faderift | MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

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.

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.

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With so much at stake as far as reputation goes, Malcolm has attempted to squeeze in as much last minute training as he can. But this spectacle is merely spectacle, and at the end of the day, it's fun and money and honor-in-name-only rather than a life or death situation.

So a few games can't hurt. They might even help. While he'll only make it to the second round of archery, his aim is still nothing to be scoffed at.

When a woman is suddenly dumping her praises on him, he has to give her a double take. That...can't possibly be Geneviève. And yet. "Ah-" How does he want to approach this? "Surely my lady will find better skills at the arenas than in mere games."

This is how she knows who has, and has not, met Geneviève. The slightly widened eyes, a second, sharper glance. A third or fourth sometimes, when she's not differentiating herself so entirely. There were perhaps some twins in the world who found this irritating, or have relegated it to a matter of course, but Alexandrie finds the brief unbalancing of the moment charming each and every time. Especially in men. Her eyes sparkle with merriment.

"Perhaps so," she agrees, her smile widening just enough to be noted, "but men go to the arenas to be seen showing their best. It may be that some like to mark who applies their skill just as diligently when no-one is watching, and some small trifle the only thing to be gained." Alexandrie inclines her head and raises her glass to take a small careful sip, eyeing him over the rim.

Aha. He's been in and around Orlais to get a fair read on her type. She's too well put-together, tidy, with a glass instead of a flask or mug, to be here truly for just the sport of it all. Schmoozing and Game playing and flirting. Probably definitely flirting. Which might be part of the Game playing. Always hard to tell.

He clears his throat. "It does pay to keep one's skills sharp in all areas it might apply. Even if merely for fun."

Winning tickets is also nice. Like a tangible way of showing off his skills. Even if he's only going to donate them later.

"Would the lady care to take a chance on a throw?"

Why, my good man, it's all part of the Game!

"A worthy pastime!" she exclaims with a small raise of her glass, "Especially if for fun, on such a fine day. How else shall we make memories to carry us through the rest of it?"

As far as the offer?

"The lady cares to take chances on all manner of things," Alexandrie replies with a brief bat of her eyelashes, lowering her glass towards her side as if reaching to set it on a nearby table. The enterprising young lad who she'd paid (quite decently she thought) this morning to follow her about for precisely this purpose zips out from the crowd to hold it for her so that she'll have a free hand for whatever it is she's meant to throw. She tilts her head playfully.

"Would the gentleman care to offer her some small instruction so that she is not terribly embarrassed in front of the whole of the gathered world?"

Of course she has someone to hold her wine for her. "I believe some might take their lumps as memory enough, but that's for those willing to brave the arenas."

But of course, they're not in the arenas, not taking lumps. They're playing games. He wets his lips momentarily and takes up a ring, handing it over to her. "There are pegs set up some distances apart worth a varying number of points. The one in the center there is worth more than the ones surrounding it, or if you'd like, the ones even farther out are worth all the more, but with less chance of actually encircling a peg if you miss." Naturally, Malcolm's been mostly going for the farthest corners for points.

"Might I suggest, you ought throw with more of a flick of your wrist rather than a full motion of the arm. But whatever the outcome, there's no embarrassment here."

"Ah, but lumps fade, my good sir, and a bit of carefree joy in the late-spring breeze may be referenced forever. Let us save our serious faces for the more serious times ahead and take what fleeting respite we may, oui?"

It is one of the perks of nobility that games of leisure are able to be well practiced, and Alexandrie has garnered from their brief interaction that the Seeker has little time or interest for bits of feminine fluff. Even so, it's a customary step in the dance that her aim be purposefully awkward on her first try, her face the picture of concentration and her wrist a little stiff as if his advice were new. The ring nearly catches one of the easier pegs, but falls off at the last moment.

"Ah! I felt as if I nearly had it," she says with just the hint of a frustrated pout, "Perhaps I shall do better if I have a chance to watch you at a toss?"

But is it the feminine fluff he's uninterested in, or merely the Game? He watches, and it's difficult to discern if she's truly just unskilled or if it's a deliberately poor throw. Always assume the latter.

He has nothing to lose by playing along, save for perhaps some dignity and a few coins to spare. So he takes up a ring with a bit more flourish than is necessary, spinning it on the end of a finger for a few moments and examining the pegs as though deciding the best bet.

And for added flourish? He switches to speaking Orlesian. His accent is clearly Fereldan, but he speaks the language fluently. "Watch closely. I will sink it in the 80 point peg and win you some tickets." He tosses the ring, and as stated, sinks it. Not the hardest peg by any means, but nor the easiest. "I fear I have been rude not introducing myself. Seeker Reed, though you may leave such titles behind and call me Malcolm. May I ask whose company I'm enjoying?"

Alexandrie claps delightedly, both for the called shot and for his use of her native tongue. "Ah! Superb!" she exclaims, switching briefly to Orlesian as well, "For your aim and this grand surprise, I shall forgive all rudeness, Malcolm." She offers him her free hand, her fingers curving down gracefully. "Lady Alexandrie de la Fontaine. I suspect you may have already made the acquaintance of my sister, Dame Geneviève?" Her eyes sparkle with mirth.

"Truly divine to be forgiven by such an esteemed lady." He follows through the motions, taking her hand lightly and bending low over it, lips gently brushing against the back before straightening up again.

"I suspect that you know very well that I am familiar with her. And I suspect you've gotten a fair number of looks, at least from those in the Inquisition. I admit I do not know her well enough to have known she has a sister." But he also suspects that she might keep that a secret, if this is what said sister is like. "A pleasant surprise."

Points to the Seeker, said sister being like this is precisely why Evie doesn't mention her.

His proper decorum is rewarded by a dazzling smile.

"A pleasant surprise on my part as well, to find the Inquisition supported by such dashing gentlemen." It was not a surprise. "I am sure that with your skill you have been in the arenas yourself?"

"I admit it's my first time being a participant in the Tourney, and I'm afraid I haven't been making as good a show as I would have hoped so far. Truly an embarrassment."

Not wholly played up for humility's sake. While he's well aware that there are people who spend their whole lives training for this, it still stings the pride a little bit. What if his father's watching? Disappointment.

"But," he continues to banish the thought, "what with doing our best to save the world from the clutches of evil, I'm sure my honour can sustain the temporary damage of not winning a game of skills."

The difficulty with those who don't play the Game is that sometimes they are genuine. Alexandrie avoids this as often as she is able, which is nearly always in Val Royeaux. There is more risk in even the briefest moment of true connection than in inviting three Bards to supper. It can prove a useful method of keeping those who do not expect it from women like her off balance, however. Still a play, still a step in the dance.

"As these games are to the arenas, so are the arenas to true conflict," she says, a bit softer, retrieving another ring. "There is glory to be gained in it, for a certainty, but often the efforts most worthy of recognition are not seen and cheered by thousands. Such is the truth of things for my sister, and I think, perhaps, you. No loss of honor, that." She tosses the ring with a practiced flick of her wrist just as he had suggested earlier, neatly encircling another of the mid-range pegs.

What tickets she wins by it are passed to the young boy who is still diligently holding her wine glass in exchange for that glass, and her smile is bright and perfect again, "I trust you will aid the Inquisition in saving Thedas, and in doing so, ensure than there will be a Grand Tourney again next year. Then you may come and show your aim again and surely regain whatever you think lost. Bon chance, Malcolm!" She exclaims melodiously and dips an elegant curtsy, before stepping back and being swallowed again by the current of attendees.

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MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

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