Fade Rift Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
faderifting) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2018-05-24 12:01 am
faderifting) wrote in faderift2018-05-24 12:01 am
Entry tags:
- alexandrie d'asgard,
- benedict quintus artemaeus,
- gwenaëlle strange,
- teren von skraedder,
- { adalia },
- { alacruun },
- { alexandra karahalios },
- { anders },
- { araceli bonaventura },
- { bronach },
- { cade harimann },
- { christine delacroix },
- { geneviève de la fontaine },
- { hanzo shimada },
- { helena },
- { herian amsel },
- { jester lavore },
- { kylo ren },
- { marcoulf de ricart },
- { mel"sparkleprincess"ys },
- { morrigan },
- { myrobalan shivana },
- { nari dahlasanor },
- { rey },
- { sarah manning },
- { six },
- { tessa mackenzie },
- { thor },
- { vandelin elris },
- { yngvi }
MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1
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.
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.
Colin
Before the stall opens, Colin isn't sure if he's ready to be surrounded by this many people in a huge plain from which there is no escape. But when business gets going, he finds his brain and body both remember what it was like to help his mother run her stall in the market district, hawking the food she made for the day and charming customers into the fold. Soon, he can't make churros fast enough. By the end of the first day, he has sold thousands of them.
Thousands.
Which totals to, like, three sovereigns made. Which most would consider a fortune for a single day's work, but obviously business is slower on hot days and busier on cool days. The sheer foot traffic of this event is what guarantees good money is being made by vendors here, especially food vendors. Especially especially drink vendors. And Colin's churros are delicious. For that, he sends credit, and a kiss, from his fingertips to the sky, a gesture he learned from someone special.
Grazie, Mamma.
II: Shopping - Day 3
When his stall closes at last and he has ducked into his tent for a bath, he emerges feeling fresh. His feet are killing him, but closing early means this is his chance to actually see the rest of the festivities. They are expansive, of course, far more so than he could ever explore in one evening or in several, but he's going to do his best. First, he gets a half-frozen wine from a nearby stall and then he makes a beeline for pretty clothes so he can spend some of his hard-earned profits. Find him at a stall trying on brightly colored tunics, one scarlet and dotted with gold, one hunter green and embroidered, one a stunning royal blue jacquard. All fit closely in the torso and come down to his knees, with a split skirt. Any longer and they would be too much like robes to interest him, but he loves the elegance and richness.
III: Tavern - Day 3
After a fancy tunic is purchased, he can be found lounging at one of the many tavern-like spots, drinking and listening to music. He listens to stories, laughs, and eventually lies on his back in the grass to watch the sky. It's incredible. Five years ago, this would have been unthinkable for him, a mage, to be here and under the open sky listening to music. One year ago, it was impossible to imagine, as he shut himself in his quarters and shook at the thought of speaking to people. Last week, he hadn't even believed all the nations of Thedas could come together peacefully to play games and share food. In a world at war, this event is an extraordinary thing.
If you don't find him and join him while he's upright, you might trip over him when he's not.
IV: Wildcard
SHOPPIN'
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Colin remembers the templar who brought him in. The first few days of travel, Colin had remained in terrified silence, stricken with grief over being taken away from everything he knew. The templar hadn't pressured him into chatter, but had started talking to him himself. Explained how things would be in the tower.
This...social hierarchy, forget all about it. In the tower, it won't matter who your parents were. You'll be peer to every apprentice there, even the ones with noble families, even the elves. Your status will be determined by your accomplishments as a mage. That's it. You will never have to act differently because of where you were born or who your parents were ever again.
Goes to show what he knew.
This beautiful, fancy lady gives him several sentences' worth of advice and Colin is automatically lowering his eyes respectfully. Her clothes are casually expensive, her skin is paper-pale as if she never spent a day in the sun, her hair intricately styled. He wears a madder-dyed shirt and faded trousers, his skin is browner than usual and hair streaked caramel because of time spent in the sun. Why is she speaking to him? She must know they are not of the same ilk. Perhaps opening his mouth will make her realize she's talking to someone beneath her. It's not like he can hide it now.
"Thank you, milady," he says, his accent clearly Fereldan. He turns back to the shopkeep. "Could I see the green again, please?"
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There are Comtes who make conversation so dry and uninteresting that it tests the limits of her skill, Barons whose tedious idea of a 'dream' is plating everything in their home in gold. This man is not one such, in more ways than by birth. He is looking at tunics he will never wear in his day-to-day life, preparing to part with the fruit of his own labor for something that he will fold away and care for because it will mean something more than simple fabric in a way that the vast majority of her peers would never understand. There will be the odd occasion, for a surety, but for the most part, he is here to buy a dream. The real kind.
It is those sorts of men, the ones that were born to hard work and still have room in their souls for that kind of thing, who invariably talk to her silk slippers because they daren't meet her eyes, who have, perhaps, never exchanged more than a few words with someone of her station, that Alexandrie likes best. (Or at least, the ones who are rustically handsome). They always make her feel properly appreciated.
He takes her advice, and she smiles, fanning a small breeze for herself while waiting for the triumphant return of the hunter green.
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However, at the return of the green, he feels rather more right than he did in the red. He likes green, it being a rare color in his life. As a child in Denerim, the sparse grass was normally mud-spattered and there were few trees. As an apprentice, he wore blue and only saw plants through small windows. As a Harrowed mage, he wore gold, while senior enchanters wore red and only the First Enchanter wore green, as if the Circle knew how rare the color would seem to captive eyes. There were a few desperate and hungry weeks on the run where green was all around, but then his home was a ship. Now his home is Kirkwall, and there is still precious little of this color. There is something rather deliciously wicked about it, wrapping himself in a color reserved for farmers and First Enchanters. He adjusts the cuffs, smooths out the edges, and faces the mirror again. It is a handsome look, isn't it?
"Um." He shuffles about for his purse, then pulls out the agreed-upon coin. "It was seventy-five silver, I believe."
Practically a fortune, but he needs something nice to wear if he winds up at some function or another. This job with the Inquisition was taken to expand his connections, so he needs to make an impression in a pinch.
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The fellow draws his heels together and effects a brief bow in her direction before turning to thank Colin for his patronage.
"C'est bon!" she says, "It suits you well. Just the thing to wear on a lovely evening at the Grand Tourney."
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"No. N-n-no." His tone is firm. There is a time to be deferential to those of her class, and a time to be straight. "I'm not a charity case. Serah!" He chases after the merchant, who has gone to help another customer. "Serah, your coin."
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"If you are absolutely insistent on being parted from your coin this evening, monsieur, and seeing as you are now dressed for the occasion," she says, gliding up behind him with her head tilted just so as he attempts to chase the proprietor, "you may buy me a drink."
Her tone rises lightly at the end of her sentence as if it's a question, but it's not really a question. She bats her eyelashes coyly.
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"No," he says clearly. Again. He taps the merchant's arm. "Serah? You--"
The merchant holds up a finger as he continues talking to the customer. Colin is irritated enough to interrupt again, but not rude enough. He turns back to Alexandrie and raises a finger.
"No," he says again, for emphasis. "I'm not going to wind up having my head cut off by an angry noble father. Serah, if you don't let me pay you, I'm leaving the tunic here."
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Alexandrie holds up a hand, dimming the coquettish brilliance of her smile to something more sincere and speaking with lower volume, "Peace, monsieur, you will only upset the poor man. He will not wish to gainsay me right before my eyes, no? As to this? Well," C'est la vie! says the airy flick of her wrist. "It is a game for two, and far less diverting when one's partner has no joy in it."
"Let us not trouble his business any further," she says, "if you wish, you may accompany me on my walk back to the Inquisition encampment and we shall see that very silver in the hands of the servant I meant to send upon my return."
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She's rich, she's upper class, and she's interested in him. All three of those things register as predator to him. Cyril backed off as well, when shot down, but Cyril was only one of those three, and an elf to boot. And Cyril didn't try to buy him. But just now, Colin is seeing her previous gesture less the way he saw it at the time and more the way she very probably intended it--flirting. This woman has no reason to think of seventy-five silver as half a fortune. She will never miss those silver. It was her equivalent, no doubt, of picking a flower at the side of the road to pass along to a boy she fancied, not a debt to be cashed in later on. Colin stands and blinks at her for several seconds, his shoulders lowering slowly.
The shopkeep, meanwhile, glances over dourly and plucks the silver out of his hand, then gestures for him to get out. Lower-class peasants have no idea how to act in shops like his, clearly.
Colin's hand closes around air. He clears his throat and adjusts his new tunic, suddenly feeling a bit silly in it. It's the loveliest thing he has ever put on, but to think he will ever have need of it is pure pretense.
"Of course, Madame. I'll, um, I'll walk you back to camp." He folds his hands behind his back and lowers his gaze again. "You are Inquisition as well?"
aaa i'm slow
A delicate gloved hand will be extended into his field of vision, even as he lowers his eyes.
"Lady Alexandrie de la Fontaine," she says, the lightness returned to her voice. She emphasizes her title just enough for it to be a gentle correction-- heavens, she's not married-- but not enough for it to seem a demand or reproof, "lately of the Inquisition. And I have the pleasure of making the acquaintance of...?"
me too
"What form of address ought I to use? Sorry."
[slowness intensifies]
It's all rather sweet, really. Something the Game hardly allows for; at least, not in any honesty. Alexandrie likes simple untutored courtesy just as well as the grand sweeping gestures and exacting positioning of those who play. It is like petting a kitten whose claws have been removed. Perhaps not as thrilling as running ones hand down the spine of a dangerous creature in just such a way that it continues to not try and murder you, but every once in a while even she tires of maintaining such vigilance.
She'd wait for an offered arm, but she'd really flustered him enough thus far, so she simply waits a moment and then begins her stroll back towards the encampment slowly enough— and continuing to look at him— that she'll be easily caught up to within one or two steps.
"I am most grateful for your accompaniment, Colin. Although I feel the question begged; I am not keeping you from whatever entertainment you meant to look so dashing for, am I?"
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Is she mocking him, with that question? She has been pleasant so far. Maybe he should relax a little. She could be like Lady Marisol, that way. Not in any other way, though. Nobody is like Lady Marisol in more than one way.
"No, Milady," he admits, glancing away. His natural shyness is more responsible for his tone than sheer, abject terror, given that the terror is abating at last. "My stall is doing well, so I had a little money and I wanted to buy something nice in case of a...function. In the future."
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churros 5ever
It's turned into a truly animated discussion of odds by the time Myr reaches the head of the line--but he drops it with an easy, apologetic grin and a "sorry, serah, breakfast calls" the instant it's his turn. To Colin, then: "Two, please. And a good morning to you! How's business?"
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He retrieves the last copper and offers the whole lot out. "I'm glad to hear it. Not too overwhelming out here?" It's innocently meant; Myr'd always considered himself an extroverted sort, but he'd never in all his life been exposed to this many people all crammed into one space.
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