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

[hwaaaitsme]

Upon occasion, in Tevinter, Loki would attract a very clever sort of woman. They would be the sort who could look at the brothers of house Asgard and run the odds on Thor actually surviving his primacy. Most of them would flirt with Loki as befitting a second of a major house, but every so often one would risk tilting the table in their favor by disparraging Thor.

For the briefest second, Loki guesses this woman might be one of those, but then her accent hits him and he lowers his whisky. His expression is somewhat confused but he hides it fairly well. He looks at her face a moment but, as with most outside of Tevinter circles, cannot place her name.

"How glad I am that you took some pleasure in them...Miss?"

[coquettish_trees]

Hmm-- the brief mostly-hidden confusion means he's not aware of her. Not a slight then to leave her without title, but her response is the same either way. "Lady Alexandrie de la Fontaine," she supplies, her smile broadening as she offers him the back of one gloved hand, carefully placed in the air between them to take into account the difference in their heights. "I of course heard your name from the announcer, but would be much better pleased to have it from you," she says, batting her eyelashes so briefly that it might have been unaffected. Or it might have been purposefully flirtatious. Who knows, really.

[hwaaaitsme]

Recognition dances across Loki's features and his perfunctory smile becomes a somewhat more genuine one. He, of course, sets his glass down and takes her extended hand, bending just slightly to place a kiss against her gloved knuckles. He pointedly does not break eye contact as he moves.

"Ah, Lady Fontaine," Loki greets as he sits back upright. His hold on her hand lingers a moment before he releases it. "I do believe I own a few of your paintings."

He grins, then, rakish and charming and introduces himself with a slight bow of his head.

"Loki, second son of House Asgard of Tevinter. I must say, I had not expected to meet a fine lady painter after a contest of magical prowess...but I cannot say I object. It makes the loss sting a bit less."

[coquettish_trees]

Green meets blue, holds. Her eyes sparkle as his lips brush her hand and his hand lingers on hers. Game on.

"Loki of House Asgard of Tevinter," Alexandrie repeats, lingering over it as if tasting the syllables and finding each to her liking. "I'm sure my poor work is humbly grateful to be on such walls," she demurs, modestly lowering her eyes just enough that her eyelashes brush her cheeks before looking up again.

She'd been carrying her empty fluted glass with her, sets it down beside her on the bar now as if entirely unimportant, and replaces it with her delicate fan of ivory and white lace which she snaps open with a practiced flick of her wrist and flutters at her chest. The motion doesn't create much of a breeze, but it does stir up her perfume, which was of course the intention in the first place.

"If you find my company a salve, why then I offer it most freely," she says, tilting her head coyly.

[hwaaaitsme]

She is clever, but in a clearly Orlesian way. Her deference and humbleness are charming, after a fashion, and Loki sees no fault in them but they can't hold his interest. That calculated flick of a fan, however, and the prompt for a drink, those are a bit more aggressive and they catch his full attention.

Vanilla and wood, a very northern combination. Imported from...Antiva? Surely it isnt Tevinter, it lacks the edge of grass that all those perfumes smell of.

Loki shifts his hand to knock on the table beside them. Fortunately there are enough people of class around that someone refills both their galsses without delay. He tosses the man an imperial for his trouble.

"Lovely and generous, how lucky I am," Loki replies. "Correct me if I am wrong but I have always been under the impression that shows of magic are somewhat taboo in Orlais? Was it your curiosity that got the better of you, or are you simply fond of a bit of danger?"

[coquettish_trees]

Start low, move high, see when the body language shifts. Alexandrie always begins with simple demure eyelash batting and 'ah, how lucky I am to be in your presence!'. This is by-and-large enough for simple men, men who are cocky without being overly possessed of wit, and patronizing misogynists. Not enough for this one. Escalate to having a little backbone and initiative, and ah! He straightens a hair, turns a bit more towards her. Now she's interesting.

He caught her bid for a drink without her needing to give any other indication-- he's clever. Didn't look around for the barman when he knocked-- he's more than used to being attended; an old name, then. The casually flipped coin-- money is an afterthought. A very worthy dance partner (in more ways than one, if rumor serves). She doesn't reach for the glass.

"Very little is taboo in Orlais, my lord," Alexandrie says, with a touch of mischief in her smile and a little extra flutter of her fan, "although you are quite correct. But this is not Orlais; I feel myself quite free to be curious about a little danger," how wanton of me, says the tone. "Perhaps I ought to seek out more, if that curiosity is to be so well rewarded." She lowers her eyes again, although this time it's to eye the length of him in a way that will be quite apparent to Loki with the similar "demure" flutter of her lashes the requisite shield from being too obviously forward.

[hwaaaitsme]

Her response is flirtatious and forward with just enough withdrawal to it to avoid being interpreted as brazen; if it had been any less perfect, it would have failed to walk the exact edge of that line and that, in and of itself, gives her away. Loki's lips twitch just slightly in reflex, he retrains his smile just as it threatens to bloom. He is used to the way the game is played, both in Tevinter and Orlais, and he is good enough at it, himself, to recognize someone of more than reasonable skill. She is trying to manipulate him, he realizes, in a very, very calculated series of moves...and she is doing it without any obvious signs of effort.

Privately, he is delighted, and while his gaze doesn't list from her face, he is entirely enthralled.

What could she want, then? It is possible she is an assassin; the Tourney is a grand place to go about disposing of inconvenient people...but her accent isn't feigned. Unless she is a templar, it is very unlikely anyone would hire her to kill him. Her gown is lovely and he knows just enough about Orlesian nobility to know that there is a Dame who shares her name. She can't be wanting for land or money...and while his showing at the competition was popular, mages were not well loved enough in the South to merit his name being a sign of conquest.

Certainly, there were petty reasons she could be trying to ensnare him, but they are easily written off--nothing as simple as theft or scandal was worth entertaining, even if they are her purpose.

She finds him honestly attractive. What a wonderful ego boost.

"Curiosity should always be rewarded," Loki replies with more than a hint of promise in his tone. "I am quite given to both the dangerous and exotic. If you like, I would be happy to give you an intimate introduction to whichever you like."

He lifts his glass and takes a sip.

"I am exceptionally skilled with illusions though, sadly, they are not terribly useful in combat."

[coquettish_trees]

Had Alexandrie not been watching so very closely she would have missed it, but that tiniest of twitches is caught, and so-- she thinks-- is he. To make them even again (a show of good will) she purposefully echoes it on her own immaculately painted lips, and continues her mirroring by retrieving her glass now that he's has picked up his.

Loki had picked a good spot, the which surprises her not at all. Her glass had been filled without being moved, so she's able to successfully make the slightly risky play of lifting it deftly from where she'd left it on the bar without having to break eye contact with him, which is very important. Enough time spent looking at each other, and the eye begins to be more receptive to small changes nearby; such as the delicate part of her lips for the glass (slightly before needful), the just-so tilt of her chin to draw attention to the pale grace of her throat (a titch higher than usual; he's quite tall) and the resultant movement of her swallow, which leads down quite nicely to the decolletage, which-- what fortune-- even now swells more than for any previous breath. For getting the wine's bouquet in her nose, I'm sure.

A painter knows how to make the eye move about the piece.

Alexandrie's smile, relieved of the glass, spreads wider at the barely veiled promise, and she ripostes with one of her own.

"A generous offer! I know so little of magic, but the work of illusion seems like it would be wondrous indeed. Would it be too unforgivably forward of me to desire to experience your exceptional skills?" Look at those big blue earnest oh-so-innocent eyes. When she blinks she lets them linger at a lidded not-so-innocent for just long enough to mark.

[hwaaaitsme]

Every motion, no matter how minute, is a carefully wielded weapon to this woman, Alexandrie de la Fontaine. Loki is charmed and, admittedly, entirely sold on her unspoken proposal. They are being coy but there is no doubt he should very much enjoy her company this evening...perhaps more than once.

Unfortunately, Loki is a showman and has something of a mean streak in him. It is not a cruel joke that he plays on her, but it is perhaps a little more forward than he would usually be willing to be. If nothing else, it shows a stranger more of his skills than he is generally comfortable putting on open display.

"Unforgivably? Not at all," Loki's voice purrs from behind her left ear, just a bit too close, before pulling back. His free hand, in his lap, is wreathed in a faint green light and, to her side, a perfect duplicate of himself stands, holding a much fancier drink.

"I rather like your forward momentum," Loki, the real one, admits and cocks a brow. "I am quite inclined to let it carry us somewhere more...private."

[coquettish_trees]

Knowing so little of magic, as she'd said quite honestly, Alexandrie is genuinely startled to have Loki's velvety baritone issue from just behind her ear. Her sudden wide-eyed look and tiny gasp of surprise, the dart of her free hand to her collarbone, while all still practiced, are entirely unaffected; as is the faint but readily apparent blush suddenly blossoming high on her cheeks.

She collects herself quickly, looks just over her shoulder at the illusory copy, and then shifts her gaze back to the real one with her brows, one corner of her mouth, and her glass all raising slightly. This round to you.

That acknowledged, Alexandrie's carriage melts back to its careful construction.

"So quick to answer to my desire, Loki of House Asgard," she says coyly to the duplicate, her breezy pleased tone a contrast to the way she lingers over the words. She lifts a hand, as anyone might, to reach out and test the reality of such a thing, although another might not have chosen to test it by settling that hand at its chest and slowly gliding it downwards like one might skim the surface of water, watching the curl of green smoke that trails behind it with brief fascination before turning her head to look at him with a lightly mischievous smile, the passage of her hand unceasing until she pulls it away just before it might be considered indecent to continue.

"You have me at a loss," she says, "I was wholly unprepared to be escorted by two such handsome gentlemen."

[hwaaaitsme]

Loki, who finally breaks his gaze upon her face to glance down at the hand against her collarbone and the startled rise of her chest, smirks openly as he leans forward. His duplicate lingers, a similar expression on its face, but remains silence as Loki utters, very lowly:

"If you would prefer to be escorted by ladies, I am also fairly adept at shapeshifting," Loki informs her, too quietly to be overheard, and arches a brow. There is a moment of pause before he sets his unfinished drink aside and offers her his arm.

"My Lady?"

[coquettish_trees]

That's...

Absolutely thrilling. Ever so slightly terrifying, but that ultimately just adds to the thrill. It's also twice in as many exchanges that he's managed to surprise her. Apparently she's going to need to use a much greater portion of her skill and ingenuity than she imagined she would when she'd followed him here a scant half-candlemark ago.

Perhaps even the whole of it? That's something Alexandrie has never done. The very idea makes her heart leap with excitement.

None of this shows on her person in the slightest, of course, and Loki is not so close that the slight shift from naturally even to controlled even breathing is noticeable, nor feel the unmistakable leap in her pulse before she wrests it back into line so that she can continue forward. After all, the game is still playing out, and her response to his offered arm is every bit as important as his was to the hand she'd offered at introduction.

Her drink, also unfinished, is likewise set aside, and her arm curves up as gracefully as any dancer's to slide precisely beneath his-- although she angles it a bit high to confirm her interest with the brief caress of her hand along his upper arm as it moves on its way to settle into its proper position resting delicately at his elbow.

"My lord," she replies, tilting her head up to look at him through her lashes and favor him with a brilliant smile, already beginning to calculate how much distance ought to be covered before accidentally brushing his arm with her breast.

This promises to be quite the evening.

[continued, spicily, over in this direction.]