faderift | MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The kiss isn't a surprise, but there's a surge of panic when it happens, anyway. They're among so many people...and many of those not likely approving of an elf-human pairing, or willing to assume all sorts of nasty things about it. She doesn't care as long as they keep those assumptions to themselves, but if they choose to take action...

--and Kain is off, her thought process interrupted and refocusing on the event wholeheartedly. She holds her breath automatically at that first pass, only remembering to breathe afterward. Kain receives plenty of cheering from her end, for the auspicious start.

As distracted as he was, in the moment, Kain couldn't help it, not even thinking about the implications as he normally might. The time for caution is long past, he figures. He doesn't care who sees them right now. He has a goal in sight, and wants to give it his all to prove himself worthy. That he's made it this far is a big deal to him. Now to see where it'll go from here.

The two opponents get ready for the second pass, armed with new lances and getting into position yet again. Once again, the horses take off... Kain feels that powerful sensation as the horse rapidly moves along, watching as the gaudy colors of his opponent rush toward him. There's a clash again, but this time, it's only Ser Hannequin striking Kain, whose own lance goes wide, missing his target. He's disappointed, but he's got another chance left. He can do this. He listens to the roar of the crowd, to the announcer's reminder that Hannequin now commands the lead.

Inessa watches intently, only to wince in sympathy when Ser Hannequin strikes. He may have the lead, but it's not over yet. She joins the crowd in shouting her encouragement, Garahel barking his own. Kain has come this far, he can do this. And if he can't, he's already gone further than just about anyone else.

There's still a chance that he can do this, he can make it. Kain awaits the signal, watching the colorful Ser Hannequin as he's preparing on the other side. Though there's a bit of uncertainty there as well. This guy is good, everyone knows that. Kain has definitely seen him compete before, in the past, too, since they share a country in common. He thinks he knows what to expect on this last pass. They'll see in a moment.

That next pass starts off with a bang, the two horses yet again hurtling powerfully along toward one another. But Kain doesn't predict things quite as right as he'd thought, and Hannequin serves up a heavy blow, shattering his lance on impact. It's all Kain can do to hold on, but hold on he does, to the horse, and to the lance in hand. It's not enough to beat him, though, and he knows it. Lance unbroken, he finishes the charge in defeat... Still, he'd managed to avoid a total unhorsing, that at least has to mean something.

The breath Inessa didn't realize she'd been holding is let out at that heavy blow, and she knows the final is all but over. Even so, how Kain finished still matters, for his own pride and the crowd observing all this. She pats Garahel to soothe her own nerves before heading off the stands to Kain's location.

Even with that bitter feeling of sudden loss, Kain holds himself together well. He's representing more than just himself here, after all. He's here for the Ventforts, the Wardens, for the Inquisition and Orlais. All of these groups and places he belongs to are so deeply important to him that he'll not let them down by behaving poorly. So he's sure to clasp hands with Ser Hannequin when the other rider approaches him, wishing him a congratulations and well fought joust, with the colorful knight doing likewise.

Then he rides off a little ways, letting the horse blow off some of that post-run excitement before finally dismounting, looking around as he sees Inessa approaching. "I almost had him... but then again, he also almost had me, too. At least I did stay on the horse..."

Inessa's quick to smile as she joins him, looking on the bride side despite the end result. Garahel happily heads over as well, wagging his tail and pressing up against Kain. "Indeed, we saw. It was a dignified closing to a hard-fought match. Few can say they have gotten as far as you have, let alone Ser Hannequin. Our fellow Wardens will be very pleased by your achievement." Hopefully, this will counter their checkered reputation just a little.

Kain catches his breath, reaching down to pet Garahel fondly, before reaching to take and squeeze one of Inessa's hands for just a moment. "You're right... few can say, indeed. He's a lot more serious out there than his outlandish style of dress would have you think. He's definitely no clown." He nods, thinking now of the Wardens. "Hopefully this will also prove to others just how honorable the Wardens truly can be." They still have a long way to go with that, but still. This is a very good start.

"At the very least, it shows we are capable and determined. Hopefully, that connects them more images of the Fifth Blight than Clarel." She forces herself to ignore that typical urge to rant upon mentioning or hearing that name, it has no place here and now. "Come, you deserve a chance to sit and drink, and hear the tales they're going to tell of today."

"It's about time they saw us Wardens for who we truly are... or at least, aspire to be. I know I've failed in the past, myself, but... we have to keep trying, don't we? To be better?" That's what he was always taught, and the code that he lives by now. Even if he often has doubts or gets upset at himself for what he'd done in the past. "Anyway, you're right. For now... sitting and drinking sounds like a good idea. I've been going steadily this whole time, after all." Aside from spectating at Inessa's mage event, he's had something going on or preparation for it, this whole time. Now to perhaps try and enjoy the last parts of the tourney.

MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject