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

[thunderproof]

Adalia doesn't say anything, but her agreement is clear in the wobbly but stubborn set of her lip, the hunch of her shoulders, her heavy breaths — they didn't do nearly as well as she'd hoped, and walking off the field is almost physically painful for her. She's not paying attention to the crowd in the way Myr is, too inside of her own head to put on a brave face, but she manages not to give in to despair before they get behind the tents —

and then Myr says he's going to be sick, and there's no time for despair. She turns to face him, approaching with her hands outstretched.

"Here, let me —"

Adalia is by no means a healer — shouldn't even be able to heal at all, by rights, but helping was in her too much not to be expressed through her magic — but she can do enough that walking won't be quite so painful, and some of the nausea may dim some. The flow of magic from her fingertips and into Myr feels like a cool breeze carrying with it the scent of ocean air, before the magic subsides and then Adalia is just standing in front of him.

"I'm sorry we didn't do better," she says, quiet, voice thick with unshed tears.

[faithlikeaseed]

It's-- different from what Myr's come to expect of magical healing, subtly and strangely so; he hasn't known magic to have scents attached, but it's soothing all the same. And, much to his surprise, it helps more than just the physical pains, slowing his racing heartbeat and untangling a little of the leaden knot of fear in his guts. Not so much as to dispel it entirely, but enough he can draw breath and lift his head and tip his face toward her all without feeling the need to find somewhere quiet to bring up his breakfast. "Thank you," he breathes, sincere in that way one only can be after the easing of a great burden.

"I'm sorry we didn't do better."

There's a usual response in these situations, brave words pulled out to suit the brave face of a good loser--oh, well, there's always next time! and we did our best and that's what counts--but they're not true. There may never be another grand tourney for either of them (or for Thedas, for that matter), and there'd certainly never be another debut, another opportunity to decisively show everyone you were wrong about me without any prior shortcomings coloring it. Maybe that wasn't a wholly worthy reason to compete--maybe they'd set themselves up for failure against mages far more experienced than they.

But it doesn't hurt any less. He knows that tone of voice and the misery behind it well enough from personal experience, the frustration and fury and I know I'm better than this that drives a body to tears over the world's unfairness. (At least he hadn't frozen--or broken and run, quitting the field in a panic. Even if it's by the Maker's own grace no one hexed him or put him to sleep; he's sure now he wouldn't have been able to endure that. Not when all his focus, near the end, went into not running, to the detriment of his spells.)

He reaches out a hand toward her in a wordless offer of comfort. Circle mages--at least this one--aren't so big on physical gestures where someone might see them, but this is a little bit of an extraordinary situation--after an extraordinary day, for a Circle mage. "I'm sorry, too. I wasn't as prepared for all of this as I thought--and I let us down because of it."

[thunderproof]

Before Myr's even finished speaking Adalia is shaking her head, taking his hand in hers and squeezing tightly.

"No, Myr, you didn't do anything wrong. We were both prepared — we were all prepared."

All but one, she doesn't say, because it would be too easy to point fingers and wail about carrying dead weight when they could have compensated. If they were smarter, if they were faster, if they were more powerful... If Adalia had caste haste instead of polymorph, if she had chosen better targets when attacking. They just weren't good enough, and that is a more difficult pill to swallow, but they won't get better if they don't, right?

Something like that. Maybe it'll be easier to feel more hopeful about it when her heart isn't in her throat making it difficult to breathe.

"I just wish it hadn't happened in front of so many people," she says, voice soft and pained. The publicity of it all is what hurts the most, knowing that everyone who thinks she's just a child saw evidence of that.

[faithlikeaseed]

Her words get a smile out of Myr--a thin, ephemeral thing, but a smile all the same; he squeezes her hand in return. "You're very kind to say so," he says with warm sincerity. Perhaps he's thinking along the same lines she is--down to the idea they simply should've done better to make up for the handicap. (In more ways than one; no question in his mind he'd put them at a disadvantage to begin with. Had it been selfish of him to sign up for this, knowing that?)

"And that's true enough as training goes, but the rest of it--the chaos of it," the entropy magic, "knowing we were being watched and weighed for everything we did--I can't begin to think how to prepare for it."

Except experiences just like this, hard-won and miserable as they are; he makes a noise of rueful, heartsore agreement with her wish. Maker, he'd been so glad of friends and supporters in the stands, but that happiness is altogether bittersweet now that it's all over, too soon. Simon, Nari, Inessa--they've all faith in him, and even as he knows that faith's not contingent on him being some flawless eidolon of a knight-enchanter, always victorious in battle-- He still wants sorely to have repaid that trust all at once, spectacularly, not by slow half-measures and gradual improvement. He's old enough to know by now life isn't ever like the stories, and yet...

Well. Better not to focus on his own shortcomings, to wallow and lose the lesson; better to turn outward and help.

"What do you think they saw?" The question's gentle; not insistent, not prying.