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

[tactical_alert]

It was the war that broke us. In a sense. The Circles disbanded and chaos all around, Lord Seeker Lambert dissolved the Nevarran Accord. For hundreds of years, the Accord has stood, the document that constructed the Circles, the Templars, and the Seekers, to keep the mages safe and to disband the original Inquisition. To create order in a time of anarchy! And because he didn't think the Divine was doing enough, he declared that neither the Seekers nor the Templars were beholden to the Chantry anymore, and they would end the war how they saw fit.

I do not know what happened--what became of Lambert. Dead, we presume. Lord Seeker Lucius took over, apparently agreed with Lambert, and swanned off with the rest of the Seekers. No one has seen them since. No one knows if they're lying in wait, or dead, or in the clutches of Corypheus-- [He cuts himself off, tries to recenter himself. They were his brothers and sisters, and they just went along with it, abandoned their duties. Cassandra saw better. Were they just following orders? Just like in Dairsmuid? If he runs into battle and finds a familiar face against him, what will he do?

What he must. Always what he must. He clears his throat, a lump in it, pain and anger all rolled up tight, and rummages a brush from the stall. Anything physical to distract.

So he breathes through the tight knot and the flare of embarrassment of divulging any of these weaknesses to someone he is not especially close to. She isn't going to stab him in the back, and he has to remember that.]

It isn't about what I do, the greater picture of it. It's about tradition. It's about the...assumption that Templars cannot be trusted, that they can't do their jobs, that I am somehow better than them. And it's not just about that, either. Father is...he is a...stern man. Difficult, perhaps. You could say. His views on the world are a little more...ah...conservative? Perhaps that's the best word for it. Honestly, I'm almost surprised he bothered to show up, given that mages are given a platform to fight as well. Ah, no, sorry, it wouldn't be mages--apostates, he would say.

It's--we argued quite a bit. Our letters to one another, when he would reply, were rarely kind. We've ideological differences, along with the wounded pride, you see. I suppose...that that's something of his I come by honestly, an overabundance of pride.

[foxsays]

It's admirable for it to have stood the testament of time in such a way; Thedas has been through terrible things in all of that where the borders of countries have changed, empires risen and fallen, yet there has been this Accord. I can respect that. What it must have taken to hash that out in those early days...it must have been terrible, documents that stand the test of time that way can only come when those writing them have seen things they never wish to see repeated. When they know that the ink on their fingers will wash out easier than more blood shed. The ache in their hands from the writing, their heads and throats from the deliberations are trifles to that of battle. They heal. They always heal. [One war. One war at home not even in the living memory for them to say never again. Never again will we do this, never will we stain our fields, our forests, our deserts, our waters with the blood of the people in such a way, instead we will bind ourselves in friendship and careful politics that we might snipe at but better that than see such chaos again.

Such grief even now still healing.

Araceli has stood once in The Western Approach where the arid heat set the world to shimmering about her at the edge of the Abyssal Rift, stood there wondering if a wound ran through the whole of Thedas as deep as that. Or deeper still. Her glance at Malcolm is sidelong, is not a thief's glance, nor a bard's glance, is the one in Leandra's shadow with a hand on a rapier in the court.]

I'm sorry. [She turns to face him, doesn't even stop herself when she sets a hand on his arm and squeezes, because she has the queensguard, and it's not the same, but to not know-- it would eat at her.] Is there any way they can be found that isn't what anyone does in these times, listening to the rumours, waiting and hoping? All of it must be maddening and inadequate when there are so many to be found.

[And there's always work to be done, isn't there. You can't just sit by the door forever in the vain hope something will turn up or chase every lead when the Gallows is staffed only by them and a skeleton crew. It's not Skyhold.]

People in positions of power and responsibility should be held to account for their charges. Magic is powerful, but the Templars were originally to guard the mages. To watch over them. How many came as frightened young people? If there is an assumption, that assumption started somewhere and it lies with the Templars remaining now to remove the chip from their shoulder and work together with everyone to make something better for the future. The past is to be learnt from, salvaged from, not repeated. Not after what's happened. I came here after the war had happened but I've seen-- I've seen terrible things, and heard far worse. [That's true for a great many too but Araceli's met more than her fair share of Templars who need to bloody get over themselves and move on.] Old men can be set in their ways, but this world isn't going to be their world, and I think the more some of them see that, the more determined they are to dig their heels in and shout about it. As if that's going to do any good. Would seeing any of what we're doing change him at all?

[tactical_alert]

The old man is going to die at some point. [And he doesn't know how he feels about that. He should take comfort in the thought, shouldn't he? And yet.] I--that's unfair of me. [Guilty, maybe, is how he'd feel given the guilt that washes over him now.] I'm not going to just...invite him to Kirkwall. I fear he's too set in his ways, and that's...not my fault, nor my problem. And yet.

[And it feels like both. He shakes his head, gives her a small smile of thanks for her encouragement.] As for my people, alas, if I could follow more than rumour, I would do so. That's mostly all their is. And if I were to act on more go find more? I would have to leave. One of my fellow Seekers, Aleron, perhaps you've met? He went off to supposedly, hopefully meet another of our number. His letters had been fairly steady, at least once a month, but now those, too, have stopped. It's like they've all fallen off the map, and to see one or another pop up now and again, in a blue moon, is a blessing. But more and more I've been wondering if it's worth keeping up the name. ...Pride, perhaps, keeps me to it.

jfc html fail how did i miss that?

[foxsays]

[How can her mouth not turn down at the corners when she hears that? Malcolm's father isn't hers but who doesn't think, even for one heartbeat, of their own father? (Felix swaggering off a ship, still able to hoist his daughter in one arm, hat stolen to go on her own head.) My father the holy man, but there are myriad ways to be holy, Thedas has shown her that again and again and again.] We have many others in Kirkwall all with voices, then again that tends to be something of a problem: we have many people in Kirkwall, all of them with voices.

[Some of them who could maybe do with having their sending crystals taken off them because all they do is cause trouble with them but that's not the matter at hand.]

Your job isn't to live to change his mind though, not yours alone. You get to live. To do your work for the Inquisition, the Seekers, whatever comes after. Find a good man or good woman if either of those are your thing. Or another dog. [From her tone, guess which of those ones Araceli thinks is most likely (or she just lay awake after some revellers were hollering Andraste's Mabari, her with nothing to toss at them).] I'd wondered where Seeker Darton went to, I knew more of him before his marriage.

[Had been surprised, quite frankly, that a Seeker would marry. That a Seeker would marry a mage. A Warden mage. Then of course there was the Gallows bother they were both caught up in so...]

A name is-- I used to not use my whole name here because people would stumble over it, and I was new. I was younger. Scared. But now I use the whole name given to me by my mother and my father because it's my name, it's who I am. Your name is who you are, and if you are a Seeker, then that is who you are. Seeker Reed with the Inquisition so those who might look for anyone else or hold out hope will always know where at least one other of you is.

[tactical_alert]

[For a fair time, Malcolm is quiet, tending to Charles with more scrutiny than is warranted. (Because of course he made sure the horse was fine and fit as a fiddle even before coming, and naturally looking handsome upon arrival.) If she looks hard enough, she might even see a shade of pink on his high cheeks at her suggestion of man, woman, or dog.

He had never thought he'd be discussing some of this with, well, someone like her. Or most anyone outside of Aleron or Cassandra. The details are still glossed over, feeling she isn't privy to some of it, but still... It's a discrepancy he's vaguely aware of. Advice he might so give to another if he heard such a tale, advice he apparently doesn't think to take for himself. Easy to say 'ignore it and keep moving', another to do it.

Eventually, Charles shakes his head with an indignant snort and a short back away, having enough of all the attention thanks. It leaves Malcolm momentarily at a loss, with nothing to distract. But it means he can focus on Araceli instead.]

...Thank you. For the words of wisdom. I'm a Seeker at heart, and I'll not turn my back on the years I dedicated to the cause, even if the order doesn't technically exist at the moment.

And I doubt he and I will see eye to eye before one of us dies, but...I should at least speak with my sister. I have no quarrel with her. She merely would like to see me take what she thinks is my rightful place in this family again instead of being something of a black sheep.

Shame. Black suits me well. [If his ballroom attire says anything, surely it's that.]