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

The noise in the stands has lowered to the level of the dull roar of the rest of the tourney, the air electric with anticipation as the fight below turns to cautious pacing.

"They're watching each other carefully," Nari says, "testing each other. The bear is mighty, but it's felt the bite of that sword once, and the Templar's reach is more than long enough to reward any movement it makes to close with him with more of the same." There's a scattering of gasps, some cheering, angry bear noises. "It makes a try, but has gotten nothing for it but another line in its hide." The clanking of armor against a backdrop of snarling as Simon sidesteps the beast yet again, "and another! And oh! It's making another move!"

"Let 'im have it, Ser Simon!" a pack of children hollers together somewhere behind them, prompting a ragged cheer of agreement from the whole general area. One of the children-- apparently rooting for the bear-- roars mightily, and there's a ripple of indulgent laughter.

"For--where's he from--the Inquisition!" shouts an almost certainly drunken fellow who is not a member of the Inquisition.

"He's sidestepped the charge again and--" there are some laughter and hurrahs from the crowd, and Nari chuckles, "He's punched it as it passed, a hit with both gauntlet and hilt. Each time Ser Ashlock succeeds in turning the bear away, though, its anger grows," she says suspensefully. And it sure does. Audibly. The noises of pain and frustration are getting louder every time Simon fends off the beast, eventually sliding from that pain and frustration to outright rage. Finally there's a monumental snarling roar of fury, the sound of a great collision of muscle and metal, and the stands light up with gasps and concerned cries, Nari's included. "It's charged again! He got his sword into it, but the point stuck in the bone of the bear's shoulder and the hilt of it has slipped right from his hands!" Slipped? It definitely slipped, he'd even made a second grab for it as it passed with a shout of surprise. With that and the pommel strike from earlier, it finally clicks into place. "The shine is grease, they've greased the bear!" She's been trying to figure that one out all fight. That particular triumph is short-lived, however, since Simon's been knocked to the ground.

"He's been thrown down by the charge, and his sword's gone out of reach!" For the bear has dislodged it a good yard and a half away, and is rounding to come at him again, "The bear is coming back!"

The sound of so much fur and fury colliding with an armored templar needs no explanation, and Myr's got to bite his tongue to keep from adding to the crowd's collective outcry. Doesn't strike the look of sudden worry from his face, though; that was a solid hit, and no mistaking it. Nari's ~~nariation~~ narration hardly eases his concern, from lost swords to-- "Who in the void greases a bear?" Who does that? Who gets paid enough to lather up a pissed-off animal right before sending it into the ring with perfectly good templars who--

Who have got this, he reminds himself; who've certainly faced worse than a buttery bear in the line of battle. Still, he's on his feet at thrown down, at the bear is coming back, joining his voice to their neighbors': "Get up, Ser Simon! You've got him!"

If he doesn't quite voice the title, if his tone's a little fonder on the templar's name than anyone else's--well, no one's paying much attention to anything but the spectacle on the field. One Myr'd give an awful lot to see right now, having disarmed Simon a time or two himself and knowing exactly how little that means for the end of the fight.

Myr up on his feet means Nari up on hers so that she can continue being audible, means the people behind them on theirs, and so on and so forth until their entire little area is standing and yelling encouragement to the Templar. (Except the one little girl who is still making dramatic bear noises back there in the cracks in between cheers.)

"I don't know, but I hope they were wearing as much armor as Ser Simon," Nari replies to Myr's more than likely rhetorical question, but then quickly begins to narrate again as the action resumes. "The bear is rearing up! It comes crashing down, but to no avail: Ser Simon has rolled nimbly out of the way, quick and agile even in full plate! It takes a follow up swipe at him," the scrape of claws on plate, "but he's blocked it with his gauntlet, and the slime helps him this time as the bear slides right off. He's going for his sword!" More, quicker, noises of metal clanking against both itself and ground this time rather than bear.

"He's got a hand on it, and has turned on his back to face the oncoming beast, but it's quick." Another heavy scraping thud of claw and muscle against armor. "It's brought a massive paw down on his chest, and has taken a snap with its great jaws at his helmet--" both Nari and most of the bear's roar of agony is drowned out by the elemental immensity of the crowd's approval. Then she's fair shouting in Myr's ear, "He's gotten his sword up like lightning, and the bear's bitten it instead! Hard!"

Somehow the crowd gets louder. She gets louder. "It's retreating! Ser Simon has bested it! He's on his feet again, sword and arms raised to the brilliant blue, and the stands--well, you can hear them! Inquisition pennants are bring brandished all across, waving wildly as he pulls the helmet from his head to rest it at his waist, grinning ear-to-ear." Nari's laughing now, but continues, "Someone's throwing flowers! I can't see from where, one of the high boxes. Hah! He's caught one right from the air! They won't soon forget this."

"He's done it--Maker's breath, he's won!"

There's nothing at all demure or restrained about Myr's full-throated whoop at the bear's retreat, surely loud enough to be heard down there on the ground even among all the noise of the crowd. (At least, that's his fond hope. If he can't throw flowers or take open credit for the sky-blue ribbon Simon wears around his arm, he can at least make himself heard.) His enthusiasm's a little more in check by the time he claps Nari on the shoulder, moved to unaccustomed touch by the sheer excitement of the moment.

And gratitude, beyond that. "Thank you!" He has to raise his voice to be heard over the crowd, but the fact he's nearly shouting doesn't diminish the fervent tone of the words. "Maker, Nari--that was incredible, thank you!"

She grins and returns his gesture, briefly squeezing his shoulder, and is honestly more elated by seeing the sheer excitement on her friend's face than by the actual combat-- not to say that the match hadn't been exciting, her heart was beating quick with it as well, but Myr loved Simon, and being able to give him this was better than anything that could have happened on the field.

"Come on, then, let's go congratulate the victor on behalf of the Inquisition, shall we?"

MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

cw for the rest: bear stabbing (but the bear is fine)

a fine bear, all slicked up for the dance

no subject

no subject

(open to Simon nowwww! 8D)