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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I. Games
The revelry and the spectacle of the Grand Tourney was like nothing Dolores had ever seen before. She spends hours upon hours just walking and staring--fortunately, though, that seems to be the state of most of the attendees of the event. It isn't long before she finds the rows of games and vendors and Dolores delights in trying everything she can. By midday she's playing a game with rolling balls, attempting to acquire a large stuffed bear, and failing gloriously. It's hot out and, despite herself, Dolores hasn't bothered drinking or sitting in the shade since sun-up. She loses the ball game for the fifth time in a row and looks quite ready to pass out.

II. Ice Cream
Ever since Dolores had strayed into Barnabas's ice cream shop and supplied him the name of the foodstuffs, she'd been working for him. It was something to do, a very firm routine, and he paid pretty well so she didn't think much of it. The entrepenureal little man had decided to bring part of his shop to the Tourney, but instead of purchasing and assembling a stand, he had made a moveable cart. It only carried three flavors, and the cold canisters that he packed them into weren't quite up to the task of the full sun, but it was worth it to haul it out and sell so he had Dolores do it for him. She didn't mind, the cart didn't weigh anything to her and walking around staring at things was something she already planned on doing.

"Ice cream, get your ice cream here," Dolores offered in a tone that was, quite possibly, too quiet and polite to really be used to pitch wares. Barnabas had given her a basic script and she was sticking to it, but he hadn't been so specific about tone and volume. "I have three flavors. They're cool and refreshing in the hot sun."

III. Unarmed Combat
Even Dolores is hard pressed to say why she joined in with this event, perhaps it was just all the normal folk gathered around having fun? In any case, she found she was a fair hand at it, despite herself, and while she was knocked out in the second round it wasn't for lack of effort. The man who beat her was a big, hulking fellow with a wide smile and kind eyes. He hadn't even punched her very hard at first, but he'd had to before the end. When he'd finally knocked her to the ground, he'd helped her right back up and offered her a drink. Then he'd gone on and won two more fights and tied in the third. It was fun to watch, even with her swellin' lip, and Dolores was beaming as she drank her--well, whatever this was. Frankly, it didn't taste like much of anything to her.

IV. Wildcard, surprise me!

Edited (Legibility html, for fun~!) 2018-05-29 17:33 (UTC)

Obi-Wan Kenobi has no money.

That is not strictly true. He has a very unimpressive stipend offered to him by the Inquisition, enough for a little extra each month, and of course there is the supplies offered by the Inquisition itself. It is more accurate to say that, whenever Obi-Wan has, in his adult life, had the chance not to spend money, he has chosen not to. After all, life had a way of... working out sometimes.

Call it karma.

Call it chance.

Call it a can falling out of Dolores' cart and rolling until it struck his foot, heel-first. Obi-Wan turned, picked up the offending canister and frowned at it. Cold storage? Here? But the source was readily apparant; the young woman, clearly a Rifter, half-heartedly selling iced cream from what seemed to be enchanted buckets.

"Pardon me," He says, as polite an interruption as he can manage, "I believe is is yours?"

Dolores turns on her heel as she is approached from behind and surprise flashes across her face. She looks at the man behind her, at the can in his hand, and smiles a bit abashedly.

"Yes, thank you," Dolores says and turns to face him. The cart is not so busy that she has to mind it constantly. She reaches to take the can from the gentleman behind her but pauses as she does, her brow furrowing as she looks up at him.

"I'm sorry, have we met before? You seem a mite familiar but I'm so bad with faces."

It is a rote response, something she has said a hundred thousand times, but she says it with the perfect sincerity of a person who has no idea it is a line in their script.

"No, I'm afraid we haven't," He replies, and if he senses the routine in her introduction, there is no sign. After all, why should he? It's hardly an unusual thing to say, "Though it's always good to meet a fellow Rifter."

Perhaps that will be enough for her to recognize him, if he is indeed familiar. Hadn't Poe done as much, when first they'd met? Not that he had a particularly recognizable face, he hoped, but the name...

"I am Obi-Wan Kenobi. And you are?"

Dolores frowns a little and pauses, but it is only for a second. She shakes it off quickly enough and resumes smiling. She hasn't heard that name before, so he must be new. Her hand closes around the can and she takes it from him gently, her smile remains polite.

"I'm Dolores Abernathy," she replies genially. "I guess I must have been mistaken--but it's good to meet you, anyway."

Can in hand, she turns back to tuck it in the cart, safely away, where it ought to be. Once it's set aside she returns her attention to Obi-Wan.

"I don't suppose you were on your way over for some ice-cream, were you?"

"Why not?" He offers, after a moment's thought. He wasn't originally here for ice cream, but then Obi-Wan had not originally come here for anything more important than curiosity; but the Force works in mysterious ways, after all-- lost foodstuffs notwithstanding, "One ice cream, please."

It's not his money, you see.

Dolores smiles before turning back to the cart to fish a waffle cone from underneath and then sets about making him something. Chocolate has been terribly popular, so popular that she was left with only vanilla and deep mushroom. Vanilla was, by far and away, the most popular choice after chocolate so she simply scoops some out for him.

"They're only three copper pieces," she says as she turns back, the cone ready and pristine, and waits for payment. She only has to wait a moment before he passes her the money and, with a smile, she bids him goodbye.

"Enjoy! If you want another, try to find me before this evening. I wont be around after that."

Edited 2018-06-13 03:23 (UTC)

"I might take you up on that-- but you're competing?" Many ascribe psychic abilities to the Jedi, and they are not wrong, but mostly it's just being willing to take a guess, "I'll have to cheer on your behalf."

It's bad form to attend a sporting even without a team to root for, isn't it? He hasn't attended many, but Obi-Wan knows that much.

"I am," Dolores confirms and then looks just a touch surprised. "That would be grand! I've never done this sort of competition before, so it would be nice to have someone cheering. Its in the little ring, not the one with stands."

Edited 2018-06-13 04:11 (UTC)

He thinks a moment, and then nods, "I'll be there."

The day passes hot and dusty with all the motion of feet on the swiftly-degreened tourney fairgrounds. The sun eases over the peak of the sky and slides down, down, over the foodsmells and working bodies, the steam and horse-smells and all the noise and laughter of the many voices, and the cheer of the crowds.

Presently, the sun is painting a riot on the clouds, but the light is still good, and the unarmed combat trials are just getting to what most locals consider the meat of the occasion. What's a good fistfight without a day's heat and a few pints behind you, after all? Nothing much to speak of. And, just as he'd promised, Obi-Wan is standing on the sidelines for Delores' bout.

Such as it is.

The ring is packed dirt and around the periphery is a low fence, recently installed, and relatively pristine. There are people leaning on the lot of them, cheering and drinking and happy to be there. There were a few delighted to see Dolores enter the ring, a few sarcastic whistles, but Dolores smiles as though everyone is there for her.

She's changed out of her blue dress into a pair of narrow trousers and a short. The long sleeves are rolled to her elbows and seem to stay there pretty easily. Her hair is down and partially tied back, as is her wont, and she doesn't seem worried about anyone taking hold of it.

The man who enters the ring opposite Dolores is a tall blonde who is the better part of twice her size. He beams at her and they shake hands before the fight begins. Dolores is faster than him, that much is obvious, but Kristoph, it seems, is taking it easy on her. The first punch landed is a glancing blow from Dolores--when Kristoph responds in kind, however, the match gets interesting.

The larger man swings low, aiming for her gut, and catches her full on. Dolores, starts to react, the air knocked out of her, but ceases about halfway through and rights herself, as though she hasn't been struck. Her return blow is a powerful one and sends Kristoph back a step. The crowd goes wild.

Occupied with his apprentice's business, it's not Dolores' first fight he enters on, but the second. Underdog she might be, but a surprisingly popular one-- though perhaps that ought not to be surprising. In the celebratory atmosphere of the tourney, even the fear of Rifters seems to have subsided. But watching how she moves... He finds himself wondering... Well, there was a moment there, strange but not impossible. It hints at something else about Delores that is neither innocent nor helpless. Some unknownable training from another world?

Call him intruiged, then.

But he'll applaud with the rest, despite his curiosity. Why not? It's never less than exciting watching to see if a smaller opponent can turn the tables on a bigger, stronger one.

Kristoph shakes off the blow Dolores dealt him and swings again. Dolores sidesteps him and he swings again; this repeats for several seconds until Dolores manages to catch his arm and steps in, lifting him bodily, halfway to flipping him before he catches himself and throws all his weight back.

The crowd whistles as Kristoph manages to sling Dolores across the ring and, in doing so, frees his arm. Dolores stumbles but gets back up, her expression fairly flat as she looks him over. This time it is Dolores who lunges and swings. She hits him in the side sharply enough that Kristoph has the wind, audibly knocked out of him, but her guard is down and she takes an answering punch across the face.

Her head snaps to the side but snaps back alarmingly quickly. The second blow to the head manages to stun her and she stumbles.

The crowd is alive with the back and forth of the fight, groaning and hissing, reacting as one. The Force pulls at Obi-Wan too, that little pocket of living energy, living emotion pulling against his calm. At first he gives in to it, like patting a particularly enthusiastic dog. And then being forced, whether by that same enthusiasm, or his own stubbornness to withdraw and insist on dignity.

Still, he can't quite resist the urge to wince when Dolores takes the blow. Ouch.

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MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

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