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

[aenseidhe]

[ drunk as he may be, iorveth's not so far gone that he isn't at least half as observant of those around him as he is sober, which is enough to catalog details of anyone that passes him in his mind, to a point that a spy would be put to shame.

And Brónach is hardly subtle.

While competitive, she's never struck him as a sore loser, and even so, second place is hardly losing, especially not when the scores were so close. Iorveth imagines its something else going on with her. As enjoyable as drinking is, it's only something to pass the time, while his friend is actually something important. ]

As did you. [ there's no stretch of truth in that, and iorveth hasn't ever lied to help someone feel better in his entire life. ] Had the rounds been counted cumulative rather than each on their own, you'd have won instead.

[ Brónach had some incredible shots, and given another round, he's certain she'd have likely outscored him just as easily. it was likely more to do with slight changes in the wind, by that point, than a definition of skill. perhaps the simple numbers are enough to frustrate her. ]

And yet, you seem like you're attending a wake rather than a festival.

[earthbones]

[If she were younger, maybe. More than half her life ago she joined the hunting parties up in the canopies, and this is a game, it's just a game, it's meant to be fun, or preening for the humans. There was coin passing hands on it because it's what people do.

(The Guild would have been here too. Karliah--)

Is this what it is? Is this what Paarthurnax meant about seeing the forces shaping the currents of time? In this place with it slipping between her fingers for all the faces that she won't see, that won't come, that won't be in the wilds or in the tavern, no chance meetings.]

I was a Jaqspur. [Opening the pouch, she fills the bowl with bits of wings, legs (too many legs), all sorts of parts where most people would have tobacco. Or elfroot. She read the surveys, there's something going on with the Gallows and the elfroot. Someone else has a light, saves her the trouble, and maybe Y'ffre can look away for once when she's been trying her fucking best.] Someone - one of the ones with the thick accent that sounds like they're hacking the words out - was asking about how I ever learnt to shoot like I do. Had my hood down then, I was walking, and this is a game to them. Just. Knowing how to hold a bow. Fire an arrow. A game and if you're good at it, applause, well done, but if your ears come to a point it's how.

[Of course it's a game, she knew that when she entered it, still doesn't stop her taking a pull from the pipe that's too deep, chokes her because it's been a few years but sober isn't cutting it.] Home's longer than where I left, missing people who would've come to this. Been louder. About everything. About all of it.

[She's seen enough to know when you look for the exits, she tries to lead all her guilds and factions better than she found them at the very least, she owes the people staring at her that much, and Iorveth is a leader, maybe he understands why she's kept her silences, why she's pulling faces about the humans more today than she might otherwise. (She knows what an Orlesian is, it's been six months now.)]