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

[arcaneadvisor]

Despite having not checked but feeling reasonably assured in her assumption given the events, the competitors, the food, and the alcohol, Morrigan is prepared for the possibly funeral announcements to come. Possibly. Hopefully. (A witch might have placed a quiet bet, most discreetly, and with a staff that curls and flickers with cold as Yavanalis does, who would dare tell a soul of it?) Between them they cover the occasion and catch the eye, such as--

"Yes," Morrigan agrees after a moment since there's the dress to place it against. "Perhaps not with that gown, hard to imagine what else would go well that doesn't already."

Of course there's a wardrobe no doubt bursting at the seams somewhere so there's bound to be something.

"A Warden if we have any luck, we could stand to lose a few of those. Too many fools who fancy their chances emboldened with wine or ale? When was the last time we stood the same chance? The Winter Palace?" And well, no one who mattered enough in the grand scheme died when they could have had a good run at it then, unfortunately. "To be away from that city even if this place smells of horse and the unwashed, with your company? It's been far too long, shall I submit a complaint to the Provost?"

Complaints to her mother about having to chase clues to her whereabouts would be howling into the wind, the usual bi-monthly ritual.

[elegiaque]

Paying for her new wrap—paying more than it's worth, probably, but while haggling is common enough in these markets it always feels a little tacky to participate herself when the sums asked are in the main similarly negligible to her purse—Gwenaëlle laughs, sunny as the sky and waiting for her purchases (there were a few other things, of course there were) to be wrapped,

“It would go thusly,” she says, adjusting her shoulders and looking not down her nose but long-sufferingly up at the heavens, adopting an uncanny mimic of Thranduil's most put-upon airs: “My dear lady Morrigan, it is entirely new information to hear that I have the slightest influence over Mademoiselle Baudin's movements—”

She can't do accents, but the intonation is just right; the flaws sort of improve the overall impression.

“No, but I've missed you terribly. Even if no one dies,” tragedy, “what an outing.”

[arcaneadvisor]

There's a bolt of cloth, not large but enough for a skirt, maybe more it depends how the mood strikes that Morrigan buys for herself, folded over her arm to watch. Kieran is talking to some knight or rather he's talking to his horse, and the knight is being very biddable about it. After that message in the Sunless Lands-- well a woman wonders when the laughter comes back, when the ugliness slips away.

"I can see that constipated look," she's laughing too, creases at the corners of her eyes (it comes to us all, Flemeth's immortality isn't youthful porcelain vigour). "There's some part of a bat they'd grind down for that with herbs."

Only the Chasind best for Thranduil.

"Some chevaliers will finally be set on fire, no one comes to pester with foolish questions, and the possibilities are quite endless." And Kieran won't shut up about this for a month and he's been a little off since she got back so another win. "Are there any terrible persons I should know? Or, a chance to speak of anything we've missed where no one is listening at a door."

Minus her ignoring your father except for how he suddenly sobered right the fuck up.