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

coconut shy

[dirth]

There is something terribly enjoyable about watching Lady Morrigan struggle with something that children enjoy in their free time, all because she has someone she wants to give a gift to. Solas isn't quite above the nastiness of watching someone he's not entirely fond of suffering needlessly, but he does acknowledge that at least she is trying. She is more successful than some of the patrons that he's come across so far, at least, and that's to her merit.

Dressed a little more finely than he has been before - a shirt of fine fabric in a pale grey, high-collared, with a motif embroidered around that collar that clearly took its inspiration from his jawbone necklace - Solas approaches casually, striding up to stand before her and stare out at the coconut shy, as though his interest is in the game alone and not the woman trying so valiantly to best it.

"I did not take you for the type, Lady Morrigan."

[arcaneadvisor]

They've passed in halls more than likely, or names have been mentioned but her own work and a dislike that borders on distrust when it comes to the Gallows keeps Morrigan away from it for the most. Not content with Sundermount but she'll take it.

(Kieran gives him a look that has Morrigan stopping before she throws, the looks her son reserves for Wardens. For Thranduil in the days before he lived a Hightown life. A look uncomfortable to be beneath she'd imagine.)

"I have a son not yet too old to be swept up in his first tourney." If Alistair and lessons of swords and shields, of archery feed this then Morrigan welcomes it. (Just a boy won't hold much longer, too many summers in him for that.) "Better this than him eyeing a horse and a lance."

Throwing comes better when she's irritated, tightens the focus. Her face, she imagines, must look more like Coupe's.

[dirth]

Solas does not allow himself to look at Kieran for too long - it feels too much, too dangerous, and his focus is entirely on Morrigan herself. While he's not entirely aware of the nature of her son there is something... Something, and he is not prepared for what might happen to his own secrets should he even consider investigating the matter.

At least there is some effort being made at being companionable, despite their differences. The games don't seem too challenging at first watch, he thinks, but he's sure there is some sort of rigging, some kind of cheat to make it so that whoever takes part cannot win whichever prize they truly want. Thus, they earn more gold.

It's endearing, to see her so determined to win something for her boy.

"But next year?" Solas hums, considering, arms crossed behind his back. "Will he compete next year?"

[arcaneadvisor]

One coconut wobbles. Wobbles enough that it should fall and yet…

Morrigan breathes sharply through her nose, tosses her remaining ammunition in her hand and considers her strategy. No one is rushing her. Either reputation or garb or her staff are enough that she's being left alone to take her time with this. She isn't quite at the level of cheating yet but it might get to that as she looks to Solas, then Kieran, and back again, as if she'd never considered the possibility. (Because it's not. Destiny doesn't allow for the road to turn left, and she turns her face away to hide the tightness of her mouth at what cannot be until it passes.)

"He only picked up a bow Satinalia last." Remarkably no one has been shot in the foot or the arse (not even a graze that she knows of). "Tourneys are not in his future. We might yet have more than enough rifters trying their luck with what weapons they think to turn their hands to while he makes himself ready. Provided he and I are still here."

Which might be saying too much or it might not. So long as the Inquisition persists, Morrigan will remain, but it's been thrashing about rather more embarrassingly than usual of late, enough that she's taken note from where her head is usually buried in her own studies. Another benefit of Sundermount life: she isn't actually in amongst the clamour when it inevitably comes.

"And you? Are you part of Thranduil's efforts to get a rise out of Coupe?"

[dirth]

The game is unwinnable, surely, Solas thinks, but if there was anyone determined enough to find a way...

Solas is watching, true enough, but he has no intention of pushing Morrigan too far today. As much as their discussions can frustrate and irritate - her misguided intentions when it comes to elven history being an area that will never stop making him clench his teeth - he cannot deny that she is a wise and curious woman. Add her son into the equation and there is no means for Solas to keep his distance, not when there is so much he still needs to learn and adjust to.

"Soon, then." It's not that he thinks he ought to be pushing him one way or another - that isn't his place, as he is no relation to the child itself - but because it is the way of the world. Soon he'll be of an age where those games might seem more enjoyable than reading and study... But, true enough, Solas doesn't know the boy that well. Perhaps he'll be proven wrong. Perhaps there is something else in the future for him, something that Solas cannot yet see. Time, whatever they have of it, will tell.

"Rifters are trying to prove their worth. I see no issue with that." They're trying to prove their existence to be worthwhile, to have merit, that they are real and important beings. Solas can respect that, if nothing else - they are giving their all to a cause that, for the most part, they all believe in. Given the current situation that the Rifter mages are facing he doesn't think that they can be blamed. They have to prove that the Inquisition can trust them, much as he had been forced to do the first time that he had been entangled with them so many months ago.

The question startles him, though.

"Me? No. I have no talent for sport like this." Not quite a lie, but not quite a truth either.

[arcaneadvisor]

At least the past few months Morrigan's hardly been a contributor to anything, she's not even spoken to the pair leading efforts now because what do you say when you stumble across blasphemy you can't just unleash upon the Inquisition?

Morrigan might have her opinions, but she's no fool about the most recent discoveries held in her hands. In time. When all the pieces are there, when Thranduil isn't trying to stop everyone from tearing the whole Inquisition apart she'll be able to sit with him to know how best to phrase it but now...better to not be there than to risk what's caught in her throat worse than any fish hook.

"I'd need to ask Alistair, he's the master of arms." No malice there in her tone. A warmth. A fondness. But that's what old friends do, teach the child of the other something that need to be taught. Only it's probably a way for them to have 'just us two guys time' and recently it involved a most dubious cake so who even knows what actually goes on in those lessons unless that's normal, Morrigan doesn't ask after the arcane mysteries of arms lessons.

"And if one causes an upset with the traditionalists? Blaming the anchor in their hand for knocking them back, throwing a fit for a demon besting them? I've spent much time with them, learning of their worlds, their magics: 'tis truly fascinating, all that might overlap or mirror our own, yet around some of these?" It's almost a wince (Jester made an impression, Jester and her gift for words Morrigan absolutely did not encourage whoever says otherwise is slandering her good name) but there were rumours that circled her the whole time she existed in Orlais, and she a mage. An apostate, yes, but a mage has ever been a known quality of strangeness, of oddity. "What is a rifter to them? A demon parading with the dread Inquisition? Flaunting itself? So long as none of them set a visiting chevalier on fire we're likely to make it out mostly unscathed."

(Mostly.)

"There's nothing you've entered for at all in the tourney?" There's frost creeping over Morrigan's palm because fuck you vendor, it'll be gone after she's lobbed this thing at the coconut.

[dirth]

You tell them that you had nothing to do with it, certainly, and then act as though it is something that you can solve. Solas knows that Morrigan has not been as tangled up as she might have been before, but he has not pressed into the mater; not yet, at least, because there is no benefit for him to investigate just yet. Let her find the information she needs and then he will devour it.

There are too many secrets in this organisation, Solas thinks, and too many things that might come out and destroy all the things they have worked for. Each new member, each new Rifter with a shard of the Anchor in their hand, brings more danger, more trouble, more tension. There can be no permanent promises for the future and he is aware of that; all he can do is try to discover what he can and use it to his best advantage somehow.

"I am sure he has a proper education arranged, or the plans for it." Something like that, at least. Solas and Alistair have interacted very little, to be truthful, but he imagines that the Master of Arms would have some preparation in mind, especially with a child as important and unique as this boy is surely to be in his eyes. At least it seems that they are getting along well - not something to be seen in most working relationships in the Inquisition.

"Let them be upset." Solas lifts a shoulder. "Many people fear that which is unknown to them and damn themselves in the process." He thinks of the Exalted Plains, thinks of his friend, murdered, killed, because mages were foolish and ignorant. "As long as they are under the protection of the Inquisition they should be deemed safe enough. I have seen nothing to suggest that they are any more dangerous than you or I might be." Which isn't saying much, considering the two of them might be considered quite dangerous indeed.

He shakes his head, arms crossing behind his back.

"I had no interest in any of the contests. I would much rather watch others engage."

[arcaneadvisor]

Local witch finds Dalish murder cult with two Chantry loyalist types and thousand or so year old rifter elf. Also there are no gods. There's no good spin on that, and Morrigan likes to get some semblance of sleep at night when she's done glaring up at the mountain her mother flew off from, after the squinting and cursing, without wondering if she'll get a knife or an arrow or a succession of angry invective directed at her.

Then there's-- well there's all that there is in her lap that maybe shouldn't be there. Pauses before she speaks. Thanks in no small part to Thranduil at times.

"And mankind is quick to trample it beneath its feet, though today it has horse and lance should it take the mind to do so. There are precious few I have taught the magic my mother taught me yet even when that is from this world, 'tis abhorrent enough to have been all but forgotten." If it even lasts outside her students remains to be seen, some of them are gone now taking it with them perhaps to their deaths in the end have they not the inclination nor talent to teach. "One girl spoke of impossible magic," yet not so impossible (thanks Coupe) "to a stranger lightly. To some they do not know what danger is."

Even the deer lying low in the grass or the sheep pressed tight to the flock knows danger. Knows it in some part of them that knows the world but Morrigan has listened of late, and wondered at those sticking their necks in the noose willingly.

Or she's too much the thing that got away and knows how to keep herself that way.

"Anyone in particular you wager success on? Will the spirits speak of this?" It's not particularly facetious of Morrigan, no more than the usual but given the unexpected party entered, she wouldn't be surprised if other eyes are drawn.