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. Archery, Before the Contest
Galadriel arrived for the archery contest clad in a gown of white and grey. It was impractical for most things, but the sleeves were tight to her arms and the sun glittered off of the silver embroidery brilliantly. Thranduil had made it a point to avoid being a spectacle, insofar as he was able, but Galadriel had never subscribed to such methods. She dressed as she was wont, with all the skill she had learned in her long life, and her display was neither subtle nor lacking in beauty. She had even carved the bow she carried, just for the occasion--the wood was far more ideal than the last bow she'd made in Thedas.

The other participants began arriving as Galadriel did, trickling in to begin the contest, and Galadriel moved to take a seat in the first row. Her bow was still unstrung, but that was an issue easily solved--without pausing, she plucked a hair from her head and began to wind it around the upper arm of her weapon, stringing it as carefully as one might with any string.

I. Pre-Joust
Just as with the archery contest, Galadriel arrives before the joust in full form. It had been some time since she last wore white in Thedas, longer still since she had created such fabrics, but she had done well with her weaving in Kirkwall. In the morning sunlight she glimmers like the new dawn, her white doublet and breeches well fitted, an oddity for her especially in these lands, and lined with shining patches of sammite. The gold and silver accents match her hair, bound back into a long braid that trails nearly to her knees. Her armor is polished but looks rather dull by comparison. The shield and breastplate carry the Inquisition's logo, something she felt only a mild irritation about, but scribed in white against the bright steel.

She spends the morning attending the horse she is to ride, getting a sense for it and speaking softly to it in hushed Quenya. It does not understand more than her tone, but it is a cooperative beast and one that seems to like her well enough.

IIa. Pre-Joust - Solas
It is just past dawn when Galadriel arrives near the field. She is not alone here, but there are precious few others about. She has not yet donned her armor, nor braided her hair to fit beneath the helm, but her white clothing already stands out against the rosy grey of the early morning. She sits on the edge of the field, in the front-most rows, and regards it with a small smile. A cup of mead steams softly in her hands, warming both them and her in the morning chill.

There is something about the atmosphere of competition, something alluring about the challenge and risk of loss, and it has been a very long time since she has participated in such things. She is high on the feel of it, savoring every moment, and that is a strange state for her. She is not usually so enamored with the present, but today? In this place? She is delighted.

III. Post Joust
Her loss was not dramatic nor, she would admit, entirely surprising. Jousting was not her skill and neither were swords her favored weapon. She had not been trounced, having knocked Ser Alberich from his steed as surely as she was thrown, but he had won. It was almost funny how annoyed he was that she rose from the mud without appearing soiled where he had been all but covered, even in victory. He was rude about it, but that was no surprise--he was a Pentaghast, after all. Fortunately, the man who unseated him, and eventually won the contest himself, was less ingracious about his victory. Galadriel even stopped to congratulate him when all was said and done, before retiring from the field and heading to the quartermaster to return her armor.

IV. Food Court?
The games and stalls around the tourney were truly entertaining. She had not expected them to be so, had not expected there to be such a lively, friendly air to Thedas, and it delighted her. Here, unlike Kirkwall or even Skyhold before it, the people were genuinely open and happy. Mortals smiled at her in passing, quietly marveled at the pure white of her gown or the length of her hair, and went about their business without accusing her of being demonic or plotting their demise. It was certainly a shift and, truly, an experience she required.

Her favorite locations, she found, were the stalls that served local foods and wines and she lingered around those for some long time, enjoying the smells and indulging in fares that were beyond Kirkwall and the Gallows.

V. Wildcard
Hit me.

It takes a great deal of effort for Solas to stride across the arena as though there is nothing hounding his footsteps - he moves to the fields, across it, moving closer and closer to his target, bare feet tickling against the grass under him. It feels as though it has been decades since he and Galadriel last spoke, but he knows that to be more his own conscience speaking than anything else; there is so much she is aware of, now, so much that she knows... He's not entirely sure how best to manage the situation, how best to manage himself, when all is said and done.

If Thranduil has done as asked then she will know the truth - or, rather, as much of it as Solas is comfortable admitting aloud.

It's almost too easy to move down and settle at her side, crossing his legs and facing out and away from her. She looks beautiful, he thinks, dressed in white and nothing else, almost ethereal without trying. As it is each time he sees her all he can picture is the warmth of his home, of a lifetime a thousand years in the past. It takes some effort for him to even muster words to speak to her, but he manages.

"Are you prepared for today?"

Galadriel spies Solas partway across the field and lifts her mug to take a sip of her warm mead. It barely covers the reflexive curve of her smile. He sits alongside her and she does him the courtesy of allowing him to gather himself and speak before she does.

"I expect not," she admits fairly casually, but doesn't sound exceptionally worried. "I have never engaged in this sport, though I have done something similar in battle...it was nigh on six thousand years ago."

She cocks a brow and glances sidelong at him before turning in her seat. She sets her mug side between them and no longer bothers to hide her smile.

"Do you know much of this sport?"

She is good to him, Solas thinks, in a way that is unjust and certainly undeserved. There's a warmth that she offers him that he cannot help but accept, even if his chest hurts. The fact that she is so patient with him, so gentle... Solas can hardly shoulders looking at her. He can hardly imagine how he might accept her kindness.

"I am sure you will fare better than you imagine." She has time on her side, after all, even if it had been a long one since her last match of this kind. Solas isn't taking part himself, of course, but he can stand at the sidelines and offer a quiet, sturdy support in whatever way is possible.

Perhaps she will look to him. Perhaps it will make her smile.

"Not as much as others, certainly. Study is no substitute for experience."

"Then you have heard of their tradition, where a knight seeks a favor from someone dear to them, that they might be lucky on the field?"

She is leading the conversation, that she would admit openly, but Solas is far to reserved to suggest such a thing himself. It is fortunate that she is bold enough to seek it...and, in doing so, admit to him some shade of her feelings and intent.

"Will you grant me a favor, melda nin ?

"I have read of it, of course. I've seen some wearing tokens thus far already." It's not something he had ever had personal experience in, considering his background and his nature, but there were stories and memories in the Fade. That had been enough.

The question doesn't... Surprise him, if he's being frank, but it does come as a shock to hear it said so boldly. This is where she had been guiding their conversation, but... He hesitates, his eyes drinking her in, flicking over her features, and he feels himself smile. There's no way he can stop herself, not when she's so beautiful beside him, so real and alive.

"... What would you like to wear?" He doesn't have anything like a favour lying around - it's not his style nor is it in his nature. Given some time, however... He thinks he could muster something. For her.

"Truly, it matters not at all, so long as it is from you," Galadriel replies easily her smile spreading. She turns her head and glances at the field, at the way the dawn has begun to settle across the tents and stands.

"I still must bind my hair," she says after a pause. "Something to help me manage that would be a simple thing to find...and much appreciated."

As long as it is from you. Solas can feel the warmth blossoming in his chest and he cannot stop the way that his eyes drink her in, gazing at her, the shape of her face, the warmth of her smile and the soft curl of her hair. The urge to reach out and touch her is incredible - his heart is racing in his chest and he feels... Too much. Too many things all at once, drawing an intensity from him that feels like too much to live through.

He thinks, for a moment, of the things that he might be able to give her. A wisp of fabric for her wrist, something soft for her waistband, anything that might show that he is the one giving her favour, that he is the one she turns to when she wins, when she earns a victory...

Something for her hair.

"I will get you something." Finally, he turns to look at her properly and, pausing, he leans closer. He cannot give in to the urge, he cannot do it to her nor himself, but he can bask in the comfort of her company for as long as he is allowed. "Before you face your first challenge."

Solas leans in as he assures her that he will grant this gift and Galadriel's smile blooms to something unsubtle and delighted. It is quiet and still, so early in the morning, and while Solas can restrain himself, she sees no reason to. The distance between them is short and she closes it to brush her lips against his.

It is a small token, chaste and light, but she is all but shining for having granted it.

"Thank you."

Her smile is beautiful, he thinks, and in the months that he's known her he feels as though it's lit him up somehow. To learn that there are more people like his People, that there might be people who are real, beyond the fiction that he considers this world to be... It's something that he had never imagined when he'd woken from his sleep. The fact that she's here and alive before him combats all of his thoughts and ideas and it terrifies him and thrills him in equal part.

The kiss makes him stop, pausing, eyes widening no matter how quick and chaste it is. It's impossible for him to ignore the urge to follow it - so he doesn't, leaning in to steal something firmer, a little longer, his fingers brushing against her cheek gently before he realises what he's doing and stops. Leaning back, he hesitates, mouth dropping open before he shakes his head.

"... I apologise. We shouldn't." Not even here, where it feels as though the world cannot touch them.

Galadriel gives him a look that is just slightly strange, confused but happy, certain, and easy all at once. He backs away and she respects it, but she cannot stop how she leans toward him ever so slightly. He is so terribly worried and, frankly, she does not understand why.

"I have known a great many things that I should not do. Some I have avoided, some I have done regardless," Galadriel tells him. "But know that was not among them."

Her hand reaches out and rests on his, calm and sure.

"Do not apologize for a kiss given sweetly, Solas. It requires no forgiveness."

It's not something that Solas can easily explain, even with the knowledge he is sure that she has about him and his nature. There is too much happening behind the scenes for him to think that this is a path he ought to follow, but it's clear from the softness of her features and the warmth of her gaze that she would accept him. It's a strange thought, to consider himself in a position where someone might understand, and the urge is on the tip of his tongue...

But cowardice strikes, as it had done before. He bites his tongue, swallows his words and shakes his head.

"I think we are in agreement. We have both done things that, perhaps, we might regret." He gives no details, of course, and doesn't go into it further; there are still secrets he has to keep and things he has to swallow and hide. That's the nature of his existence now, even as he feels the weight of it on his heart.

He can't help the way his hand turns, fingers slipping between hers, holding on despite his fears and his uncertainties.

"It was not the kiss I apologise for." The rest - the intimacy, the promise that there might be more, a promise that he cannot give... He should not draw her down a path there is no end to.

Solas's segue is a curious one and Galadriel arches a brow as he makes it. She is uncertain what he means by having done something he regrets and, without seeking out his heart and reading his intent, his correction provides precious little clarification. His hand rests in hers, holding with fingers carded, but his expression is vaguely sad.

It does not take long for Galadriel to parse out what he must mean, that he regrets their having kissed--and as such, the apology? Oh dear, she had not been clear at all, had she. She had called him dear but had not been explicit in her meaning.

Solas, then, must not care for her in that way.

"I see," Galadriel replies and feels a bit bereft as a sense of hollow somberness rises in her chest. She is saddened but...in truth, being rejected has less sting to it, knowing that he still desires to be close. Why else would he be holding her hand, if not in comfort for her mistake?

"You needn't apologize, you have done nothing save being a friend to me, Solas."

It's difficult for him to watch her, the sense of something awkward and uncomfortable settling around the two of them together. His chest hurts, somewhere deep inside of him, and he can't manage to swallow back the lump in his throat and the way that he wants to lean forward and draw her close, to offer her promises for the future that he knows he cannot truly give. He doesn't want her to be upset, to be sad, to be hurt because of his actions, not if it is preventable, but...

Their fingers are still linked together and there's a moment where Solas genuinely believes that all he ought to do is move his hand away, to stand up and walk forward, to cross the field and leave Galadriel to her thoughts and her joust.

I see. Does she? Does she see the depths of his hurt and the ache inside of him? His dreams of the future? He doesn't think that could possibly be true.

There's a moment where he hesitates and considers his plans and the future. There's no denying that Galadriel at his side would be useful, especially with her friendship with Thranduil and her position with the other elves, but on a more personal level... Solas can't deny the undercurrent of desire that settles there, an urge for more.

Slowly, carefully, he brings her fingers to his lips, leaving a kiss there gently. Her knuckle is warm under his mouth, and his eyes close as he allows himself this moment, allows himself a brief few seconds of happiness and hope before he loses it all.

"I will not forget it," his eyes flick up to her. "The kiss. And I will bring you my favour to wear. I hope you wear it with pride as I cheer for you."

"Of course I shall," Galadriel replies, though somewhat more delicately than she had before. She is uncertain of his intentions now but, as he kisses her hand, her fears are placated, just so. Her fingers squeeze his own before she allows him to withdraw.

"If you ever feel you shall not regret it, return to me and it shall be."

"I am glad to hear it." And he means it, too, earnest in a way he can't express. He wants, more than he dares admit, to allow himself to kiss her again, to wrap her in little signs that he has earned her favour, to prove his loyalty and the warmth of his feelings towards her... But he cannot. It wouldn't be fair, nor would it be right, not with the hundred and one twisted emotions that have settled around him -- and not with all the plans that he has for the future.

Her reply makes him pause, though, and his mouth drops open before his lips turn into a soft, gentle smile.

"It has been a long time and I am not certain that this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble."

Edited 2018-06-01 01:32 (UTC)

His pause and his response give her more than a touch of hope and her smile blooms again.

"Do you think me unfamiliar with trouble? I am not so easily deterred....and I do not fear waiting, if I must."

Lifting her hand again, Solas leaves another kiss against her knuckle, gentle and soft. It's not another kiss against her mouth, nothing with substance or depth, but... It is something, at least, something that she might not have had otherwise.

"I... Maybe. Yes. If I could take a little time to think. There are... Considerations."

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MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

Galadriel

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