faderift | MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

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.

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You are an optimist, ( she allows, slightly amused by his willful obtuseness. none of the strangers come for miles to see the tourney and now cheering for galadriel have been privy to anything more of her than her pretty face, solas, but good try pretending not to have noticed it yourself. )

I suspect in Skyhold she's still 'that troublemaker'.

( now that gwenaëlle doesn't think of her that way, she gets a little bit of a kick out of it. galadriel seems so very mild, right up until she doesn't.

one of iorveth's arrow lodges firmly in the target and she grabs solas's arm without thinking, derailed in her thought by cheering with the rest of the crowd. look, cousins have to stick together and all, but he is wearing her ribbon. )

You would be one of the few to say so. [ It's very easy to deny any interest in her, mostly because his own interest is locked behind his own mantle of jealousy and focus on the future. There is very little Solas is willing to admit to anyone, even someone he is on friendly terms with, especially when the two of them are out in the open. ]

I would imagine so. Kirkwall is different. A fresh start for some, perhaps.

[ He'd be willing to say more but a hand reaches out and grabs his arm and Solas' attention is caught by the person performing. Ah - he recognises the face, impossible to dismiss from his memory. Someone from one of the more recent set of Rifters to arrive, an elf that he had helped in the battle against Red Templars.

Someone Gwen is supporting. Curious.

He turns his head to focus on the contest, letting her have his arm for as long as she pleases. ]

A friend of yours?

Iorveth, ( by way of agreement. what interesting friends gwenaëlle is making, lately, thranduil surrounding her with elves upon all sides. and oh, she's already heard what whispers follow her skirts when she walks past the orlesian tents, can imagine what is being spoken of her elsewhere—never knew her place and now she's been taken down a peg or twenty she's rolling in it, is that it—

well, fuck 'em, that's what. ) Iorveth, he's one of the newer rifters.

( they might've met, she isn't sure. and it's probably obvious what he is, hard to take an elf like that for a local, but still. what's to say, precisely, about the nature of that friendship?

she seems to remember she's still holding his arm; pats it slightly awkwardly, smooths out his sleeve where her grasp had rumpled it, and offers him an only mildly abashed smile. she is very enthusiastic. )

I met him once. [ Solas is not entirely unaware of the whispers and rumours that surround Kirkwall - being a native elf allows for you to be overlooked rather often, even if he is one of the elves that is known to be more than just a common servant - but he doesn't pay too much attention to them. Rumour is one thing, but he knows that most that surround Gwen is not based in reality or truth and he refuses to dignify it with his attention.

He has more respect for her and Thranduil than that.

Solas says nothing about her enthusiasm - at least there is something to bring her joy here. He himself is tense and uncertain, on the brink of turning his attention and going somewhere else, if only because the knowledge of who knows what about him hangs heavy around him. ]

He is doing quite well.

[ Better to turn the conversation away from himself. ]

( gwenaëlle, for her part, knows only that he's been troubled lately; that thranduil keeps a confidence of his, that it's a matter between them. she trusts her husband, respects that silence—takes to heart the suggestion that solas might do well for friends. she knows silence, even if she doesn't know his; knows how much it can mean, for someone to stand at the other side of it and still hold out a hand.

it's such a little, easy thing to do for someone she's found so easy to become fond of. and acutely relevant, when more than she'd like of what's said of her lately has enough truth in it to wound. she's grateful not to face that alone; it's natural to think her circle shouldn't face their troubles that way, either.

but they don't have to talk about it. talking about people's feelings is the fucking worst, so she's more than happy to shift and discuss others: )

He's exceptional. Thranduil introduced us, ( is in fact not how that actually went, ) he's a credit to the Scoutmaster. Although I think he said he's giving his wins to Research, for the sake of that bet, since she's poorly and her second is fucking de Fonce.

( who gave her a falcon. who does that? )

Who gave me a falcon. What am I going to do with a falcon?

( seriously, who does that, val. )

[ The whole situation is a messy one. Solas has been tripping over his own words and secrets since Thranduil confronted him and since he went to visit his friend to discuss the realities of his situation - giving permission for Galadriel to be told, allowing for questions to be asked, dancing between half-truths and realities with every measure of grace and skill that he can muster for himself. He does not like being a step behind other people, even if those people are those he might call friend, and the entire situation is off-putting at best.

At least he knows he can trust Thranduil's word above all else. Solas knows that he can have faith in his friend, that the secret - or, rather, the truth, funnily enough - will be kept between the three of them for as long as it is necessary. Anything more than that is out of his hands and he loathes the very idea of not being in control of the things he needs to juggle to secure the future he wants.

This is a distraction, for now. He can pretend as though he is not concerned about the future, about reworking his plans, about adjusting and editing and reshaping everything he has laid out so far in the path to finding the end of Corypheus and destroying everything that he had been the catalyst for in the first place. ]

I am not surprised that he has been convinced to do it. [ Solas watches Iorveth with interest. Able, skilled, clearly proud of himself... He is unique, but of course he is, not being Thedas born. He is not sullied by the Dalish. Something closer to elvhen, but not in the way that Thranduil and Galadriel are.

He glances back over to Gwen, lips twitching. ]

Find someone who needs a falcon and earn a favour from them.

No, it's mine now.

( it still needs a name, though maybe 'A Favour' is an excellent name for a falcon, actually— )

What if the only person who needs a falcon is a twat? Dreadful.

( this is precisely why gwenaëlle is never going to excel the way her parents always hoped for. )

I leave that sort of engineering to the rest of my family.

( she doesn't mean the vauquelins. )

[ All that does is make Solas laugh quietly, a low chuckle as he stares out at the crowd in front of him. ]

Then you would simply have to ask for an even greater favour from them, wouldn't you?

[ There are many people that Solas is sure could be described as a 'twat' around in Kirkwall - as well as their new guests. He'd never say it himself, of course, but he's glad there are people around that do not need to be quite as carefully restrained as he is. ]

Then perhaps you can take him flying, or teach him to deliver things.

I think you never want to be relying on any sort of favour—particularly a very great one—from someone who knows you think they inconveniently occupy space that could be more productively filled by air.

( or: gwenaëlle has this distressing tendency to call a fuckwit a fuckwit to their face. and probably some people who are arguably not in fact fuckwits, but happen to say something she doesn't like or fall prey to misalignment of the planets. she can be charming when she wishes to be, but more or less uniformly only when she is herself charmed.

it's never subtle when she isn't. )

What I've done then is given someone a bird of prey and an opportunity to sabotage me, which is terrible. I think I'm going to name him 'A Favour', though, I rather like that. And I could take him hawking and hunt small animals.

[ Solas would say that you don't go out of your way to tell people that you dislike them, but that is not something that he is particularly adept at himself. His opinions are clear as day for anyone who wants to meet him or discuss anything with him and he doesn't allow himself any room for fabrication or pretend. He doesn't have the time for that sort of nonsense, not even for the grand Game. ]

Perhaps not. In the end it is your choice to make.

[ It's something that he and Gwen share, he thinks. Neither of them have much time for those people who are going to say or do things that they don't agree with or loathe. It's something that he respects, people that speak their mind, even if he enjoys the debate and argument as much as the next person. ]

That sounds like a marvellous idea. I am sure he will be able to be well trained and helpful.

( gwenaëlle has never gone out of her way to tell someone she disliked them.

in her opinion.

it's just that she's also never refrained from doing so when the opportunity presented itself, and the opportunity so frequently presents itself, and what's a girl to do, not explicitly and in obscene detail tell everyone what she thinks of them? she bit her lip so many times in the winter palace it's astonishing she still has a bottom lip trying not to give into that impulse, and she's found disgrace freeing in a way she's quite aware coupe would prefer she didn't.

morrigan had been so proud of her for finding her voice. everyone else might have liked it if she'd found a different one. this is the only one she has, though, and it pleases her to find company that likes her well as she is; that she finds equally companionable. she isn't any less sharp, but perhaps less cutting among friends—or at least not unkind in her bluntness. awkward, often enough, but not unkind. )

I'll train him to hunt de Fonce, ( she says, mildly cheered by the thought, and then seizes the balustrade and leans rather incautiously forward to get a better look at the shot performed before them. ) Or maybe that fellow, goodness.

That might be a little bit unfair, ( judiciously, a moment later, adjusting her hat absently that it doesn't fall again. ) Of all the people I expected to show me any kind of kindness about the—elf business—he wouldn't have been on the list.

( and a fucking falcon is a hell of a way to express it, but she didn't miss the sentiment in her annoyance with its delivery. although: ) And I'd deny I ever said anything even that generous.

( it is too generous to valentine de fonce to suggest he might not deserve to be assassinated by a tourney archer. )

[ Solas has to be somewhat more diplomatic now, at least.

In Skyhold, Solas had kept himself to himself for the most part, stepping out when people had come to him to discuss anything from the Fade to elven culture. He was as dismissive to them there as he is here, his frustrations with the Dalish clear to anyone who even attempts to talk to him about their legends, myths and histories. All that Solas does as part of the Inquisition is to research the Veil and the Fade, to bring his expertise to the fold, but he does it for a very specific reason.

He's making his own place here in Kirkwall now, even if he might be branching out with elves that share the same nature that he does. His uthenera had wrecked so much of his nature, but waking up now... There's a discomfort that settles around him. Thranduil and Galadriel know more than they should and Solas knows that his path here will not always be a certain one - there's an edge of something desperate about him now, but there's nothing he can do. Until Corypheus is gone Solas is powerless to do anything and he knows it. ]

Either one might be acceptable. [ Solas doesn't much care for any of these people and he doesn't have the energy to pretend as though he does. They don't care about him and they have very little information that he might desire - so he can sit in the crowd and watch and judge in peace. ]

I would not ask you to testify on it. The rest of them can think what they like - the people that know you know the truth and that is what is most important. Do not forget your goals nor your friends.

[ Her friends are tied up with her goals and her dreams, he thinks, surely, distant from his own. Do not forget your goals. Do nothing that does not further them. ]

( not so distant as he imagines; )

Is there much point having dreams, just at the moment?

( maker that's dark. but it's hard to look to the future when the present is so much in the air, moving parts that all seem ready to move towards the worst possible outcomes. her dreams are small things she carves out small spaces for- )

Thranduil has dreams enough for the both of us. We'll see where they land at the end of this.

( and then, nudging him lightly, ) You're a friend. I don't forget any of those, don't worry.

I did not say dreams. I said goals.

[ They're very different things as far as Solas is concerned. Dreams are fabrications, unreachable, fantasies that have no merit in the waking world - an aspiration that might not bear fruit. A goal is something real and material, something that is capable of being met, something tangible. Those are what he aims for, even now, even with budding alliances.

Having a goal is not easy, even for him. He knows the risks he takes each and every day. All the same, he manages to survive, somehow. He is strong enough for that. ]

I am sure that he will find some success. [ He seems the type.

Solas' eyes flick down to look at her and he nods his head, once. ] I would be glad to be remembered, even for a little while.

So you did, ( but the two things seem much the same from where she currently stands; equally far from her grasp. what sort of family can she plan for while slipping secretively from her husband's bed? when the last of this old life of hers has sloughed off, what does the new one look like? what does the world?

thranduil has plans, and increasingly she arranges herself accordingly, but-

she likes this business with phylacteries not at all. she dislikes the uneasy foundation all rests upon; taking for granted the future will come while they dance and corypheus carves off parts of their world. it's a dimming, sobering thought; she scarcely follows the next few shots. eventually, )

Well, I hope I don't have only a little while, ( drolly. )

[ Solas says nothing for a short span of time. It's difficult for him to find the words when he has to bite his tongue over a thousand and one half-truths; there's no part of him that is ready to simply sit and tell lies, not when his heart is already heavy with the burdens of his past. He doesn't want to be the one known for lying, for betrayal, not again, not when he is beginning to make fledgling friendships here in the Inquisition.

It's more than he deserves, certainly, and more than he could've ever asked for, nor hoped for. To think that he has found someone as steadfast as Thranduil, as gentle as Gwen herself... To think that he is allowed near the wonder that is Galadriel... It is something to behold.

He stares out at the competition, tilting his head as the opponents come up, shoot, score and move back. He drinks it in, allows himself a moment to watch them all and then shakes his head, something almost like a smile curling on his lips. ]

I am sure your future will be a comfortable one.

( gwenaëlle laughs, surprised, and her answer is franker than is probably entirely comfortable for the celebratory air of the tourney (though it fits well enough with the tense undercurrents)— )

I'm not entirely convinced any of us fucking have one.

( nevermind what her future will actually look like, if they do. 'comfortable' is perhaps not the word that would first come to mind for her, though certainly it will likely always be more comfortable than many—

she twirls a finger in a lazy circle, encompassing all the tourney, )

So we might as well enjoy the present until these incompetent fuckwits piss it all away.

[ Solas watches her, bemused for a moment, eyes flicking over her features before he stares out over at the people before him. So much that she doesn't know, isn't aware of, machinations behind the scenes that even she, with all that she's gathering, can't grasp. He almost feels guilty for it, but nothing compares to the guilt that already lies in his stomach. ]

There is one. Whether or not it is a good one remains to be seen.

[ Solas lifts a shoulder, casual and seemingly unconcerned. ]

All that we can do is continue to work as we have always done.

The word I would use for my future,

( thinking of thranduil, of iorveth, even of (fucking) luwenna coupe- )

is fraught.

( it doesn't actually sound nearly so much of a complaint as it might, as her bitterness about the inquisition might suggest. it isn't the inquisition or corypheus, it's the fact that she's human no matter how they see her and finding a space in that future will never be simple.

or unarmed. )

Best case scenario. But that's better, I have to think. If you're comfortable, you're ignorant.

But you have a future.

[ Solas doesn't turn his gaze away from the field, the combatants, anything. He faces forward, certain and direct, his gaze unwavering - almost as if he's looking to the future himself. ]

As fraught as it may be.

[ He shakes his head, lips twitching a little as he finally leans back. ]

You are not entirely incorrect. Comfort can breed carelessness, ignorance. [ He shakes his head. ] A common folly, especially to those too ignorant to realise their mistakes.

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MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

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