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

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.

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She remembers a little, from the obligatory instruction she'd received along with everyone else who was going to Halamshiral. She'd not intended to use it, and she hadn't, but it was enough to partially offset that she had been nowhere near as distracted when her hand had rested on someone else's arm. Her hand in someone else's hand.

Nari looks down obediently when he nods towards their feet. Rights and lefts aren't making their way into her mind all that well, nor does looking help in the slightest, but looking at the ground is easier than looking at Cade as her skin struggles to adjust to being even this close. A lifetime of knifework saves her; even as compromised as she is, her body knows how to adjust stances, how to follow the forwards and backwards of staying the same distance away from someone.

She manages the simple step he's instructing her in, looking back up with a half-smile when she's not so raw. Her voice is as quiet as his when she speaks: "Is this why noblewomen wear such large skirts? So no-one can tell if they're moving their legs wrong?"

Cade is lucky to be wearing long sleeves, so the only skin-to-skin contact is his hand touching Nari's, which means his face is only at about 60% red instead of the 110% it could be. As they step and sway, he slowly guides her to be more in time with the music, at the same time keeping the movements small so they won't crash into anyone.
"...probably," he muses, considering it for the first time, "their shoes are a lot taller, too."

Having elected to go barefoot for the feel of the late spring evening on her toes, his comment makes Nari chuckle; it's low and quiet, half air. "Doubtless," she says. "Would it be more authentic if I... " she's abruptly about three inches taller, up on the balls of her feet, the corner of her smile twitching cheekily.

It actually does make things a little easier.

Although it also means she unconsciously readjusts how her hand rests on his arm. And becomes very conscious of doing so halfway through. Her fingers twitch. Now she's a little red, although it's far and away harder to tell.

The shift isn't lost on Cade, but he bravely manages to still be all business. He guides Nari around, now on her toes, careful not to step on them in his booted feet, to the point where he's focusing far too much on the ground and elbows another dancer in the side.
"Sorry," comes his quick, strangled apology, but the mood is good here, and the other man just smiles and keeps dancing. Cade blushes profusely, looking back to Nari with a small smile that verges on helpless.

The next movement she makes, like most of Nari's ideas that end up backfiring on her, is conceived in the attempt to alleviate whatever it is that seems to currently be distressing Cade. In this moment: the apparent distraction of the possibility that he might step on her bare toes, and the diminished awareness of his space that comes from it.

The general festival atmosphere of the tournament, the liveliness of the camp, spending all day joking with Korrin, cheering with Myr, the good mood Cade had been in, the way he'd laughed at the subdued cheek of her conversation before the joust; all of these make for encouragement. And, of course, it's theoretically a sound idea. After all, it makes the first worry an impossibility. In addition, it makes for a smaller silhouette. They'll be less likely to bump into anyone.

All of this allows for, with little fanfare, Nari stepping in, rather than away, one foot after the other, to step on his toes, and remain there. She's slight enough to not be an undue burden, and his boots aren't much impacted by her bare feet. After a brief re-balancing, she looks back up with a lopsided grin.

"Now you won't have to worry about—"

Oh.

That's... closer.

It doesn't backfire, not the way other things have. The decision does give Cade pause, quite literally, since now his feet are planted on the ground by the weight of a person, but he quickly catches on. After an initial stumble, he laughs-- openly, sincerely-- and takes a labored step back, clearly getting a kick out of her cleverness. A bit literally.

It's the smallest thing, but for whatever reason, the fact that Cade's eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs— really laughs— makes Nari forget how to breathe. She's stuck there in space with her face an open display of mingled delight and wonder, and only doesn't overbalance when he takes that first step backwards, bringing her along with him, because her hands know enough on their own to not let go. They know it before she does.

But she does know, before he draws another breath to replace what was used in laughter, and it's a good thing he's directing them in their entirety, because Nari is abruptly otherwise occupied. Not in falling; she doesn't fall in love. She spreads her arms like wings to catch the wind and dives.

Because they're face to face, because there's no looking away while he's concentrating on dancing, Cade catches Nari's look and can't help but wonder at it himself. For a fleeting red-faced moment he locks eyes with the elf, allowing his gaze to linger just a split-second longer than he normally would, a tiny window of time in which he wonders what it might be like to kiss her.
But shyness prevails, at least for now, and the fact that they're moving and turning and surrounded by other whirling dancers. A foolish thought anyway, he realizes, looking away again; it would be a mistake for both of them.

There are moments in life during which you abruptly realize that you're not precisely sure how long the moment has been going on. How long had that tiny window of time actually been, that she'd begun to note the small variations of light and dark in the blue of his eyes; to decide the sea was wrong, but so was the sky? Maybe... if the sky were also sea. He looks away. Is she staring? How long has she been staring? Does she need to breathe? She's not sure, and so breathes purposefully, suddenly unsure of the processes that had kept her alive this long.

What happens, when the music is over? When he's tired of carrying her about on his boots? Does it ever happen again?

What happens if he looks back up and she's still staring.

For whatever reason, Nari finds this last idea a terribly embarrassing one on both of their behalves, but there's a half-thought solution for this too, much like the boots— one which makes it patently obvious that she's forgotten about everyone else— and it's a slow hesitant lean to turn her head to the side and lay it on his shoulder, tucking her chin so her nose won't run into his neck. There. A small safe place between them for her to look.

This was the last response Cade was expecting, albeit not an unwelcome one. He does freeze for a moment, his whole body tensing when she rests her head there, but only for several seconds; then he forces himself to relax, for Nari if not for himself, and moves back into the dance as best he can.
It's frightening, terribly so. But this feels right in a way he can't articulate.

There's a spot between her shoulder blades that wants to tense in response to Cade's tightening, but Nari ignores it and keeps herself loose with some effort, not wanting to project any alarm that might resonate in him. Everything is fine and they are safe. If he doesn't relax she'll withdraw, but he does, and so the spot disappears, and they are dancing again. Of a sort. This is not the room the steps were designed for, or even quite the steps, but they seem matched to the space here near the edge of the dancers in the firelight.

She's something else to fight now, feeling the slight rise and fall of his breath in his shoulder where her head rests; a kind of selfish desire settling warm in her chest to be closer still, now that it's already been risked this far. To curl the arm that's not reached out to where he holds her hand around his shoulders like she had on that frigid morning, to continue to lean until the careful space she'd left between them is gone.

Oddly, the desire is a peaceful one. No nervous palpitation, no raging blush. Just quiet, simple: yes, this.

But she doesn't do either, yet. Just tucks her chin a little farther, a small smile hovering on her lips, and closes her eyes.

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MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, PART 1

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