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

[periastron]

Smells like home, honestly. The leather and sweat and animal smells, not the metallic bit.

( She rolls her shoulders, trying to loosen up a bit. ) The lances are new. Sort of got into it by accident. I did a lot of riding back home, helping with the sheep and all that.

( Looking down at the armour, she pokes at the dent. ) Thanks. That'd be sweet as, helping my hide keeping from getting mangled. I mean, all this might be a bit heavy, but could we keep bits and make it lighter or something?

[earthbones]

Leather and metal are work smells, I want to get them off at the end of the day when I know it's the end of the day. [Unsurprisingly, the concept of time eludes Brónach sometimes when she can watch the minutes drag by then suddenly it's dark in moments, everyone else gone from the smithy, her stinking, sweating, aching. Life gets that way.] My horse is-- [half a glance, one of those rare crooked smiles] maybe a thing more out of a rift. Not a flesh and blood horse. From the waters of Oblivion. He's never smelt like these ones.

[As one strolls over from loose reins to try nibbling on the frayed end of her braid, have at it buddy one of yours helped feed that braid at one point.]

Why would you be herding sheep? Doesn't pay much to do that. You do healer-work. [Look she knows most about where the coin comes and goes, and farmers try to pay her in food she can't fucking eat, the shits.] Someone try talking you into it then? I've...seen that. [Done that. Had that happen with Brynjolf and now she has a Thieves Guild so that worked out but no one hit her with a lance.

Without thinking, Brónach bats at her hand with a scowl.] Stop that, don't know how damaged it is, d'you want us to be picking it out of you? Still, if it wasn't made for you, you weren't going into this with a decent chance. I can measure it up, hammer it out, probably work out something that'll suit you. Unless this is the look you're going for? Trampled and dusted?

[periastron]

I do. But remember I told you about my yiayia and baba having a farm? When I was younger I'd help out. Mending fences, looking to seein' the sheep are alright. I don't do it anymore, unless I go back to visit my family.

( And she doesn't ever do that, these days. It would be much the same even if she hadn't toppled through a rift.

Compliantly - mostly - she drops her hand away from the armour, although she's frowning it. ) If anyone could make "trampled and dusted" could look good, it'd be me. But uh, no, okay, we can go with your idea.

( After a moment of pause— ) When you say Oblivion, is that... poetic?

[earthbones]

Right, right. How big is their farm that you need to go riding around? [HOW SECRETLY RICH ARE YOUR FAMILY ALEXANDRA? You know. To someone from her fake fantasy history time period where the farms are small and chicken murder has every guard right up your ass in 0.2 seconds.]

You're wearing it better than most of them. Did you see one of the boys earlier? His helmet took it because he had the visor tipped up like some sort of icebrained prick, so the lance got him in the head, then when he went off the horse he landed on his head from the back. I think they'll be cutting him out of it. [You know how some people can just veer from 0 to 60 in an alarmingly short space of time? It's like that with a sincere compliment and the quickest up and down onceover to 'I might be into scoping out a horror movie later' if she had the concept of horror movies at all but that sounds like a good fucking time to her.]

They're a plane of existence where the Daedra come from. Think...demons and spirits. Or more like the demons you've seen here but smarter, chattier, different intentions. Just means 'not our ancestors'. That's where he was summoned from. Fearless. He's fought dragons. [Listen to how fond she sounds, it's embarrassing to sound like that about a horse but oh he's a beauty. And a terror.]

[periastron]

Pretty big. ( She doesn't feel like getting into specifics. Big enough that sometimes you gotta drive a long while to go check on the fences, check the troughs, do everything needing doing. )

Long stretches. Not all of it's good for grazin', mind. Some of it's more scrub and bushland, better left for the roos and that. Stuff that is good, we try to rotate the pasteur. Rest fields so they can grow back.

( As for the injury, she makes a sympathetic hissing sound. ) Shit. ( She really needs to teach them about concussions here, which is granted a problem because she hasn't done anything people related with medicine for a very long time. )

You have a horse that's fought dragons? Like— one on one?

( She makes a boxing gesture, even though she knows better than to think of it like a dragon and horse boxing match - but imagine, though. )

[earthbones]

Skyrim is cold, hard. Most of the farms overlap on top of each other. If one person had land stretching for miles no one else would be farming at all. What's a-- a roo?

[Just that pause to parse Alexandra's accent a moment against her own, making sure she heard correctly as she covers for farming learnt through a litany of complaints of the cold being bad for crops.

They don't farm in Valenwood.

Anyway, the armour is in her hands, breastplate at the very least to be turned over.] They didn't give you cheap shit. Not the best, not the worst. Some people shouldn't be on a horse in the first place, on a horse in armour, not knowing what to do... maybe better this than other teachers.

With me when they flew down off a mountain somewhere out of nowhere, or if I rode him to where the slept atop the walls, then he'd fight them. Rear up, both hooves to crash down against them. I've never seen Shadowmere bleed. [Could be that there's not blood in him after all but he was a gift for a job well done, from her first newfound family, and Astrid has long since gone to serve the Dread Father.]

[periastron]

Oh, uh. Kangaroo. it's a type of creature from my world. Marsupial, tall things. They eat grass, got powerful back legs and tails, travel by jumping or scooting along. They're wild animals, I love 'em.

( She sighs a little wistfully. )

That sounds amazing. Alarming as shit, but amazing. He's here, did you say?

( Alex is still a little rueful. )

I think I'm better at the riding part than the jousting part. I dunno if armour is really my thing.

( Rubbing her collarbone a little, she exhales. ) That any use for you?

[earthbones]

Do they attack? [Everything attacks in her experience unless it's a rabbit or related to a deer, or goats, or foxes. Even then, toss in a spriggan and suddenly your whole day is ruined so whatever nightmare abomination of a being being conjured in the mind of the Bosmer (the Hunt could make that sort of thing, substitute flesh for grass of course) it's the chief concern.]

No. [And maybe for once, Brónach looks genuinely forlorn for once at him not being here. Something so solid, ridden into battle time and time again with her through the worst sorts of chaos and carnage Skyrim has hurled her way. She isn't quite able to meet Alexandra's eyes for a long time. Should've had her hood up.] The rift left him back at my camp. Anyone fool enough to go stealing him'll meet a swift end, and he can take care of himself but having him here...it'd be...good. Better than that.

[Paranoid murder elf thief misses nightmare horse: more on this news bulletin at eleven, back to you Chuck.]

I stick to leather. Lighter for a start and easier to move in. Thedas isn't where you're from, what you might end up dealing with here with what we've got in our hands - better to have something than nothing, those without the weapons still die from them just the same. I could fix this up, sell it off, fit you for something better. We need good healers.

[Not that she likes you but she likes you, so let her sweeten the deal.] Bees can't sting through leather, I've shot enough hives for honey to vouch. Raided a hive for dinner before I came here.

[Also maybe probably sort of definitely ate the fucking bees. Look at that devious smirk creeping over her face about that honey heist it was a sick heist Alexandra.]