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

SIX

[swordproof]

TRAINING / WARM UPS

[ Six is not fool enough to think that she can enter any of the events without some more practice under her belt, even if she is fresh from a venture into the Deep Roads with her life intact. She's quick to take whatever space she can and draw her greatsword, going through what are clearly familiar motions to make sure there's no muscles that need extra care or anything that might be close to spraining. It's a huge thing but she lifts it easily with both hands, her eyes set and intense as she pushes herself through her exercises.

Eventually, she puts her greatsword to one side, placed gently and carefully beside a very carefully wrapped pack, and goes through similar motions without. She has to strip off her armour for this one and she's wearing little more than a simple cotton shirt and a pair of breeches, her hair tied up into a bun as she stretches herself and gears herself up.

She's signed up for everything she can, the symbol of Sarenrae blazing on anything that she's wearing, the necklace for her God around her neck. She might not be able to hear her, but Six is entering on her behalf anyway. Perhaps someone in Thedas could learn more about her from seeing her light. ]

IN THE STANDS

[ While she's signed up for a great many of the events, there are some that she's unable to take part in; anything magical, for one, and archery, it not being her area of specialism. During the downtime and when these events are taking place Six can be found wandering around and near the stands, taking an interest in whatever is going on. Her skills lie, formally, with using a sword and using her hands to put anyone she needs to down, so other forms of combat are something she is very curious about.

As a Rifter, she's unconcerned about the nature of magic fireballs to the face - she's had her fair share of close calls in her time - and so she watches the magical events with a careful, critical eye, more curious about learning of the nature of magic in this world than anything else. She has very little awareness of the political landscape of Ferelden versus Tevinter mages; all she does is drink in the sights, the tactics and the power.

She's not always the most forward of people, but standing a little taller than six foot makes her stand out, especially with her usual stern expression in place. If anyone is willing to approach her she seems more than willing to enter a conversation. ]

MARKET STALLS / DANCING

[ Throughout the time where she isn't competing or observing, Six wanders through the markets and investigates everything that there is to offer. It reminds her of the fair that used to travel through the village when she was a child, one of the few fond memories she has of her home. She seems to have a more childish delight when it comes to the sweets and the indulgences, and as the days go on she swaps her plain cotton shirt for something a little more exciting, but not by much.

She spends a little bit of time hovering around the knights and mercenary companies, making friendly talk with the people there - they were her people, once, and they share stories of their work and ventures. Noticeably, however, Six steers clear from anyone with ale or wine in their hands, giving them an incredibly wide distance for as long as she is tied up in conversation with anyone. If she's offered a drink she turns it down, polite but firm.

There are a few people that seem to attempt to encourage her to engage in the revelry but she's not having any of it - she watches, with her flask of water, declining most invitations to dance or celebrate, her mind focussed more on the events ahead than drinking and wasting her hours in a stupor. ]

stalls

[wythersake]

She's not the only teetotaler about, nor the only people-watching killjoy. What a day it's been, to be personally insulted by the rich and powerful — practically old times —

Leaned against the rail nearby, Isaac glances up from a letter in idle comment:

"If you get tired of them asking," To dance. "A crutch will do the trick."

[swordproof]

She's not frustrated, really, by the constant badgering to dance - Six has no idea that she is actually a rather handsome woman and that people might be interested in her - but she's on edge from the drinking, the loud noises, the revelry, all things that she should be fine with but bring up awkward memories she would rather forget.

Turning at the voice, she's set to reply before her eyes actually land on the man and she pauses, her eyes widening in what appears to be a complete rush of panic. She stares at him for far longer than could ever be considered polite and it's not until she really drinks in his face that she seems to calm down, swallowing her anxiety and shaking her head.

"I would not lie to them. It seems silly to pretend when I have been fighting in the competitions."

[wythersake]

He waits as she watches, expression mild, posture unshifting — it's a little too languid to callm him frozen, but there's a certain awareness about it all the same: Someone used to being watched, waiting to be judged a threat.

She shakes her head; it passes. Isaac methodically folds the page in two, as though nothing at all has happened in that strange little moment between them,

"As good a reason as any to acquire one." That's probably a joke. "With all this grease they're slathering on the beasts, someone's bound to turn an ankle on their victory lap."

A punctuating crease of parchment. He lifts his brows:

"You did well for the Bronto."

Thinks that was her. More large blondes about than usual, but few with an anchor to hand.

[swordproof]

There's an edge of genuine terror about Six, the fact that he looks so very close to her memories of Halyon, so close to the person who she had loathed for so long, and it's difficult for her to rationalise. It can't be him, of course, and the more she looks the more she can see the differences between him and the man she'd known, all the parts of him that are so distinguished that she feels a little ridiculous for even imagining it in the first place.

Above that, she feels guilty. To link the two of them together, to imagine that they're the same kind of person... It seems rather cruel to a stranger.

"We can only hope they have people prepared to heal and help on hand, then." She smiles, wryly. "I hope an ankle is the worst of it all." As funny as it might be.

The compliment makes her pause, blinking for a moment, before she turns her head. Her smile is still in place but it's smaller, a little proud if anything.

"My thanks. These contests have been more of a challenge than I expected."

Market Stalls

[circleprodigy]

Market Stalls

[Having signed up for but one event -and being eliminated early- means that Inessa has plenty of time to kill. Sipping some lemonade, she listens to a market vendor expound on the merits of a cloak that has caught her eye. Apparently, it makes one stealthier and immune to the webbing of giant spiders. She looks it over, thoughtful. It's tempting, and she has the coin.

Glancing over as Garahel heads over to Six, the mabari wagging his tail and looking up at her hopefully, she smiles politely upon seeing who has his attention.] Oh, hello. Can I ask your opinion on this cloak, if you don't mind?

[She tries the cloak on, eyeing it critically as she is small (4'10") and most adult clothing needs to be altered to fit her.] Is it too long on me?

[swordproof]

[ Six has done her best in all the competitions but hasn't been as successful as she'd have liked; she's done all that she can, however, and that means she's at least proud of herself. It means that she's taken to wandering around the stalls and enjoying what there is to offer, wondering at what she might want to buy for herself.

Garahel makes Six smile and she immediately leans down to start scratching at his ears and under his chin, rubbing her hands over his head before she looks up over at his mistress, nodding her head. The woman is familiar - Deep Roads, Warden, kind and willing to talk. Things Six doesn't immediately forget. ]

Certainly. [ Tilting her head, Six looks her over, curious for a moment. ] Perhaps a little, but only by an inch or so. It should be easy to hem.

[circleprodigy]

[Garahel grunts happily at the scratching, instant adoration in his eyes. He knows to be quiet as Inessa awaits Six's assessment, and she nods, unsurprised.] I can live with that.

[Inessa informs the vendor that she'll take it, checking to see that she has the right amount in her coinpurse.] Thank you. Garahel is a fine companion, but I can hardly ask for his advice on such things.

[swordproof]

I think his skills might lie elsewhere, no matter how handsome he is. [ And it's far too easy to lean down and give him more pets; she's always found animals far more companionable than their human counterparts.

It does make Six look over the other things that are for sale, though, tilting her head curiously. ] Are cloaks the only thing you can purchase here?

[circleprodigy]

[Garahel listens to them, but he doesn't seem to mind such assessment, especially when he's still getting attention. Those pets are met with happy grunts and a lick, that tail wagging happily.

Inessa shakes her head, gesturing to the tables and racks.] Cloaks make up a good deal of the inventory, but they also sell other enchanted garb. I think he said the tooled leather gloves are enchanted to keep hands warm in cool weather, and those boots don't leave behind any tracks. Some might be rift items, as but they weren't advertised as such.

[swordproof]

[ It's desperately endearing - it's been a long time since Six has been able to wander around and be content like this, even with sore muscles and uncomfortable pressure between her shoulder blades. There's only so much physical labour you can take in a few days without some soreness being expected. ]

The boots would be useful. [ Especially since Six wants to venture out of Kirkwall and explore without being tethered to anyone. ] What is a Rift item?

[circleprodigy]

Sometimes we find scattered items near a rift; it seems they are drawn forth from elsewhere, just as people. Not all are magical, but many are of a design or function unknown to us Thedosians. Otherwise unrelated, they are often thus lumped together...much like rifters themselves, I'm afraid.

[Inessa's smile is a touch apologetic, meaning no offense. She accepts a bag for the cloak for now, hoping that perhaps Teren will teach her how to alter it.]

[swordproof]

Items like people, brought here by the same strange magic.

[ It's frustrating to think of the randomness of the Rifters, of how people are brought here seemingly without any true reason. The fact that her and her sister were brought to this place together is coincidence enough for Six to be eagerly suspicious of it, her frown settled and in place. ]

You do not have to feel bad for it. I've accepted that I am stuck here.

[circleprodigy]

I suppose that's the only real option, for now. We'll see if there are others in time.

[Garahel still whines in sympathy as Inessa tucks the bag over one shoulder.]

Are you participating in any of the tourney events, or just here to spectate?

[swordproof]

At least we are trying to do some good here, while we can.

[ She turns her head, smiling down at the dog fondly. ]

I'm taking part in as many as I am able. Unarmed, armed, joust and melee.

training

[esquive]

[There's precious little natural shade to be found out here, less even in the lots raked out between tents and arenas where practice targets and stuffed dummies have been planted for pre-match sparring. Suffice to say however, Marcoulf has found some scrap of it at the edge of the yard from which he can comfortably take in the prospective fighters without the sun bearing down on his head. Add in a respectable square of cheese and it's practically a nice day.]

Here I thought you might have had enough practice from your work at the Gallows that you wouldn't be so hard at it here.

[This said as Six has moved to the sidelines of the practice yard to strip out of her heavier armor. Apparently he's been paying attention back in Kirkwall as well. Not that she's easy to miss. Her height alone would make it a challenge.]

[swordproof]

[ Six isn't surprised that people are watching others train - it's good to either get a sense of your competition or to learn more about different styles of fighting. It's a ritual now in the wake of her time in Kirkwall; she goes out, she practices, she works and makes sure she stays in shape and she does what she can to keep herself at the level she expects herself to be.

It's rare that she pays any attention to people watching her or observing her, no matter where she might be, but she's quick to turn when she's called out. ]

The work never stops. [ She does pause, though, lifting her greatsword and placing it down to her side. ] It is worthwhile to practice each day.

[esquive]

[If he agrees with her sentiment, he hardly makes mention of it. And who can say?: to be sure,he has a sword at his hip and a knife on his belt, but he's also loitering in the shade eating off a hock of cheese. Equally true is that half the attendees of the tourney are somehow armed, which speaks less to any thoughtfulness or skill as it does it wanting to look impressive in a field. Those going without are probably of such rank that they have no need for it, or are too poor to afford the steel.

Instead Marcoulf studies her blade as she sets it aside, then glances past to the other fighters taking advantage of the space. It's glinting metal and steel, the heavy thwack of blows meeting practice targets, bright cloth and polished buckles. He shades his eyes and looks back to her.]

Which events will you fight in?

[swordproof]

[ The whole situation is one she's not entirely comfortable with; there are too many people with too many nosy words and too much interest and the crowd is large enough that she feels more on edge than she does anything else. Add that to the mercenaries - who she might have been able to be friendly with, were it not for the alcohol - and all the strange knights and mages... Six is well aware that she's out of her element and half of her training is venting her frustrations.

At least there are people willing to talk who do not seem to be going out of their way to be complete arses, which she appreciates. Her fingers brush over the hilt of her weapon before she sighs, breathing out, pushing stray hair up and away from her face and eyes. ]

As many as I can manage. [ A life of her shoulder. ] Armed, unarmed, joust and melee.

[esquive]

[At the mention of the joust, he sharpens perceptively. It's just a small thing, habitual more than consciois certainly, but he straightens by just that many degrees and automatically begins to repackage the piece of cheese back into its waxed packet. You shouldn't have your mouth full while in conversation with the sort of person who qualifies for the joust.]

You've a few full days ahead of you then. [He pauses. It's calculated in a way - as if checking the temperature of the space after he says it. She's busy, after all. He might shut his mouth so she can be about her business-- One awkwardly paced beat later:] Your arm seems strong, Lady. What will you be riding?

[swordproof]

[ Six doesn't really consider herself the kind of person that qualifies for the joust on principle - she isn't a knight, or anyone of good breeding or nobility, and her father certainly had nothing to offer her in any of those respects. Being seen as a Paladin, a guardian of her God's word, being given the gift of that kind of power... It seemed to be enough for the people of Thedas, and she accepts it for what it is. It means that she can take part in more ventures, and she welcomes that. ]

I prefer to keep busy, especially with things like these. [ She watches him for a moment, wondering and waiting. She thinks, maybe, he's done with her, and she's ready to make her move and disappear, but he continues. Pausing, she blinks, considering. ] Whatever I can find myself before the event starts.

[esquive]

[Maybe if he thought to question it, he might arrive at a conclusion that would allow for talking around cheese and melting back into the shade. But those questions (whatever they might be) are officially above his head and her answer for the rest is appalling enough to distract him from looking so far up.]

'Whatever you find?' [He balks, a flicker of real disgust there in his narrow face.] You mean no one has offered you one directly?

[She's to fight under the Inquisition's banner and has yet to even meet the animal meant to carry her? That no one has lent her theirs or found a ready ride on her behalf is unacceptable. Maker, what respectable lady has the time to hunt and peck through every picket line on her own? Frowning, Marcoulf stuffs the wrapped cheese abruptly back in his pocket.]

What do you prefer? A horse? Heavy or quick? What should his temperament be like?

[Someone should see these things are done correctly.]

[swordproof]

[ She's completely baffled by his reaction, turning her head to look at him properly, her fingers relaxing around the hilt of her sword. It seems such a silly thing to be worked up over - a horse is a horse, after all, even if she's aware of breeding and speed - but a part of her thinks she ought to appreciate the gesture. ]

I'm a Rifter. I did not think many people imagined that it would be necessary to attempt to win my favour.

[ The Inquisition has horses enough that she simply thought that she would borrow whichever one was free. There are enough to go around, after all, and there had been more brought for those that did not have their own steed. It wasn't the highest of her concerns, not when she had other areas of combat to prepare for.

She pauses at the question, looking genuinely lost. ]

A horse, certainly. Anything strong enough to carry my weight. I am used to them, so temperament is not important.

[ Six has always had a way with animals, something she's never quite managed with actual people. ]

[esquive]

But they'll gladly have whatever good will you might win their name during the competition.

[He's gone all sharpish, though it's clear the agitation has nothing to do with her and everything with how she's been so mishandled. Rifter or no, if she's been deemed an appropriate competitor for the joust then it stands she ought to have someone doing the blighted grunt work associated with it for her.]

I'll find you something appropriate today. That should afford you some time to become acquainted. [He takes a full step backward and squints at her, measuring her as she stands. She's tall enough that finding something for the length of her leg will be demand enough; it's good she's not particular on any other point.]

[swordproof]

If there is any to be made. I doubt I rank highly.

[ It's not as if she's a Rifter that has done much to benefit the Inquisition thus far - she's been on a trip to the Deep Roads and learned some things about the Darkspawn, but she's done nothing to prove herself. She's not even powerful without the support of her God, and that's something she's yet to come to terms with. She has no expectation of being treated either better nor fairly by anyone involved with the Inquisition proper.

The offer makes her frown, blinking a little as she tilts her head. ] Your kindness is appreciated, but it is not necessary. I have nothing to give in return. [ She glances down at herself - she knows finding any animal to bear her will not be easy, not with her height and her muscles. ]