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

Never shoot for the moon, Yngvi. That's Minka's philosophy. Because when things go to shit -- and they always will, in her experience -- you don't have a long fall. Wine helmets are a simple thing, and if they get caught, it's a slap on the wrist. You try to steal the enchanted gondola or the fancy daggers and next thing you know, they're trying to cut off your hands.

Minka watches Yngvi disappear under the side of the tent and sighs to herself before making her way to the other side. She's going to end up making a racket; she just knows it. But it doesn't escape her notice that here's a fellow dwarf actually trying to help her out. Unless he's scamming her, which is entirely possible. Carta's family, but the type that eat the weakest, and she's dangled low enough to feel others nip at her heels. If this turns south, she needs to get out fast. At least she can run like the wind.

But for now, everything's still all right, and she carefully lifts up the edge out the tent flap opposite of where Yngvi rolled in. She scans the area, takes note of where the barker's feet are, and carefully slides in, dropping the flap behind her. Stage one complete. Her blood is pounding in her ears, because she's not the one who does stealthy shit, and it's terrifying, but she's in it now. Quickly, she scoots herself behind a stack of crates filled with T-tunics, looking for Yngvi.

Einar wanted the moon on a stick.

What Einar wanted, others planned for, grabbed for, begged, stole, killed for; whatever was required because to fall short of the patriarch's desires or expectations was to find yourself far from his favour, and that was to be cold and alone, and Yngvi still carries that with him. Can't conceive of there not being a time when Einar's voice isn't there too, whispering somewhere, or just that look. Better to have a boy be clapped in irons making the attempt than to have a coward who was disloyal. That was poison flowing through the veins of the Carta and he would not abide--

They're taking something small and Yngvi is going to ignore the voice of the foremost of all his fathers who would be ashamed of him for doing this, for taking something small, for doing it for fun more than he's even doing it for the profit, and it would be an empty belly, no blankets, sent away from the rest in the coldest, darkest, damp to shiver through the nights until he crawled back on his belly.

Yngvi takes a breath. It's been a bit since he's done this, since he's done this without a drink in him and the world is sharper for the lack of it in him. Minka's behind the stack of crates, so she's close to what she wants (Yngvi has no real desires for himself, more in this for a good time honestly) and he creeps his way over. Quiet. Small enough to maybe be mistaken if someone saw him for an ugly child, and the man hasn't seen him, too busy trying to make a sale as Yngvi keeps a crate between him and some legs at all times.

He dares to pop his head out, eyebrows raised to check if the coast's clear on her end since. Height. Can't see so well and he doesn't want to get bowled over so close to the finish line. At least there's stuff he can toss carefully other ways to make a distraction if he needs to scurry over sharpish.

If she was another person who was raised differently, at this point Minka might start to feel her adrenaline pumping and might actually consider this event to be pretty exhilarating. Here she is: hidden away with the merchant's goods and about to take what she should have rightfully won. She's sticking it to someone who screwed her over, and when isn't that a great feeling?

Unfortunately, Minka is stunted and growth comes oh so slowly, so here she is, still terrified of getting caught. Her own branch's patriarch, Harik, would never have bothered to send her in to retrieve something. He knows the only thing she's good for is carrying messages that she can't read between parties and doing it like a pack of hounds are on her tail. Already Minka's thinking she's going to accidentally knock a crate over and then she'll have to rely on those running skills of hers to escape.

But slowly, slowly, she pushes herself up, until she can see over the crate. The merchant's making excited hand gestures, telling the customer that he could win fabulous prizes if he just buys three more chances with the rings. The customer looks down into his coin purse and Minka sneaks a hand into the open crate, grabbing whatever's on top. Two T-tunics are clutched in her grasp, and she slides them out, bending her knees to disappear back to her hiding spot.

Only then does she breathe again.

A slow careful breath. Assessing his pockets (caltrops, brass knuckles, parts and pieces for a trap, an elemental mine) to stop anything rattling now he's where he is now. If it were with Gunnar who knows Yngvi inside and out even months apart with only letters infrequent as they are to tide them over, it'd be easily done to know who has to go where, who has to move.

She can't have been caught. There'd be bellowing. A man this size could hoist one of them off their feet if he had the inclination to (not so likely that he would, a dwarf isn't an elf but if the dwarves don't look like they've got money to their names, thieves get made example of all the same) so he swallows, counts to three silently and makes the dash.

Almost thinks he's been caught when he hears oh bad luck serah, the terrible great lurch of his heart as the sweat coats him but it's not for his ears, it's for the next one, the one he's fleecing, and he's there, he's made it--

"Oi." Not rude, a puncture of sound when he crouches down. "Got it? You good?" Softest whispers, not even undercity whispers but that thing you learn when people can't see or hear you because you don't always know the trouble personally but someone did.

You never met that someone, did you Minka. Always a sad tale what happened to them.

Minka is definitely pale and swallowing hard because her mouth is so dry, but she nods at Yngvi and dips fingers and thumb inside her Carta coat to tug up one of the tunics she's swiped to show him before shoving it back down. Seeing how she's naturally small and the coat she was given as a hand-me-down is too big, the shirts fit easily and don't look too lumpy or out of place. Her eyes flicker over towards the tent side, then back to Yngvi. She lifts her eyebrows in question.

Can they escape now? Please?

Another glance to confirm where all other parties are; the man, disappointed, frustrated, their target commiserating about how unfortunate and better luck next time.

It's a good chance to get out while the getting is good, while the tentflap is moving so with a tugon her sleeve he scurries past, rolls out and into the air. Sweat damp on his skin but grinning.

"See? How easy was that?" Assuming she's right behind him.

Minka doesn't follow with an acrobatic roll. More like a drunk mole shuffling under the tent flap, but at least she doesn't get stuck or knock anything over. Once out in the fresh air and sunshine once more, she inhales deep and glances around, still unsure they're in the clear, but feeling a bit less apprehensive now.

"It was... sure something." She takes a moment to scratch at her head, her shaved side started to grow out a little too long for her liking. "I can't believe I didn't screw it all up somehow."

MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

it'd def look that way on her head

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sorry for the delay! computer needed fixed.