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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[If he agrees with her sentiment, he hardly makes mention of it. And who can say?: to be sure,he has a sword at his hip and a knife on his belt, but he's also loitering in the shade eating off a hock of cheese. Equally true is that half the attendees of the tourney are somehow armed, which speaks less to any thoughtfulness or skill as it does it wanting to look impressive in a field. Those going without are probably of such rank that they have no need for it, or are too poor to afford the steel.

Instead Marcoulf studies her blade as she sets it aside, then glances past to the other fighters taking advantage of the space. It's glinting metal and steel, the heavy thwack of blows meeting practice targets, bright cloth and polished buckles. He shades his eyes and looks back to her.]

Which events will you fight in?

[ The whole situation is one she's not entirely comfortable with; there are too many people with too many nosy words and too much interest and the crowd is large enough that she feels more on edge than she does anything else. Add that to the mercenaries - who she might have been able to be friendly with, were it not for the alcohol - and all the strange knights and mages... Six is well aware that she's out of her element and half of her training is venting her frustrations.

At least there are people willing to talk who do not seem to be going out of their way to be complete arses, which she appreciates. Her fingers brush over the hilt of her weapon before she sighs, breathing out, pushing stray hair up and away from her face and eyes. ]

As many as I can manage. [ A life of her shoulder. ] Armed, unarmed, joust and melee.

[At the mention of the joust, he sharpens perceptively. It's just a small thing, habitual more than consciois certainly, but he straightens by just that many degrees and automatically begins to repackage the piece of cheese back into its waxed packet. You shouldn't have your mouth full while in conversation with the sort of person who qualifies for the joust.]

You've a few full days ahead of you then. [He pauses. It's calculated in a way - as if checking the temperature of the space after he says it. She's busy, after all. He might shut his mouth so she can be about her business-- One awkwardly paced beat later:] Your arm seems strong, Lady. What will you be riding?

[ Six doesn't really consider herself the kind of person that qualifies for the joust on principle - she isn't a knight, or anyone of good breeding or nobility, and her father certainly had nothing to offer her in any of those respects. Being seen as a Paladin, a guardian of her God's word, being given the gift of that kind of power... It seemed to be enough for the people of Thedas, and she accepts it for what it is. It means that she can take part in more ventures, and she welcomes that. ]

I prefer to keep busy, especially with things like these. [ She watches him for a moment, wondering and waiting. She thinks, maybe, he's done with her, and she's ready to make her move and disappear, but he continues. Pausing, she blinks, considering. ] Whatever I can find myself before the event starts.

[Maybe if he thought to question it, he might arrive at a conclusion that would allow for talking around cheese and melting back into the shade. But those questions (whatever they might be) are officially above his head and her answer for the rest is appalling enough to distract him from looking so far up.]

'Whatever you find?' [He balks, a flicker of real disgust there in his narrow face.] You mean no one has offered you one directly?

[She's to fight under the Inquisition's banner and has yet to even meet the animal meant to carry her? That no one has lent her theirs or found a ready ride on her behalf is unacceptable. Maker, what respectable lady has the time to hunt and peck through every picket line on her own? Frowning, Marcoulf stuffs the wrapped cheese abruptly back in his pocket.]

What do you prefer? A horse? Heavy or quick? What should his temperament be like?

[Someone should see these things are done correctly.]

[ She's completely baffled by his reaction, turning her head to look at him properly, her fingers relaxing around the hilt of her sword. It seems such a silly thing to be worked up over - a horse is a horse, after all, even if she's aware of breeding and speed - but a part of her thinks she ought to appreciate the gesture. ]

I'm a Rifter. I did not think many people imagined that it would be necessary to attempt to win my favour.

[ The Inquisition has horses enough that she simply thought that she would borrow whichever one was free. There are enough to go around, after all, and there had been more brought for those that did not have their own steed. It wasn't the highest of her concerns, not when she had other areas of combat to prepare for.

She pauses at the question, looking genuinely lost. ]

A horse, certainly. Anything strong enough to carry my weight. I am used to them, so temperament is not important.

[ Six has always had a way with animals, something she's never quite managed with actual people. ]

But they'll gladly have whatever good will you might win their name during the competition.

[He's gone all sharpish, though it's clear the agitation has nothing to do with her and everything with how she's been so mishandled. Rifter or no, if she's been deemed an appropriate competitor for the joust then it stands she ought to have someone doing the blighted grunt work associated with it for her.]

I'll find you something appropriate today. That should afford you some time to become acquainted. [He takes a full step backward and squints at her, measuring her as she stands. She's tall enough that finding something for the length of her leg will be demand enough; it's good she's not particular on any other point.]

If there is any to be made. I doubt I rank highly.

[ It's not as if she's a Rifter that has done much to benefit the Inquisition thus far - she's been on a trip to the Deep Roads and learned some things about the Darkspawn, but she's done nothing to prove herself. She's not even powerful without the support of her God, and that's something she's yet to come to terms with. She has no expectation of being treated either better nor fairly by anyone involved with the Inquisition proper.

The offer makes her frown, blinking a little as she tilts her head. ] Your kindness is appreciated, but it is not necessary. I have nothing to give in return. [ She glances down at herself - she knows finding any animal to bear her will not be easy, not with her height and her muscles. ]

[Ah, there. She's managed to say something to check his momentum. Given any more lead and he might have turned away and been about his self-appointed business directly. Instead he pauses again, proverbiable hackles softening, and studies her outright for a moment.

There is a sensible line of questions that might be asked: if no one cares, why should he? What difference is there between her and some disowned, nameless ex-noble and would he offer anything to that kind without returb? What good can there be in doing a Rifter favors? Some of those questions surface briefly, but ultimately after a flicker of hesitation Marcoulf dismisses them. Because:]

It's not kindness, Lady. [Curtly.] It's principle.

[There are rules to things, however much some people might pretend otherwise. The shard she carries might certainly impose some secondary set, but it doesn't change that if she qualifies by whatever measurement as eligible for the joust then she's due some basic consideration.]

Principle.

[ It doesn't make sense to her. She doesn't understand how principle can be involved at all - she's a practical stranger entered into a competition where she is fighting for herself under a banner she barely has any claim to. Six is struggling to rationalise that with the understanding that people ought to be doing something to make this easier for her, or better for her, somehow. She was not raised as a knight, after all.

She was raised as a victim, then a mercenary, then given a gift by a God. This isn't something she's accustomed to.

There's a moment where, clearly, she's a little starstruck. It's been some time since anyone gave her any kind of kindness, no matter what the reason, no matter how they disguise it. She sees it as kind, even if he dismisses it. Whatever unspoken rules or games are taking place here, Six is incredibly ignorant of them all. ]

I am not a lady. My name is Six.

[Not a lady, she says and that's fine. If anything Rifters have shouted about through the sending crystals can be believed, then the places they come from often have different words and meanings and titles. Besides, she won't be the first person he's met to balk at the use of the word Lord or Lady instead of Ser or Comté or--

People are funny and particular.

He gives her a small tip of the head, spare hand straying absently to touch his shoulder in the world's sketchiest approximation of a bow. He's out of practice.] Ricart. What do they call you where you come from? What is your-- [Trade? No chevalier he's known would like what they do called that. It's a right. After a visible moment of awkwardness, Marcoulf hesitantly settles for:] --...profession?

[ You don't live as she had for the last seven years without abandoning all pretence of titles and decorum. She had grown up around soldiers, lived among them for as long as she had been working, and had only been brought into a more polite fold when her teacher had found her and decided she was a good fit to become a Paladin. She's far more accustomed to swearing and shouting and rough-housing, to arm wrestles to make bonds, to shouting across campsites and laughing louder than you cry.

It's strange, to have someone, anyone, trying to help her or take an interest in her.

Her own bow in response is awkward and a touch strained, as if it's been a very long time since she'd had to bow to anyone. Her height just makes it even more awkward. ] It is a pleasure to meet you, Ricart. [ The question makes her smile, just a little, before she breathes out gently. ] I was a mercenary for seven years before I was brought into the ranks of the Paladin. I was given the gift of new strength by my God and I have served her since.

[Templar, he thinks. Or something close enough to look the same while squinting anyway. There's plenty that come from common families and hunble beginnings. The rest he doesn't linger over. It's not his business and he has the information he needs to sort out what to call her. If it isn't quite right-- well, he trusts she'll correct him.]

Back to the matter of the horse then, ser. [No, he's not letting it go.] If it's a question of my suitability, you should know I've spent my whole life learning them. I can recognize a good one without any trouble.

[ The protest is on the tip of her tongue but she's beginning to realise that it might not have the effect she desires. As uncomfortable as she is with any kind of title - and she's sure it shows on her face, even now - she holds her words and breathes out instead, closing her eyes for a moment. This world is so strange and different from her own, but she has to learn to make her place here. ]

I trust your judgement. I doubt you would offer if you were unfit for the job. [ There are no thoughts in her mind of someone trying to sabotage her or trying to give her something doomed to fail - she's a nobody in the Inquisition. What would be the point? ] I believe whatever you find will be most suitable.

[If he recognizes her discomfort then he makes no remark on it. Instead, he waits patiently through that beat as she comes to terms with it - picks some fixture beyond her shoulder to study for the spare seconds it takes.

When she's ready, he is too: quick to glance back, to straighten the line of his shoulders by some barest degree and set his hand lightly there at the pommel of his own sword. It's the kind of gesture common in men and women who make their living with a blade: habitual, an unconscious signal that work's ready to be done. Marcoulf gives her a curt nod.]

Where will you be tonight? So I can find you again.

[It's a big field, even the Inquisition's corner of it.]

[ At least it shows that she is doing something to earn some kind of favour or positive outlook on her behalf, but she still does not feel as though she has earned any kind of good treatment or respect. A venture into the Deep Roads for a short amount of time and armour of the Paladin does not make her anything heroic in this world, and she still feels the keen loss of Sarenrae.

The nod is easy enough to respond to and she shifts, taking her greatsword in hand and strapping it back over her shoulder. She has to make sure her armour is cleaned and that she is rested enough before the joust, but until then she has time enough to wander and explore. ]

I have a tent on the edge of the others. I will be there by the evening, alone. You will see my sword outside it.

[The sword's dimensions should be easy enough to recognize that he makes no last minute study of the hilt as she slings it back over her shoulders. Instead he simply tips his head again - that too must be somehow habitual given its frequency - and says:] Until then.

[He turns promptly on his heel and makes his way from the practice yard. Congrats, Six. Looks like you've got yourself a new... something.]

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MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

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