faderift | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He hasn't been--avoiding, exactly, everyone else who'd gone on that near-doomed mission to the Anderfels. There's been plenty of reasons why--they've all been busy, what with the Inquisition's on-going mission, the unexpected fallout of the mage strike, the never-ending parade of little tasks and minor disasters that need handling.

But all the same, he's not had a real chance to talk to Prompto beyond pleasantries since the battle with Lupeo, and that's a shame. A shame to be rectified, and to that purpose he shows up one morning wherever the young rifter might be found, a couple of fresh churros in hand. "Good morning! Have you had breakfast yet?"

Prompto smells the churros before he even hears Myr. His nose leads him to turn around, and doing so he almost collides with the poor elf. Luckily Prompto manages to step back and avoid the collision. But once settled, he grins. "Hey. Uh, no I haven't, actually. The smell's got my stomach growling."

Wordlessly (and grinning back), Myr holds out one of the churros--mostly in the right direction, too. He forebears from saying anything until Prompto's taken it and had a chance for a bite, chew and swallow.

"Good thing I bought two," guileless as if he hadn't planned this all along, as ever. "Want to go somewhere a little quieter with these? We've not talked in a while." And he'd like the opportunity to catch up, his tone says.

Prompto takes it with a murmured "thanks" before biting into it. Omnomnom. It's pretty damn good, judging by the pleased noises coming from his mouth.

"Yeah!" he agrees after he finally swallows. "That'd be nice. It has been awhile, huh? Not since..." The Anderfels. Prompto looks down at his churro. "Yeah."

"Since our last mission, yeah." The words are warm and gentle with empathy; Myr, after all, had been avoiding the topic as much as anyone else, ginger as a man with an infected wound.

But perhaps they're at the point where that does more harm than good. "I think," he says, after a moment to orient himself--would be nice if he could put up marker glyphs here, but the greater population of Thedas is altogether less comfortable with magic than the Inquisition is-- "There's a sort of shaded patch someone's set up with chairs off over that way." His gesture's in... roughly the right direction, at least. "Don't think it will be too busy while everyone else is about breakfast."

It's been something of a taboo subject among many of those who were on it. Prompto and Saoirse managed to hash things out, but most everyone else seems tight-lipped. Understandably so, given what happened.

Prompto looks around for the area he mentions. Off a ways he sees what he believes to be that spot. "Yeah, I see it. It's down a ways, past some stalls ahead. Not far at all." He gently places a hand on Myr's elbow, quietly offering to lead him over there. "Chow down on these and get out of the sun."

In one way, it felt strange to be so reticent about it; Myr's never been too shy talking about a mage's demon-haunted dreams. What's different about one more, albeit in a dream a little more lucid than the usual run of things? They'd won, after all, and gotten out with everyone alive and unpossessed.

In another, it's not so strange at all. Dreams--nightmares--were private things not meant for the consumption of others; Lupeo had torn something open in all of them, left them vulnerable in ways none of them would have chosen.

It does not do so much to dwell on it. "Excellent idea. Lead on," Myr says brightly, in tacit acceptance of the help. "Not that I'm minding the sun so much; it's homey, after Kirkwall's damp."

Though he'd not begrudge anyone the chance to get out of it, even this early in the day. As he'd surmised, there are plenty of open chairs in the little seating area, some of them already pulled together in nice little conversational groups. They'll have no trouble taking one away from too many other listening ears.

It might not have been as bad for Prompto, had Lupeo shown nearly anything else but that. A lot of things in his life he'd cop to: his childhood, his friendship with Noctis, his travels and what they all had endured. But what he'd learn at that facility: about himself and what he was, that had shaken him and he'd been so worried about telling anyone about it. Luckily, the damage only went so far as Myr and Saoirse, but still.

Whatever his thoughts, they're hidden under his usual smile as he leads them to the spot. "These look comfy," he says, remarking on the chairs and letting Myr know they'd arrive. "Got one right in front of ya." He takes a seat right next to it, ready to help if need be. "The sun is nice, though, I'll give you that. And no rain. I like living by the ocean and all but the dryness is nice. I missed it."

MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

for prompto!

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