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

Their turn is steadily advancing, so Inessa's glad for Myr's sake that he caught himself in time. "Quite true, there are issues to consider. They aren't unsolvable -if you're partial to assistants- but it would still be a drastic change. Those ought to be considered carefully, at least.

And a home base -whether it be a place or person- can make all the difference." There's a smile in her voice at that, not fooled by the hasty amendment.

She wouldn't be, of course, and he knew it nearly as soon as the correction was out of his mouth. Still, he's got the good grace and self-control not to look too abashed over it, even if his answering smile is a little sheepish. Caught me out, he doesn't say, but the sentiment's there.

"And since this is all a hypothetical for once the Inquisition's succeeded, that home base wouldn't be Kirkwall or Skyhold, I don't think. So I'd have to think of establishing a household with my person on top of all that. More changes." Though now that he's getting into the idea, whatever note of trepidation lurks around the thought of changes is quickly fading. Why couldn't learning an entirely new profession be part of the adventure?

"And hiring assistants, finding something to trade in people will buy-- Though you're right none of that's unsolvable." He pauses a beat to listen to the patron at the head of the line order and confirm payment, taking note of the price for a drink before rummaging up coins to pay for two. Easier to have that all in hand.

"--So if it were you going into business like this. What would you want to sell people?"

Inessa is about to rummage for coin as well, when Myr beats her to it. "Oh--thank you." That just means she'll have to She glances down to repay him somehow, before the tourney is over. "Well, it wouldn't be just a stall, but perhaps I would be a mabari breeder. I know the breed well and how to care for them. It would be difficult to relinquish, though perhaps some going toward those in need would soften the blow. It may not be profitable, but I would see more than the noble and wealthy have such valiant protectors and companions. Imagine what they could do for an alienage...."

"My pleasure," warmly said. It's fun, in its way, to be able to just buy things and share them with the people he likes. It's something he hasn't quite gotten over for all Ser Coupe's haranguing that he hang on to his money.

His expression brightens at her idea--and without really thinking about it he reaches down to scratch between Garahel's ears. "I'm imagining--oh, Inessa, they'd make such a difference in keeping it safe." Though who's to say those same folk who'd made it a law an elf couldn't bear weapons might not name a mabari one--but that doesn't bear thinking about right now.

"I imagine as well this fellow would be delighted to help usher in that next generation of puppies," he continues, grinning. "Wouldn't you, Garahel?"

"Elven alienages combined with faithful and able mabari...it would be a nice sight to see." Her tone indicates she knows there would be obstacles and likely resistance, but at this moment she'll just ignore that and let it be a nice dream. Perhaps later, it can be more than that. Perhaps.

Garahel's happy barking prompts a fond chuckle from Inessa, and a wishful sigh. "I really should send him to the kennels and keep him out of missions for a while, for just that purpose. But it's so difficult to let him go, even for a good cause...."

The mabari responds with a soft whine, leaning in against her for a moment. It would be difficult on him, too, no doubt.

His grin softens at that to something fonder--a little sadder, too. "You two are inseparable; I'd think it a little bit of a tragedy to have you apart that long. I don't know Wardens can take sabbaticals, but surely there's something in your research that would benefit from a few months of concentrated thought and no fieldwork?"

Though his tone says he knows that's also a nice dream, with Corypheus about and the Inquisition in Kirkwall stretched thin as they are. He'd hold forth more on that, too--but it's their turn at the head of the line, so he holds the thought and orders them both lemonade.

Only once the drinks are paid for and distributed and they're away from the line does he pick back up: "How long d'you keep mabari parents with their pups, anyhow?"

"For the mothers...about three months, long enough for them to wean. Garahel was only a week or so older when I first encountered him. It was good timing that a litter was ready when I was also available. Their sires don't require that much time, of course, but if you think Garahel would want to be around them anyway, you're absolutely right."

Garahel wags his tail, looking up at them...and then bolting to catch another fallen treat before some other dog can claim it. "...that's it, when we get back you're going on a strict diet."

MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject