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

[elegiaque]

“I'm sure he's heard.” Not from Gwenaëlle, increasingly out of the habit of considering herself beholden to him—entitled to his money, certainly, if only for all the trouble, but not beholden to him. She reads his letters, but rarely if ever deigns to respond to them, and certainly hadn't sent him any word of her intentions.

But the Inquisition sent representatives from Kirkwall, and he knows her interest in the tourney, and it's not difficult math for someone who does expect her to attend. Obviously she's here.

He doesn't know she's here, watching him, and she's inclined to prefer it that way.

[limier]

"There is hearing, and there is listening." Maker willing, he will do little of the latter. A significant glance to her depleting line of ribbons, "The manservant?"

From what she's gathered, Felix Guilfoyle is still alive. Somehow. Necromantic preservation is truly incredible, but if there's another fucking fire for this trip —

The crowd roars: They're both unhorsed. Ser Manheed lifts some sort of hammer and bellows; his charger does a fancy little dance.

* i can't fucking believe you

[elegiaque]

“In attendance.” They've not spoken—what are they going to say of that last inauspicious meeting?—but she'd passed him between the tents and therefore can safely assume that Emeric has had her presence officially confirmed. She thinks he'll not try the same trick twice, and she's glad of it; Thranduil might honour her wishes where assassins are concerned, but she suspects Iorveth would have dropped him before she'd had a chance to express any. Hard to picture Guilfoyle walking away from that scenario, and she'd not see him dead at the hands of any of her loved ones.

Beyond the obvious fact that her father will doubtless have put him in the path of whatever it is finally does for him.

“He's never far.” Not now, either, though it's pages that run to their lords; she can see Guilfoyle shifting like something coiled, a stoic shadow blotting out some of the tourney's good light, observing dispassionately as Manheed* and the Comte must be satisfied with undignified tie and make way for the next at the tiltyard. The armor will need repairing, by the looks of things, and he's already dispatching a boy to, presumably, locate a decent pair of hands and a hammer.

i feel like you probably can

[limier]

"I needn't caution you against your own hands."

So she doesn't. You know. Beyond that bit just there.

"You are running thin of favours," The metaphor's too obvious to bear belabouring. People will look to wear they land; Gwen isn't a fool. She knows. "I ought have brought spares."

[elegiaque]

Rather on the nose, that, or at least so says Gwenaëlle's flat regard for as long as it lasts. Slightly too long, probably, considering the public nature of this conversation and the fact it doesn't do to be seen inclined to test one's claws on the Kirkwall Inquisition commander. She solves this problem by looking back out at the goings on of the joust, perhaps not as subtle and effective a gesture as one might hope.

“I've as many as I require,” she says, neutrally. “They're seeing good use. Today.”

[limier]

Conspicuous absence is one sort of use.

"Should he ask, I have seen you." A light shrug — "I cannot recall where."