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

Armed Combat

A rather small quillback comes out into the arena to face him as Fenris stands at the ready. He'd made it through a few rounds of unarmed combat before getting defeated, doing pretty ok despite his reservations over this whole business. But now...

Now.

It's taken up until now to make him totally snap, but here it happens. It's something about the familiarity of it all... being in an arena with a monster bearing down on him, the crowd cheering, an announcer giving the play-by-play... Fenris completely freezes up. He'd performed in arenas like this as a slave, for the amusement of the magisters. All he sees in his mind's eye is Danarius' cruel expression, that ugly sneer he'd have whenever Fenris lost an event in the Tevinter games. All he hears is Hadriana's mocking laughter, and her voice promising that he'll be punished for failure.

Fenris freezes up and the rather stupid quillback gets an all too easy advantage. It's over all too swiftly, which is... probably for the best.

Once he's out of the arena, he's quick to try and get away, but isn't paying close attention to where he's going, making it likely he'll bump into someone on his way out of there.

Drinking

After the armed combat, Fenris has almost had enough. He's tired of being out there, of 'performing' for a crowd. After he goes down to the quillback, he just needs some time to recuperate a bit. It's not so much the fight that's gnawing away at him, it's... the other things. The reminders. So he heads immediately for where there's food and drink to be had, settling down and not intending to get up for a while. Echoes of the past are whirling around in his head in the worst possible way and... he can't take it. Enough is enough.

He's got a more sullen look about him than usual, probably not what one would expect for such happy festivities.

Wildcard!

Anything else!? He's not thrilled to be here, but maybe distractions are good!

Edited 2018-05-29 06:07 (UTC)

When Fenris reaches the tent with the drinks, it will become apparent his night has been going too well. A gaggle of young men have set up there, the cut of their clothing and sheen of their hair marking them as Tevinter-- and not just that, but sons of the magisterium.
Benedict steps from among them with several cups prepared for refilling, and he casts a cheeky smile Fenris' way. "Nicely done with that quillback," he remarks, "I've never seen one win so easily."

Ah, yes... great. Perfect. Just. Perfect. Of course, he's noticed plenty of fighters and spectators from Tevinter mingling throughout the event. He's made it a point to steer clear, but it's probably impossible to avoid them all entirely. Case in point, right now. It's extremely tempting to turn and walk away, but... sigh... then he'd go without a drink, and he's not sure he can stand going through the rest of this event without anything.

He narrows his eyes, taking on an overall glowering expression, the sarcasm coming out in full force. "And I suppose you're a quillback expert?"

It's hard to avoid groups of idiot youths when they're making a point of being unavoidable, and this one is no exception. Benedict beams, delighted by the elf's response. "Moreso than you, by the looks of it," he shoots back, raising one of the glasses after it's refilled.

Fenris is so unimpressed by this. It's all he can do not to roll his eyes... and why doesn't he have a drink in his hand yet? That needs to be remedied. He starts glancing around, wanting to get an idea of the selection. He glances toward the younger Tevene man. "Then I take it you won't mind demonstrating, the sooner the better. I'm sure they have an extra one lurking around here for you to face, if you're such an expert."

Unfortunately for Fenris, this just yields a smarmy laugh. "Oh goodness, I'd never be so stupid," Bene replies, "but then, I've nothing to prove by taking one on. I hope you didn't either." He begins to walk back towards the table of friends, glasses in hand, still smiling just as cheekily as can be.

At first, Fenris grumbles a few Tevene curses, less interested in the man's specific words as the delivery of them, the whole attitude behind them. He watches him for a moment, eyes narrowed, arms folded, frowning deeply. "...Usually people who say things like that are the ones with the most to prove."

But, seeing as he's going off to join his kinsfolk, Fenris is glad to let him. Hmmph. Maybe he'll just go back home with them? Wouldn't that be for the best?

MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

Fenris

Drinking

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