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

[faithlikeaseed]

Were anyone to ask Myr about it, he'd say he's the one in Yngvi's debt for talking him into adopting the Comtesse. He'd not known there was a nug-shaped hole in his life that needed patching; it's made him all the more inclined to trust the dwarf knows what he's about, even when it comes to things like bagpipes and Rivaini dancers.

"Definitely give the bagpipes a miss." Starkhaven cultural enrichment might be somewhere in his near future, but not today. "I don't have so many senses left I can afford being deaf, too."

Summoning up spirits has his fingers tightening on his staff, though--they can't really be doing that, no one but the Rivaini would be comfortable with that happening here in the middle of everything. Which makes it close enough to real unease to provoke his own perverse desire to know more. "Sure am. Lead the way. D'you think they're really seers?" Do you think any of them are possessed right now?

All right, maybe don't ask that one in public. Or ever.

[inagutterson]

"D'you reckon they inflate them from all that manky fish and egg pie they stuff themselves with? It's a nightmare, don't worry I'm steering us past any of those stands too, worked this one job in Starkhaven and couldn't get the fishy smell out of for a month. Bad when it's a whole group of you and everyone stinks worse than the mabari." It was a true nightmare Myr, or Yngvi's selling it that way from the wince in his voice, the hand set on one arm just to carefully help both of them avoid some ladies dressed to affect fortunes they no longer have, both of them a-flutter about some jawline and biceps. "Is carving granite with a face an attractive quality?"

Myr doesn't need to answer, he can ask his lady.

Out of respect, a sort of unspoken code, the Boneflayers haven't ever had many Rivaini jobs, same as after leaving Kirkwall they never went back. Never discussed much outside of them. "Wish I'd kept Asher's old sending crystal instead of having to hand it back and get my own, could've just left it with them to ask," he huffs because rising up on his tiptoes (still shorter than Myr so it's pretty much a wasted exercise) he tries to look for Nasir so he can bellow in his direction. "I dunno, Rivain's relaxed about mages where the Qunari aren't putting the boot in so they might be or it might be that like," and he drops his voice, waggles his eyebrows because he can't not do that, "exotic Rivain thing."

There's a lot more energetic drumming when they get closer though, enough that Yngvi can feel it on his skin, and the air is-- well that's sure as shit not just incense now is it so either they're Seers doing the trance thing and you need elfroot or there's just enough elfroot mixed in to leave you a little buzzed, a little mellow. To sway if you watch long enough. The clothing has beadwork catching the light, coins (or they look like coins) and maybe bells chiming and clinking. "D'you ever read about any of those fancy birds with really bright feathers? It's a bit like that, everything's bright enough it's making my eyes go in and out of focus when they're moving - do mages need to do dances to channel spirits?"

[faithlikeaseed]

The exquisite expression of disgust Myr makes isn't wholly feigned. "Sounds worse than when we took bets on who could drink the most garum in one go. Maker, that was a stench." As for the granite, he gives a little half-huff of a laugh at the question and the fluttering alike. "Chiseled, like? I think it's more some folk have a hard-on for statues."

A low pun, Myr, but the festival air's got him riled up.

He sticks close to Yngvi's side even when there's not a hand on his arm, stopping when the dwarf stops to wonder at whatever's caught his attention until he gives it voice. Though once they draw close--into the range of the drums, the elfroot--he's not doing so much waiting in favor of the experiencing. (He's caught a moment between drawing breath and not when the scent hits him; a mage, control, etcetera etcetera and besides it hearkens back to Nevarra. The game in Thranduil's room, played under the influence, hadn't gone so badly but the rest of the experience looms dark over the good parts. In the end, he settles for breathing over not.)

"Well," thoughtfully--and smilingly, because he can hear those eyebrows in Yngvi's tone--"well, if the Inquisition's got us out here in full regalia as mages, why not the Rivaini too. Exotic and authentic."

And colorful; Myr knows whereof the dwarf speaks and spends a moment pulling up his recollections of just those birds. "No, else I don't think Averesch would be in the business of doing it." Though strictly, Kostos would object to the idea he's channeling anything like the Rivaini do. But let it go. "We need rituals, though; moving about reminds you the shapes you've got to pull out of the Fade, so you hold them right in your head. Dancing works as well as anything, I'd think." Certainly some of what he did with the big glyphs came near enough to it.

[inagutterson]

"There's a tavern we stopped at once, if you could chug the house garum - who even has a house garum outside fishpeople places? - your stay was free. Course it being a load of us we got Nasir to do it since he's from Rivain, he's fine with fish, wasn't so fine the next morning but that was on them to clean up. We all slept in two rooms instead of tents for a change." When you live on the road, even crammed in same as sardines is a luxury when the nights are humid and damp, the biting insects plentiful. "That's what they do all day in Orlais at the university. Fondle the statues. Don't touch things if you go there, it's just rich ponces touching up marble. Even their bits."

Accusations Yngvi has fired, in some fashion, at living breathing graduates within the Inquisition because that's all he can imagine them doing. It's probably what dwarves do with the paragons. Touch them up. Maybe a smooch. Better to do the elf thing and piss on a tree, that's honest at the very least.

If Nasir were around instead of either canoodling with Amalia (which is what he's probably doing because whenever they're not working, with an honest break, there's a lot of canoodling) he could ask more questions. Or nudge. Nasir'd volunteer things. But Ygnvi closes his own eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them to really soak it all in properly the way you do when you're part of something big, loud, bright, and colourful. The kind of thing he wouldn't have been doing a few months back. Would've been too busy drinking. Or lurking about for.

"Is he one of the surly ones?" Innocent enough to ask but to a dwarf who hasn't had many interactions with mages go well, as a group, most tend to sound surly. Have it rolling off them in waves. Boohoo life was so hard hello welcome to the real world it's shit for us and it's been shit for bloody years, you're not special. (He's not bitter.) "You pull shapes on the dance floor so I can see it working out the same, sort of, not that your sort of robes really let you all cut loose. The way they're moving - it's...fluid? Flowing? I don't want to interrupt but it's like when you watch water moving for a long time, a really long time, and the light hits, and I can hear that too with the rustling and the tinkling if you're by rivers and they're not running fast after hard rains but still moving--"

He's trying hard, cutting himself off, hesitant but forging onward with the description because Myr can't see so he has to figure out what else it's like. What it's like to what he, an Yngvi, has seen. And he thinks this is about right.

For a little while he keeps watching, then leans up on his toes with a creak of leather boots to ask, "You don't have to do that in fights, do you?" Because that'd be 1) hilarious but 2) inconvenient. Unless it distracted the enemy.