wore white in Thedas, longer still since she had created such fabrics, but she had done well with her weaving in Kirkwall. In the morning sunlight she glimmers like the new dawn, her white doublet and breeches well fitted, an oddity for her especially in these lands, and lined with shining patches of sammite. The gold and silver accents match her hair, bound back into a long braid that trails nearly to her knees. Her armor is polished but looks rather dull by comparison. The shield and breastplate carry the Inquisition's logo, something she felt only a mild irritation about, but scribed in white against the bright steel.

She spends the morning attending the horse she is to ride, getting a sense for it and speaking softly to it in hushed Quenya. It does not understand more than her tone, but it is a cooperative beast and one that seems to like her well enough.

IIa. Pre-Joust - Solas
It is just past dawn when Galadriel arrives near the field. She is not alone here, but there are precious few others about. She has not yet donned her armor, nor braided her hair to fit beneath the helm, but her white clothing already stands out against the rosy grey of the early morning. She sits on the edge of the field, in the front-most rows, and regards it with a small smile. A cup of mead steams softly in her hands, warming both them and her in the morning chill.

There is something about the atmosphere of competition, something alluring about the challenge and risk of loss, and it has been a very long time since she has participated in such things. She is high on the feel of it, savoring every moment, and that is a strange state for her. She is not usually so enamored with the present, but today? In this place? She is delighted.

III. Post Joust
Her loss was not dramatic nor, she would admit, entirely surprising. Jousting was not her skill and neither were swords her favored weapon. She had not been trounced, having knocked Ser Alberich from his steed as surely as she was thrown, but he had won. It was almost funny how annoyed he was that she rose from the mud without appearing soiled where he had been all but covered, even in victory. He was rude about it, but that was no surprise--he was a Pentaghast, after all. Fortunately, the man who unseated him, and eventually won the contest himself, was less ingracious about his victory. Galadriel even stopped to congratulate him when all was said and done, before retiring from the field and heading to the quartermaster to return her armor.

IV. Food Court?
The games and stalls around the tourney were truly entertaining. She had not expected them to be so, had not expected there to be such a lively, friendly air to Thedas, and it delighted her. Here, unlike Kirkwall or even Skyhold before it, the people were genuinely open and happy. Mortals smiled at her in passing, quietly marveled at the pure white of her gown or the length of her hair, and went about their business without accusing her of being demonic or plotting their demise. It was certainly a shift and, truly, an experience she required.

Her favorite locations, she found, were the stalls that served local foods and wines and she lingered around those for some long time, enjoying the smells and indulging in fares that were beyond Kirkwall and the Gallows.

V. Wildcard
Hit me.

iia

[dirth]

It takes a great deal of effort for Solas to stride across the arena as though there is nothing hounding his footsteps - he moves to the fields, across it, moving closer and closer to his target, bare feet tickling against the grass under him. It feels as though it has been decades since he and Galadriel last spoke, but he knows that to be more his own conscience speaking than anything else; there is so much she is aware of, now, so much that she knows... He's not entirely sure how best to manage the situation, how best to manage himself, when all is said and done.

If Thranduil has done as asked then she will know the truth - or, rather, as much of it as Solas is comfortable admitting aloud.

It's almost too easy to move down and settle at her side, crossing his legs and facing out and away from her. She looks beautiful, he thinks, dressed in white and nothing else, almost ethereal without trying. As it is each time he sees her all he can picture is the warmth of his home, of a lifetime a thousand years in the past. It takes some effort for him to even muster words to speak to her, but he manages.

"Are you prepared for today?"

[laurenande]

Galadriel spies Solas partway across the field and lifts her mug to take a sip of her warm mead. It barely covers the reflexive curve of her smile. He sits alongside her and she does him the courtesy of allowing him to gather himself and speak before she does.

"I expect not," she admits fairly casually, but doesn't sound exceptionally worried. "I have never engaged in this sport, though I have done something similar in battle...it was nigh on six thousand years ago."

She cocks a brow and glances sidelong at him before turning in her seat. She sets her mug side between them and no longer bothers to hide her smile.

"Do you know much of this sport?"

Cade

[onlyhymns]

I. After Archery

Cade is acting very strangely, and anyone even passingly familiar with him might think he's sick. He didn't win, but he's smiling, and can't seem to stop; there's a healthy glow in his face and a spring in his step. It is possible he's even humming as he goes from one event to another, pleasantly and quietly taking in the sights, perfectly content to be one of many faces in the crowd.

II. After Jousting

The spring has been knocked out of Cade's step not unlike how he was knocked out of the saddle, but that's mostly because his ribs are sore and it's hard to walk fast. The smile is more or less gone, but he's still visibly in a better mood than usual, which in part can be attributed to the hideous assortment of fried foods he is about to consume. Company is welcome, especially if preceded with commentary on the events. Just don't insult his horse, she does her best.

III. Party

Though hardly one for parties, Cade still likes to watch them when he feels safe doing so. He nurses an unpleasant ale as he watches the dancing, a vaguely wistful look on his face. Perhaps he wants to join them, perhaps he just wants to be the kind of person who would.

IV. Misc

When not competing, Cade can be found in the stands, eating things that are bad for him, tending to Lady Patience (his horse), or training for the grand melee. He is, on the whole, the most upbeat he has been since anyone from the Inquisition has ever known him, with the possible exception of Alistair and the even less likely one of Saoirse. If anyone ever wanted to hang with Cade, now is the time.

iii

[sulena]

"Cade!"

Saoirse is a blur of color and light when she appears through a crowd of dancers and merry singing. Her present from Herian during their birthday celebration, a cloak made of seemingly invisible fabric, seems to make her glow in the low light. Atop her head is a crow of wildflowers, simple but colorful and carefully weaved with love to match the one she carries in her hands.

"You did so very wonderful in your events," she says before presenting the crown in her hands with a grin. "It is not so serious as the crown of sage leaves but I hope you will accept it."

[onlyhymns]

Literally nothing in his life could have prepared Cade for this moment, and though he first greets Saoirse with a smile, he's visibly startled to be so happily-met. She's pretty and glowing, bedecked in flowers, and smiling, and being the recipient of this attention is already a lot when she ups the ante by offering out a crown of flowers for him.
Standing there like a dumbstruck idiot, Cade just stares at it for far too long, a vibrant shade of red slowly crawling up his face. Then he slowly, as if he can't believe it, lifts his hands to take the crown, just holding it for the moment, and whispers a strangled "thank you."

shut up and dance with me (iii)

[nadasharillen]

It was one thing to roll her eyes and chuckle and agree to come along on this particular quest when she was sitting with Rey at the furthest campfire, and another entirely to find herself at the edge of the raucous celebration, Rey having already seen Kylo and departed, scanning the gathered company for someone specific.

Ah. There, he's sitting near the other edge with what seems to be a mostly perfunctory tankard in his hand and a woven crown of wildflowers set in his curls, and is, unsurprisingly, blushing. She can tell even from here. Perhaps it's from however the flowers got there. Or the position of the stars. Or a breeze. She smiles. And then is walking, slipping through the crowd like she might through underbrush until she's made her quiet way around to him.

"Hi," says Nari, her smile turning hesitant and a bit self-conscious as she extends a hand to Cade before she has too much of a chance to think about it. "...dance with me?"

[onlyhymns]

Startled by being addressed, Cade gives a little jump as he turns toward the voice-- and then he smiles (his eyes light up and deep within the ground, without a sound, a m--anyway). He hesitates, but having danced at one such event before, he's aware enough of his ability to do it without completely destroying his reputation. He was good at this, once.
Blushing, naturally, Cade takes Nari's hand and bends to give a polite bow, the likes of which any gentleman worth his salt would perform before any civilized dance.

Alacruun

[coiledscales]

Diplomacy - Not Quite Overrated

Alacruun spends part of his time chatting up an Antivan. Well "chatting". it seems friendly enough and Alacruun is his... uh... charming self, insofar as he seems to know what to sya to flatter, cajole, and coax, but it seems like it's less a silver tongue and more of a weird fascination that the Antivan has with him. Or maybe it's fear. It's hard to tell. Regardless, Alacruun is (almost) glued to him for a day or two as he does his best to buy drinks, gladhand, and otherwise get something out of the man.

He apparently succeeds, but at the end of it he's a bit... frazzled. Frazzled is a good word. Having to smile all the time was getting a bit painful and he retires to one of the tents to get something to refresh himself with. He deserves it, after finally getting the man's assent and there's a shake of his head as he tries to clear his head a little. He's smart and good at what he does, but at the end of it he was starting to feel just a touch irritated.

"You'd think," he comments, "That he'd never spoken with a qunari before."

Not that he thinks of himself as a qunari, but it's what he looks like.

The Big Show

Alacruun does watch some of the tournament, although he seems to have a very distant interest in it. He doesn't really cheer so much as just observe with a rather uncanny sort of look in his eye. He also hasn't splurged on the expensive seats - he's in the grounds section, leaning against the railing and keeping a space around himself cleared by the virtue of being very large and scary-looking. Which suits him just fine - it means there are less people jostling him or treading on his feet, even if the crowd is a bit more uncouth than he'd like.

"I've never quite understood the appeal of watching people beat each other with bits of metal," he says to his neighbor with a shrug, "But I have to admit, there's a certain sort of infectious energy. I suppose it keeps people happy..."

Wildcard

Alacruun can also be found exploring the grounds or trying to find a corner away from all of the noise and bustle to take a moment to himself. Feel free to run into him just about anywhere!

big show

[swordproof]

Six has taken part in a great deal of the events now - joust, armed, unarmed, and the melee - and she's looking tired but thrilled. It's been a long time since she's really been able to stretch her muscles properly and prove herself and she's basking in the opportunity to show it. Her greatsword is on her back, as ever, her armour is resting at one side and she has a few bruises and scrapes, but she's almost, almost smiling.

"It's celebrating with those that you support and mourning for their losses, should they occur." Lifting her shoulders, she smiles a little wider. "It is not always about the fighting. It's about the victories."

[coiledscales]

Ah, the young woman from their arrival. Wonerful. She'd been rather impressive, all things considered. She'd done well enough, from what he'd seen, but he wasn't an expert in fighting with a sword and armor and all of that. He'd never had a need to.

"And learning, I suppose. Since one should strive to learn from defeats, if one has them," Alacruun replies, reaching up to scratch under his chin, "I saw some of your bouts. I'm not really an expert, but you did well enough to protect me during the real thing, so I think that's worth a bit more than a tournament."

Rey

[provenforce]

i; food.

While Rey isn't the biggest fan of the Tourney proper, and aside from watching a few matches that friends are involved in she hasn't been watching, there's no shortage of other things she's happier to involve herself in. Things like sampling every kind of cuisine offered up to her.

Anyone looking for her can likely find her moving from stall to stall, sampling things and buying extras for later, or to share with someone right away. She's almost always happy to try something new, even if people think it's entirely bizarre. She's eaten tasteless mush most of her life, so far she hasn't come across any kind of cuisine in Thedas as bad as vegmeat.

ii; games.

Rey stands out a little between her <https://www.pinterest.com/pin/347692033711231449/>powder blue sundress and the large white mabari usually at her side (or the tall dark-haired man who is also sometimes at her side). But she's enraptured by the little games that are throughout the fair, and makes quite her own feat at playing them.

She finds she's especially skilled at the crossbow shooting games, and wins herself several candy necklaces which she puts on all at the same time. They're a gaudy accessory paired with her delicate dress, but she wears them happily as she plays other games, trying her hand at rolling balls or throwing rings.

iii; party.

Rey isn't much of a dancer, but she's happy to sit and listen to the music, a drink in her hand. Sometimes she has food, or she disappears completely, but she's always looking happy, sometimes a little happier than normal, even.

She's usually sitting within a ring of light cast off from one of the many fires, happy to talk to anyone who approaches her, or waving someone she might know over to sit with her.

iv; wildcard.

[ throw a prompt at me, or hmu for a custom starter! i will also match brackets if you're more comfy with that method of rp! ]

[closed to herian]

[esquive]

[He's after something very particular and has spent the afternoon walking the various picket lines of the tourney camp in search of it. Fortunately, the work of it takes enough of his attention that he doesn't have the time to give much thought to the why.

--(Why bother with some no name knight with no banner or country, especially when the favor of finding her a mount might cost him something to secure its use? Why do anything at all for a Rifter when they might very well be right there on the verge of possession or worse?)--

Instead Marcoulf studies the height and weight of dozen or more horses, checking their confirmation or their temperament as he pokes and prods or pets their soft velvet noses. Motivation aside, there's certainly worse work to be responsible for and eventually he finds a likely candidate. And she's a keen looking animal, isn't she? Broad in the chest with a short back and a sturdy upright shoulder. He pats the mare on her broad cheek, scratching briefly under her halter where she's itchy from being asked to loiter at the picket line. She makes the delicate chestnut gelding seem spindly in comparison.]

Hello, blondie. [Murmured in Orlesian as he scratches high on her burly neck.] Aren't you handsome, hmm?

[dashing]

Her name is Iona.

( The response comes in Orlesian, fluent (fluent-ish), but heavily accented with Starkhaven's . Years of studying in the White Spire had allowed the opportunity to learn Orlesian and speak it proficiently and understand it very well - some texts were only available in Orlesian, despite the Spire teaching in Common - but given that speaking it was not a major focus of study, her accent leaves something to be desired. Rather direly, at that.

The voice comes from further back in the stables, Herian approaching with a collection of brushes - and most importantly, some carrots. She is not dressed as she normally might be, with robes or armour, but instead just very simply, more appropriate for seeing to the care of a horse. By her feet follows a corgi pup, perhaps half a year old, whose feet and ears both seem far too big for the rest of him.

Iona, for her part, is leaving heavily into the scratches, twisting her neck a bit to try and make the obliging hands scritch further into her two-toned mane. )

She's strong. I almost wondered if she would have been suited to the joust.

[esquive]

[He indulges her, digging his fingers into the mare's upright mane even as he looks to her caretaker. Marcoulf makes some swift assessment of her and the dog trotting at her heel, the bucket of brushes and carrots, and then fixes his attention purposefully back on the mare.]

Strong enough for it? Certainly. But horses in the joust must be brave too. [That in the trade tongue. This in Orelesian to Iona as he scratches her big broad forehead:] You're much too sweet for that, aren't you?