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

[misdirection_hex]

His cousin, Van knows deep down, is braver than he is. Faced with the prospect of having to subject himself to an unfamiliar challenge he can't control, and possibly face humiliating defeat in front of an audience of thousands, Van has opted to channel his competitive spirit solely into carnival games and leave the actual matches alone.

He is not, however, so ashamed of this that he can't fight vicariously through Myr instead, and his eagerness to help and spar and coach comes from a place of genuine love, desire to be supportive for Myr's sake--with a soupcon of his ever-present enthusiasm for giving advice, solicited or no.

Myr's right. It hasn't taken him long at all to see the pattern in what Myr evades and declines, to read his body language and know it's not a matter of convenience or some other innocuous explanation.

It doesn't take preternatural people skills to suspect why, either.

But he hasn't pried. He's danced around all mention of his own specialty and racked his brains instead for advice on handing primalists and spiritists that Myr wouldn't already know, delving into his memories of the Hinterlands and recalling all he can of the tactics that could be adapted for sport. He's willing enough to pretend, if Myr is, that they don't have to talk about it, that it's nothing to do with him, that it'll go away, somehow, on its own--

But it won't. And when the moment comes, Van doesn't protest. "I was wondering when you'd say that," he says quietly.

cw: trauma mentions

[faithlikeaseed]

When faced with insoluble problems--a spell he couldn't wrap his mind around, an assignment that made no sense, a book he couldn't be still long enough to read--Myr had long ago learned to take them to Van. His cousin's reputation among the apprentices as a careful, patient teacher--as the enchanter to go to, if you wanted an education in entropy--was richly deserved; he'd a way of unsnarling even the most difficult concepts into lucid explanations that Myr sorely needed.

Didn't know how much he'd missed it, in their three years apart. How easily he slipped back into the habit--another thread of their previous lives picked up and resumed, followed into the future as if nothing had happened.

Except something had happened, had snapped all those threads off short, and here it sits between them like a noisome shadow, warping all it touches.

"If I had a choice in it," there's a muddle of emotion beneath the words--guilt, shame, fear, frustration--that mixed together, all comes out leaden. "Never. Not because you're not good for it, I wouldn't ask anyone else, you know I wouldn't--"

But. He can't even voice the but without his throat closing, because but I'm afraid leads back to the reason for that fear, back to that darkness and heart-pounding terror (and the feel of blood on his fingertips)-- He fumbles abruptly for the nearest thing to sit down on, a chair, a bed, whatever it might be so he doesn't have to focus on keeping upright on top of everything else. (Breathe. Keep breathing. You're safe here, you're safe, you're safe, Maker help me...)

"I'm," pause, swallow, restart, "I can't--it's--it's--hard, it's hard to be around, Van. It's--fuck--I'm afraid but I can't, I can't let that--" A demon, crowned and horned as a stag, throwing hexes in their midst; bone on bone on bone collapsing as the essence of all decay saps the animation from Nevarra's dead; reek of the Blackmarsh wound inextricably with the feel of horror bending the Fade. Breathe. Breathe.

"--I won't let it win. Not any--not any longer."