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

wren coupe

[limier]

i.) events

She's aging, she's untrained, she's recently acquired several nasty ghast bites —

And it's still something of a bitter concession, not to try her (bandaged) hand at the tilt. Wren settles for watching the jousting intently, discussing the jousting intently, eating fried dough on a miniature jousting lance intently, and. You get it. Those looking for a friendly face in the stands will find... a face, anyway, eager to discourse on the relative merits of Montell and Bombelleux, or the armor of their mystery knight.

The other events find her closer to the ring: At any Inquisition match, practicing with those yet to compete, or passing out juiceboxes water at the break in a fight.

One of those finds her wandering the markets instead, inspecting one of the many little toy figures for sale about the action. Does that one look a bit like you?


ii.) campgrounds

The tents are big enough for four.

Or for two very large people and their equally inappropriately sized dog, and none of them offering much in the way of welcome. But if you need a space to sleep, go ahead and try your luck. If a mage and a templar can split it, probably they won’t mind another. It’s fine.

Else find her alone, occupying some disused corner of the evening, hands tangled in grimy black mane before the washbasin. A moment, face plunged underwater — a moment too long, then much too long. Bubbles stream from an open, screaming mouth; silenced for the surface.

Probably that’s fine too.


iii.) party

The Tourney's a big deal: Wealth congregates. Bargains are struck. Faces are shown. Wren, for her part, is trying to avoid that shit.

She's been going easy on the bottle for the better part of a week (hangovers aren't a help for brothers in law, or bludgeoning your opponents), but tonight's been one long slide out of the shadow of sobriety. She veers abruptly close — either alone, or trailing some persistent so-and-so in her wake —

"We need to speak."


iv.) wildcard

[ hmu on plurk if you have any questions or need any info! ]

ii

[inagutterson]

"Preudame fuck off!"

Except it sounds friendly, if muffled, by a dwarf Wren knows as Yngvi is accosted by a dog that has no right being large enough for him to ride, and all because he's been stuffing himself full of food because he paid a lad (bright spark, thinks he's going to go far, Yngvi'll help him on his way since he's got three incomes coming in unlike most) to go looking after the nugs so he has extra pockets. "That ain't for you, is it? Not 'til I check with--"

And he's in, barrelling through with all the grace of an overgrown ragamuffin like him has. (In years, obviously, not height, I mean look at him, how many urchins has Wren met personally with height and girth on this lad.) "D'you eat? Snagged these turkey legs but I dunno what sort of turkey they came off, must've been from summat out a swamp or the other other side of Par Vollen I reckon, the size of them. Did 'em up in all these spices and batter, more ginger than your fancy piece."

There's a metaphor in there, maybe, Yngvi is too young and not in amongst this scene to find it as he thrust out a thigh at Wren and hurry up, grab it because he cannot hold things higher than your bloody dog's head and he does have stuff for the dog but this is not how he dies.

[limier]

It’s not quite enough warning.

There’s a stomping dog, there’s a stomping dwarf, there’s a fried turkey leg and — right, grabbing that, hands off buttons and onto a drumstick.

"Yngvi," She says, like someone who should have expected this exact circumstance, possibly from the moment they first spoke. Possibly she should move off Gervais, possibly that would be easier if the mabari weren’t about to toothlessly maul her for the leg. And,

No. There goes the dog, distracted by turkey grease dripping onto a shirtless chest. Preudame shoves herself between them to began lapping at ginger and fancy piece alike. Nice cold dog tongue. You’re welcome.

"Perhaps it is dragon." This is a faintly desperate suggestion. Yes. This is what we’re talking about. "They must do something with the tourney stock."

[dissono]

The fancy piece in question has never in his life felt such a powerful desire to grasp his shirt (which is not within easy reach, between dog and woman and ordinarily tolerable dwarf) and pull it against his chest like some damsel. Or to wipe turkey grease from it.

It's fine, Preudame's taking care of that—in the interests of not being covered in turkey grease, she's more or less done before he actually pushes her head away from him with one firm hand. Madam.

Madams.

Yngvi.

Maker.

“T-t-t-t-oo small.”

...to be a dragon leg. Despite its impressive size. Sure, this is what we're talking about. He's never lost an erection faster in his life.

[inagutterson]

Well Yngvi for one is scandalised in the way one can only be when they thought they were strolling in to see a friend and not taking a sharp left turn into some den of iniquity.

It's not that it's Wren. Well it's a little bit that it's Wren, because of what Wren is. Templars don't do this--

"I've seen the Void," he can hear himself saying. There aren't even any walls for him to stagger back against, only tents, that one time someone went into the wrong tent in a Boneflayers setup then brought the whole thing down on proceedings, entangled amongst it. "I've seen the Void and it's a man's nipple."

Also this is like-- if he were to sit down, to put all the pieces of everyone's lives together he could be even more appalled about it. Because it's Wren. His lady's uncle. The whole mess there. Emeric's here on what Yngvi had thought was going to be a horse too fat to ride only he's been disappointed there because of course he has, of course. This is the plot of one of Yngvi's cheap paperbacks where the Templar and the Mage fall in love, and there are as many volumes as there are schools of magic (and the one for blood magic is appropriately hard to get hold of, and it's the really wild one too) but Templars aren't meant to. Not actual Templars. They just pray the sin away. This is what he learnt in the dark from the Carta are you going to come into his head to dispute the teachings of all his parents.

(Do that, punch Einar in the face he more than deserves it.)

"Mate," Gervais, he is trying so hard but you've strolled right into that one, kicked the bloody door in and shot firebolts out your arse too. Only there's Wren. And a dog. And Yngvi's spleen nearly bursts holding the laughter in. "How d'you know about dragons, you even seen a real life dragon that isn't him whose name we don't speak?"

[limier]

"Miniature." She shifts to stand, stoops again to collect the shirt, toss it Gervais' way. The mood's well and gone, he might as well have a napkin for the Void. "The — dragons. The miniature ones."

A gesture punctuated with the turkey leg. Oh. That's still there, like a conductor's baton for enormous slobbering dog. She takes a bite, continues with mouth full:

(That ought to put them all on the same level of intelligible speech.)

"All over the bloody Gallows. Now this," Pausing to regard the drumstick and chew, she claps a hand to Yngvi's shoulder, possibly to ensure he doesn't keel over or bolt. "This is a better use."

And substantially more thoughtful than not telling him about any of that until bursting in for a look. At least her own tits weren't hanging out. Yet.

"You have been acquainted with —" 'The Enchanter' is probably. Weird. Under the circumstances. "— Monsieur Vauquelin?"

Nailed it.

ii

[eruit]

There's a sense of awkwardness that settles around Hanzo when he sees Wren around the tents. Travelling together before had been an awkward and painful affair even before the kidnapping and they had stepped into something even worse - and Hanzo can remember that vividly. He had not been harmed, he had not been branded, he had not been marked, but there's an edge of something that haunts him, an edge of something tense that coils his shoulders together and tenses him up.

He had been so close to being trapped in the hands of the Shimada empire. They would not have treated him kindly, and he can feel the fear prickling at his skin all over again.

He approaches when the scream is done, hovering by the side, before he breathes out. His eyes flick to her hand and there's a twist of something in his stomach - almost like guilt, but not quite reaching the depth that Hanzo already feels on a regular basis - before he shakes his head.

"Do you fare well?"

[limier]

She does not.

"Mssr. Shimada," Wren braces against the basin, coughs up a trail of water. Smoothes her face into something like neutrality. The skin of her fist pulls tight and shiny with new burn; the marks of the brand muddling, half-visible. "The Tourney has been a sight, no?"

Which isn't an answer, but she turns, looks to take him in — and closer now, it's easier to see the redness about her eyes. Wet only for the water. Of course.

"I must apologize our business in Minrathous so abrogated." Rather, the manner in which it had. To be bound and sacked for hostage is little finer treatment, and to so new an ally. It's half a wonder he hadn't left of their incompetence. A sense of duty, perhaps, or the lack of alternatives; she's had no time to look into the Shimadas, but what word's crossed the border is unkind. Venatori. "If you require assistance in seeing your affairs done, resources will be given."

The least she can do. Especially if it means not talking about the latest disaster in this fuck of a year.

[eruit]

Clearly she is not well. Hanzo does not feel foolish for asking - it's a way into a conversation and kinder than anyone else of his ilk might have been.

He doesn't bother offering her something to dry herself, something to settle herself down. She is a woman strong enough to care for herself and she does not need his pity. The bow strapped around his back glows faintly, for a moment, twin spirits urging him to be kind, to be gentle, but he ignores the urge, ignores the swell of magic under his fingertips. Spirit Magic is tricky and with a decade and a vow between him and his last use he is not keen to repeat any experiments.

"It is something to behold. I have never visited one before." Which is true enough. The Shimada family were too underground and too dark to be involved in anything with this kind of spotlight, no matter how powerful they are.

The offer, at least, is a kind one, and not one Hanzo expects. There's an urge, something desperate and intense, making him want to accept it, to allow himself to go back to Tevinter, even for an hour, to let his eyes drag over his homeland even for a few seconds... But the risk is not worth the cost. There are people that would see him and know him and he could be returned to elders who would cut off his head before they welcome him home.

"That will not be necessary. I joined the venture because it was an opportunity, not because it was a necessity." There are worse ways it could have ended. He could have been left like Genji. He was not. "But I appreciate the offer."

[limier]

A nod, brief. She won’t press: If he doesn't wish a return, so be it. They lack the men and money to insist.

"Myself, neither."

Hasn't visited one of these before. There’s a sight of difference between the village toughs trading punches about harvest-time, and the Tourney's sprawling grandeur. Val Royeaux attracted contest enough, of course; chevaliers, and mercenaries, and all manner of stranger breed.

But there was always work to do.

"My grandfather used to speak of it — the Comte had placed, many years ago." And few the kind words of that lord otherwise. "An archer, as I understand it."

Her chin tips aside, the better to regard him. There are nobility enough of the Imperium without magic to their blood; even the oldest families don’t always breed true. Difficult to imagine he’d not have reached for a spell when cornered, were it so.

A moment’s consideration. She beckons him closer:

"I need ask a favour. I will not take your refusal amiss."

[eruit]

It is not something he needs right now; he does not need to return to Tevinter. It had been a dream, not something that he needed to live.

"It was not worth the risk, I think."

But it was something he had wanted. Even now he can picture his home, his manse, the long hallways, the doors, the library. The place where he had studied and learned, the place where he and his brother had sparred - the place where Genji had died. It hurts to think of it.

Hanzo listens, tilting his head, watching her for a moment before he nods. He doesn't know much about her, doesn't know much of the world of the Inquisition before he had come to join it, but he does what he can. The fact that he has not been accosted, the fact that he has not been glared down as being a Magister... That's enough for him.

He doesn't hesitate as he moves closer, keeping his head held high, watching with a careful flick of his gaze. Magic burns under his skin, but he swallows it down. In control, as ever, and no one can accuse him of anything else.

"... What do you want?"

iii.

[esquive]

She's not the only one who's been drinking. There's been no good reason for why he shouldn't and plenty reason for, which a moment ago had seemed perfectly reasonable and now evaporates entirely as he rounds his way up from the raucous edge of the Inquisition's neighbors to find himself nearly nose to nose with his commanding officer.

Marcoulf balks as if struck. If the blood drains from his face, there can be no noticing it. The light here is poor, isn't it? He puts it from his mind and focuses very hard on where his heels meet the ground. It's fine. He bears absolutely no resemblance to a farm dog caught with chicken feathers in its mouth.

"Ser?"

[limier]

"Ricart, A hand finds his shoulder, grips a more tightly than needful — "Good man, good man."

Distracted. Clearly, as they've exchanged no more than cursory glances and names on personnel files until now. Bit of a slack face on the sorry fellow, isn't it? Could do with a square meal or four.

But those files say horses and handy with a sword,

"We are putting to teams for the melee," Will field a few, with any luck. "I would have you for mine."

Not without cause. Someone has to make sure Karahalios doesn't get brained with a mace, the great useful moron, and a man with an eye to his mount may own greater investment in its medic.

[esquive]

To his mind, there can only be a short list of items for which she might possibly need him. They are, all of them, posts at particular edges of the Inquisition's camp, or the need for an extra hand to accompany some scout to run a message, or... --putting a shoe on a horse? Something that involves standing with a sword while wearing the Inquisition insignia. The fact that she asks for none of those and apparently knows his name well enough to call him by it shocks the obvious answer from him:

"If you like."

It's rote agreement. Under what circumstances might he have refused? None, he thinks, though he can feel some wild suspicion breeding under the skin already. It's a good opportunity and maybe he's just in the right place at the right time, says a hungry sensible part of him. The rest forms him into sharp, uneasy lines under her too firm grip.

"Who else is with you?"

That's a better question than 'Why?'.

[limier]

"The elf. Fingon. And the doctor — horse doctor — Karahalios,"

Someone stumbles past at rapid pace, laughing, and tosses half their drink in the process. Wren stops short, not short enough. The stutter of motion, a rough aggravated sound. Her eyes shut, free hand rises to curl, unwind again.

Breathe deep, kids.

"Karahalios," Evenly, as though neither of them's newly-soaked in wine. "To my knowledge, she has never held a blade."

iii

[circleprodigy]

Inessa's been a little less careful with wine during the tourney, but she's still relatively sober when Wren finds her and Garahel. She's resting against her mabari, who is snoozing after a tough day of playing with children, getting treats, and overstimulation galore. Looking up, she smiles to see Wren and nods, already curious.

"You have my undivided attention. What's on your mind?"

[limier]

It's a little too late to indicate the man drinking not far behind Inessa — who takes advantage of the momentary halt in Wren's step to vanish into the crowd. It's Manheed's lucky night.

"Ah," Ah fuck is hardly appropriate, and Maker if she isn't a bit slow to think up an alternative. "Ah."

More than a bit slow. It's been a long evening.

[circleprodigy]

It has been, and Inessa is pretty understanding of that fact, in light of the fact that she's pretty sure Wren doesn't get many opportunities to unwind. She listens patiently, then pats the patch of ground beside her.

"If you don't mind some mabari snoring, you're welcome to join me. I won't demand great conversation skills, not when none of us are quite sober." Some less than others. Inessa has switched to tea by now, figuring she's reached her limit.

i

[tactical_alert]

Speaking of jousting, only two of the Inquisition move on, with Kain putting on a damned good show for it. Malcolm feels no shame in being knocked out, even if he's annoyed at the good knight's proclamations that his celibacy is what keeps him sharp.

After a turn at the healing tent, just to make sure nothing is broken, he comes back to watch the rest of the matchups. He moves deliberately and slowly. Sore. He'll be sore for a few days, a good sore. Well-earned.

"Ah. Ser Coupe."

They've been--awkward would be a kind word to use. Ever since setting his foot down about Cade. (And while Cade earned more points in archery in the second round, neither of them moved on. He'll allow the boy his vague shred of honor on that point.) But he bears little ill toward her even so.

"Overhear any betting pools on the identity of the mystery knight?"

[limier]

"Seeker," Detached, if thawed significantly of the year prior. The problem's never been one of Harrimann, but of Darton, and with him at business elsewhere, no purpose in pressing. Provided Reed doesn't start knocking around her recruits, "Bloody Antiva, isn't it always."

As though she's ever seen another tourney in her life. A glance aside: Acknowledgment, and an eye to any potential injury,

(That had been a hard hit.)

But all seems well enough.

"Speaks little," The Dragon. Facts of them largely elude, as any mystery knight's should. Dryly, "Which need rule out our own. And places us without accent — a compelling puzzle, no? Perhaps we might make a wager of it."

[tactical_alert]

Oh, he's certainly moving slowly and gingerly, even if he's trying not to let that show. Honestly, he might be here in the stands just to duck out of view of a healer who wants him to go back and rest, damn it- But he's hardly dying and he's moving. So. Good enough, as he takes a seat.

"The only Dragon I know anything of is Kain, and even he wouldn't go for so gaudy a set of armor. He's gotten this far, so he's no amateur." Just wait until he gets rekt immediately though. "A flair for the dramatic. Affinity for dragons. Dark, brooding, mysterious. I'd say Tevinter."

iii

[doneisdone]

"Ser Coupe."
Teren has been hard to find throughout the whole ordeal, but scarce is her preferred way to be. It's by pure chance that Wren runs into her, ghosting from one side of the room to another, but the Templar receives a tired smirk that verges on fond.
"About what, I can only imagine." You drunk bitch

[limier]

She shakes her head — shakes off a heckler in the process (ghasts, really?) —

"Hardly matters," There are two mugs in hand, and she passes the second over without ceremony. "You'd not answer me, regardless."

On any topic. Apparently that's alright, because she settles in place at her side to survey the room.

"No one will remember this." The night, perhaps, or the tourney. The Inquisition. The morning after. The next five years. "The sage leaves wither, so they etch it onto a sword. As though steel does not rust."

[doneisdone]

Teren takes the mug, but doesn't drink from it yet. Recent events have left her sober in more ways than one, and she doesn't find much enjoyment in becoming inebriated, not lately.
"True," she muses, sniffing at the drink and then taking a modest sip, raising an eyebrow as Wren goes on. "Then why bother?" she asks idly, "who cares?"

[limier]

She stares into the cup a moment.

"I do not know," Isn't this a fun conversation, you're welcome Teren. Life of the party here. "I do not know how you do not."

She knows better than that. Teren cares, if in her particular, halting way. But it's out of her mouth before it can be unsaid.

"We've death upon all sides and no one —" A frustrated little gesture, clipped for the pull of raw skin. "— It would be so much easier, to not care. It is such a waste to."