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

One such blowhard has been mostly hanging out with his blowhard friends, but Loki's presence here means Benedict has to make at least one appearance and show all his hangers-on that he's In with the Asgards. Because he is, of course.
Carrying a glass of wine, Bene approaches Loki with an easy smile, tossing his hair back out of his face and completely disregarding that Loki is probably doing something of great import and secrecy.
"I didn't take you for the looting type," he says, sipping from his wine with a shit-eating smirk.

Loki must have been losing his touch, normally he was far stealthier than this, but tonight he's been spotted by a drunken Benedict Artemeus and is now subject to his attention and the attentions of his horde of onlookers. Fantastic.

Let it never be said that Bene did things by halves.

"And you would be right," Loki replies a bit flippantly with just a hint of irritation in his tone.

Perhaps he could spin this. Being caught out by a crowd of Tevinter's chattiest youth was...not ideal but also not completely un-ideal. The box in Loki's hands would be easy enough to keep their attention off of, but why do that when rumors were such wonderful tools?

"I'm doing a favor," he replies and pointedly tucks the box in his arm. The name T. Blandus is inscribed on the surface and only partly obscured by the fold of his sleeve. "And you are...enjoying the finer vintages? Thank the gods they've brought some with them, this Orlesian swill was getting to me."

Loki snaps his fingers at one of Bene's friends/cadre.

"You, fetch me a glass," he requests with a rakish grin and the full force of his charisma. The woman flushes and scurries off to obtain what he wants.

Loki probably is that stealthy, but Bene is just also that drunk, and that interested in what Loki's doing. Such is the way of things: he barely even looks at the box, just smiling genially at the man's observation. "Straight from Minrathous, as it should be," he replies, swirling the liquid in the cup for a moment and looking into it.
"If you're in the mood for any more favors," he adds, in a tone he hopes is coquettish but has a bit too much slurring, "you know where my room is." Loki aren't you sad you missed all those intervening years between when he was eleven and now

The woman returns just in time for Bene to (rather more loudly than he probably intended) proposition Loki. Loki, to his credit, only pauses for a split second as he takes the glass and manages not to grimace. He does immediately down a good third of it and then shoots Bene a slightly reproachful but, ultimately, rather seductive grin. It is largely for show and to stoke rumors.

"Oh if only I were getting more of that sort of favor, Bene, my sweet," Loki compliments and laughs genially as he turns to Bene's friends. They all stare in slight awe at the open confession and pet name. Good. He shifts his arms--pay attention to the box you cretins.

"No, this one is rather more boring, just disposing of a few things for a...friend of a friend." He drums his fingers on the glass.

"Tell me, my dear boy, did you see the magical combat today?"

Sweet? Dear? Bene can hardly believe his drunken luck, and... in a way, neither can his friends, though their expressions shift to become considerably less pleased. Wait, is this...?
Surely not another Pavus. Not half so brazen, and from such a prominent family. After all it's already been through lately, House Artemaeus would never recover.

Benedict seems unaware of the change, swirling his wine around fancily as he hangs onto Loki's words. "Of course," he replies easily, and with a playful edge, adds, "Thor did wonderfully."

MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

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