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

[coquettish_trees]

Alexandrie laughs musically.

"If you are absolutely insistent on being parted from your coin this evening, monsieur, and seeing as you are now dressed for the occasion," she says, gliding up behind him with her head tilted just so as he attempts to chase the proprietor, "you may buy me a drink."

Her tone rises lightly at the end of her sentence as if it's a question, but it's not really a question. She bats her eyelashes coyly.

[keenly]

As always, Colin's immediate thought is no. It's not that she isn't beautiful, but there are a whole host of reasons to nip this in the bud. Such as self-preservation.

"No," he says clearly. Again. He taps the merchant's arm. "Serah? You--"

The merchant holds up a finger as he continues talking to the customer. Colin is irritated enough to interrupt again, but not rude enough. He turns back to Alexandrie and raises a finger.

"No," he says again, for emphasis. "I'm not going to wind up having my head cut off by an angry noble father. Serah, if you don't let me pay you, I'm leaving the tunic here."

[coquettish_trees]

Oho. Something (or someone) happened to this one before. Enough of a something to make the risk of an evening with her more than theoretical. That's not something she often has to take into account. He seems to step just to the side of the normal social order of things as well; not even fretting to deny her. The only organization she knows that allows for that at the moment is the Inquisition. So. Time to modify.

Alexandrie holds up a hand, dimming the coquettish brilliance of her smile to something more sincere and speaking with lower volume, "Peace, monsieur, you will only upset the poor man. He will not wish to gainsay me right before my eyes, no? As to this? Well," C'est la vie! says the airy flick of her wrist. "It is a game for two, and far less diverting when one's partner has no joy in it."

"Let us not trouble his business any further," she says, "if you wish, you may accompany me on my walk back to the Inquisition encampment and we shall see that very silver in the hands of the servant I meant to send upon my return."

[keenly]

Oh, Colin is absolutely fretting to deny her. He is only being vehement because the next thing she does is the last thing he expects. She now gets to see what he looks like when completely taken aback. It's not that different, actually, because his expressions aren't very extreme, but it's extreme for him.

She's rich, she's upper class, and she's interested in him. All three of those things register as predator to him. Cyril backed off as well, when shot down, but Cyril was only one of those three, and an elf to boot. And Cyril didn't try to buy him. But just now, Colin is seeing her previous gesture less the way he saw it at the time and more the way she very probably intended it--flirting. This woman has no reason to think of seventy-five silver as half a fortune. She will never miss those silver. It was her equivalent, no doubt, of picking a flower at the side of the road to pass along to a boy she fancied, not a debt to be cashed in later on. Colin stands and blinks at her for several seconds, his shoulders lowering slowly.

The shopkeep, meanwhile, glances over dourly and plucks the silver out of his hand, then gestures for him to get out. Lower-class peasants have no idea how to act in shops like his, clearly.

Colin's hand closes around air. He clears his throat and adjusts his new tunic, suddenly feeling a bit silly in it. It's the loveliest thing he has ever put on, but to think he will ever have need of it is pure pretense.

"Of course, Madame. I'll, um, I'll walk you back to camp." He folds his hands behind his back and lowers his gaze again. "You are Inquisition as well?"

aaa i'm slow

[coquettish_trees]

'Inquisition as well'; Ah, she'd guessed!

A delicate gloved hand will be extended into his field of vision, even as he lowers his eyes.

"Lady Alexandrie de la Fontaine," she says, the lightness returned to her voice. She emphasizes her title just enough for it to be a gentle correction-- heavens, she's not married-- but not enough for it to seem a demand or reproof, "lately of the Inquisition. And I have the pleasure of making the acquaintance of...?"

me too

[keenly]

"Colin." Oh boy, a hand. Like he's supposed to be so privileged to be so close to her particular hand. But he touches his fingertips to her palm and bows over it, hoping he's doing this right. At least Lady Marisol has never asked him to do this. And he has absolutely no idea how he should address her, but she sounds like she's correcting him. Madame is Orlesian for Madama which is Antivan for Milady, and so his translation of a translation doesn't quite sync up with what's conventionally expected. Maker knows he was never taught how to address an Orlesian noble. He was barely taught how to address a Fereldan noble, advised even to avoid addressing one altogether, and his Fereldan father would have taken affront to being expected to bow to an Orlesian, and naturally his only such education in the Circle was don't worry about it, it will never be important. He clears his throat a tiny bit as he rises.

"What form of address ought I to use? Sorry."

[slowness intensifies]

[coquettish_trees]

"A pleasure," she replies, "Lady will do fine, it is no great matter." She gestures flippantly with her fan and smiles encouragingly as if the mistake had been the smallest thing in the world.

It's all rather sweet, really. Something the Game hardly allows for; at least, not in any honesty. Alexandrie likes simple untutored courtesy just as well as the grand sweeping gestures and exacting positioning of those who play. It is like petting a kitten whose claws have been removed. Perhaps not as thrilling as running ones hand down the spine of a dangerous creature in just such a way that it continues to not try and murder you, but every once in a while even she tires of maintaining such vigilance.

She'd wait for an offered arm, but she'd really flustered him enough thus far, so she simply waits a moment and then begins her stroll back towards the encampment slowly enough— and continuing to look at him— that she'll be easily caught up to within one or two steps.

"I am most grateful for your accompaniment, Colin. Although I feel the question begged; I am not keeping you from whatever entertainment you meant to look so dashing for, am I?"

[keenly]

He doesn't believe a man like himself is allowed to touch a woman like her. He's never been certain, though. He wasn't exactly coached on it. Then Orlesians are a class unto themselves, supposedly having rules about rules about rules. Can Colin have his head cut off for not walking closely enough behind her? Too closely? Her own pace is what determines how near he is to her, ultimately. Given that she was flirting with him earlier, he supposes she isn't so much a stickler for rules and won't hang him on a technicality, so he tries to put it from his mind.

Is she mocking him, with that question? She has been pleasant so far. Maybe he should relax a little. She could be like Lady Marisol, that way. Not in any other way, though. Nobody is like Lady Marisol in more than one way.

"No, Milady," he admits, glancing away. His natural shyness is more responsible for his tone than sheer, abject terror, given that the terror is abating at last. "My stall is doing well, so I had a little money and I wanted to buy something nice in case of a...function. In the future."

[coquettish_trees]

"Ah! My congratulations on your success, then," Alexandrie says with a smile that is still toned down and softened. Noticing how their positioning changes dependent on her speed, she goes through a series of tests and changes so that they are walking rather companionably and she's not obliged to crane her neck to speak with him. "I certainly would not begrudge anyone the desire to look handsome for an function in the future... but sometimes it can be equally nice to look handsome and make of the present an function deserving of it."