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

[altusimperius]

Hardly out of line, no, but the lack of reaction means Benedict has to try a little harder to elicit one.
"That quillback is about to have an elfskin cloak," he says idly, sipping from his wine. One of his companions laughs, but the others are engaged in a separate conversation.

[gatheringstorm]

That comment causes her temper to rise, though she tries not to show it outside of narrowed eyes and renewed cheering when Fenris does land a blow. The quillback may be tenacious (and venomous and other unpleasant things), but while Fenris is still up and swinging, she'll cheer each and every blow he lands. She would anyway, but now she has no problem being louder about it.

"Tear that thing apart!"

[altusimperius]

At first, it seems that Bene's had his fun. But as the battle turns, and the quillback begins to overpower its opponent, laughter begins to emanate from the group of Tevinters. At least one crack is made about a rabbit in the ring, though Benedict isn't its origin; he does, however, loll his head to look at Korrin, smug as ever.

[gatheringstorm]

Fenris' losing ground doesn't silence Korrin at all, quite the opposite. She shouts more words of encouragement, even if he isn't close enough to hear. Part of that is deepening investment in his bout, and part of it is that continued spite. Hearing 'rabbit' takes all her willpower to ignore, but she manages by focusing on the battle as much as possible.

"C'mon, gut the fucking prick! Pretend it's a magi--" Shit, the creature got in too close, and that venom is going to take its toll.

[altusimperius]

The battle goes downhill, and the Tevinters get all the more raucous and smug. They're at least half-laughing at Korrin by the end of it as well, one of them mocking her aggressive motions and sticking his fingers up against his head like horns.
Laughing with them, Bene drinks his wine.

[gatheringstorm]

Fenris isn't going to last, Korrin realizes with a sinking in her gut. That taunting revives her itch to turn around and punch the smug smiles off each and every one of them, especially Bene. But the mountain of consequences to follow would not be worth the brief moment of satisfaction, tempting as it is. Fucking vints, getting away with their assholery yet again. She grits her teeth, determined to see the fight through to the end.

When Fenris goes down, she promptly departs the stands without a look back, determined to reach her friend's side and give him some much-needed support.