MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, Part 2

[faderifting]

WHO: Grand Tourney attendants
WHAT: Celebrations, slightly marred
WHEN: The last day of the Tourney, and after
WHERE: Wycome
NOTES: Reminder that brackets for all events are here!

I. LAST CHANCE TO PARTY

After the Grand Melee draws to a close, and the Grand Tourney with it, the grounds and adjacent taverns and inns remain crowded with visitors. There's at least one more night of celebration before everyone has to return to their lives. The most raucous of it, as well as the most bragging, originates from the Free Marches, who have taken James Norrington's presence on the winning Inquisition team as an opportunity to claim victory for themselves—the fact that the rest of the winning team was made up of Rifters and a Tevinter is something nearly everyone would prefer to overlook. For many competitors, it's the first night they've been able to indulge in honored Tourney pastimes without jeopardizing their performance in events. For many spectators, it's their last opportunity for the foreseeable future to spend time with new friends from other nations and to prove who can sing their homeland's favored drinking songs the loudest.

When it comes to the Inquisition, something has noticeably shifted. The congratulations for their victories are often sincerely delivered, accompanied by questions about the war effort and what they do. Identifiable rifters and mages may find strangers sitting down next to them, rather than giving them wide and whispering berth, and asking their names. Elves are slightly less likely to be asked to go get a broom or fetch a drink. Arguments about political philosophy don't uniformly fall to one side or the other, but they are more common than they were at the beginning of the week, with heated arguments about the future of this or that nation periodically breaking out over drinks.

Even those arguments are fairly friendly and high-spirited, though, and far outnumbered by the number of less serious conflicts that break out: drinking contests, pie-eating dares, and good old-fashioned dance-offs.

II. CONGRATION YOU DONE IT

To allow time for competitors to set their broken bones and stop bleeding, the award for the Grand Melee is given the following morning, with the Celebrant presented amid fanfare to the winning Melee team. Winners and high-ranking runners-up from other events, though less loudly vaunted, are directed to a tent to pick up their prizes.

The grounds don't immediately vacate, after that, but the mood is distinctly wound-down, while merchants pack up their stalls and revelers nurse hangovers or aching stomachs overloaded with pie. By midday, people have begun remarking on a peculiarity: the prizes meant for competitors from the Anderfels remain unclaimed, and the entire delegation seems to have left in the middle of the night, likely sour grapes over their Grand Melee loss, fiercest warriors in Thedas my ass—though some speculate instead that they've all been kidnapped, or that they fled to avoid being forced to return to their own country.

III. SHIT

The rumors don't have long to percolate before the question of what happened is answered—first by Ina Hachette, a member of the Anderfels court persuaded to defect to the Inquisition, who turns up out of breath and searching for the Inquisition's leaders, and next by a curt message delivered to Inquisition sending crystals that there's a disturbance at the Orlais-Anderfels border. A big one. Invasion-sized.

It's inevitable that the news spreads—living cheek by jowl in tents is not conducive to much secrecy—and soon rumors have run wild throughout the encampment, putting an abrupt end to the festivities as everyone scrambles to gather their forces to leave. Tevinter, on the whole, is the quickest to pack its bags. Whether they know something or are only worried people will turn on them as the finger-pointing begins is anyone's guess. But if it's the latter, they're right to worry, and nearly prevented from leaving by an Orlesian-led mob convinced that they know something. The task of keeping the peace and preventing bloodshed falls to the Inquisition as much as Wycome's local guard, as the tourney dissolves into posturing and wild accusations.

When the danger of an actual fight breaking out passes—mainly once Tevinter is gone—and the crowds thin, the Inquisition's delegation is ordered to pack up and make haste on the journey back to Kirkwall.

Comments

An Unknown Reveler

[sincerelyours]

One of the partygoers is a massive and menacing figure, draped in a cloak despite the day's heat, their face completely obscured by a dark cowl. They move through the post-ceremonial festivities with a ponderous, lumbering gait, careless of any standing too near whose elbows they clip or toes on which they tread.

When news comes of the Anderfels invasion, and tensions rise, the figure can be seen traversing the camp with a tread meant to go unheard. There's no doubt they mean to leave before any real fights break out, but what business they had here in the first place is a mystery.

[arlathvhen]

There’s a significant possibility that Beleth’s suspicions are less justified, and more leftover paranoia from the confusion, the dubious feeling for anything unknown a remnant that hadn’t entirely worn off. The Scoutmaster is well aware of this risk, but then, she’s also aware that it’s not paranoia if they actually are out to get you.

She might not have even noticed the mysterious figure, so hard they tried to remain discreet, if they hadn’t so rudely jostled her while she was waiting in line for food (Which just goes to show how important manners are, even if you’re being sketchy as fuck). Once she begins to notice, it’s hard to let it go, wariness only growing as she listens to the tense murmurs of the crowds, and keeps glancing at the cloaked figure’s disappearing back. Finally, before she can actually lose track of them, she steps out of line, and towards the cloaked figure.

Hunting in a crowd is not unlike hunting in the forest. The occasional qunari or particularly tall human like trees, small crowds of gossiping friends like bushes, obstacles that must be navigated around, but can also serve to hide her from her prey as she tries to close the distance. But not too close, she doesn’t want to spook them. There are a thousand excuses for if she gets caught, but for now, Beleth’s goal is simply tracking.

Julius - OTA

[overharrowed]

I.

Julius chose not to participate in the tourney himself; this soon after the Skyhold negotiations, he didn't think drawing attention to his battle prowess was particularly wise. Not when he's technically an "agitator." He did, however, enjoy attending more than he thought he would. Those observant enough could note how much of his time was spent with a particular former head of diplomacy, but he's also circulated on his own. This last night, the friendliness is what most strikes him -- strangers noticing he's a mage and striking up conversations anyway.

He tells himself not to read too much into it. There are still years, possibly generations, of work to be done. But even so, his mood is good and he's smiling more often than usual. He looks like an easy man to approach.

III.

Everything is moving very fast, including Julius. He has little enough to pack, himself, but he's pulled in early to try to keep the peace, and then to help pack up Inquisition gear that isn't personal property. (He's not not looking for Petrana, too, though not for any rational reason. He knows she can handle herself.)

"Things are bad" is a useless thing to think; things were already bad. But he can't help feeling a bit guilty, as if their collective exhale at the tourney had somehow led to this.

iii. diplomatic mission success.

[ipseite]

( petrana had spared little attention for the events of the tourney—dressed prettily and attended one or two, but for the most part she's spent her time here dedicated to the persuasion of ina hachette. it had been done by the very skin of her teeth, pushed to the absolute limit of what was within her ability to promise, and last night she'd been still piqued by that, complaining quietly into julius's shoulder that even keeping her composure it had felt desperate in a way she disliked being, a too close run thing. lacking the satisfaction of being able to turn over a victory with room to breathe around it—an opportunity to prove herself again in the wake of the last mess—

this morning, she is not complaining any more. when she returns to the tent to pack, she catches sight of his face first, )

You've heard?

( he's heard. )

I

[circleprodigy]

Weaving her way around the excited crowd, Inessa perks upas she spots a familiar among them. A new round of loud drunken singing erupts, though as it's not Andraste's Mabari, Inessa feels no compulsion to join them. Instead, she pauses by Julius with a smile on her lips and some celebratory sparkling champagne in one hand.

"The Marchers certainly seem grateful for the win, don't they? Imagine if the final had been us against Tevinter; they would be practically throwing themselves at us."

Inessa Serra (OTA)

[circleprodigy]

I. As one who participated but was eliminated fairly early on, Inessa has been enjoying the events as a spectator. The climactic Grand Melee was particularly exciting, and though she's not normally one for raucous parties or crowds, this time she lingers. The victors deserve congratulations and possibly a drink, though she suspects they'll be bombarded with the latter long before she can reach them.

At any rate, she'll wander around until she finds a good spot to settle, most likely wherever a friendly face can be found. Garahel is naturally at her side, less excitable than usual thanks to the days and days of rich food everywhere. Wherever they pause will be an acceptable place to sleep some of that off.

III.

The dreadful news spreading throughout the grounds effectively snaps Inessa back into work-mode. She allowed herself to unwind during the Grand Tourney, but now it's over and news of invasion has her dwelling on Inquisition matters once again. Defending Orlais will be no easy task, so she wastes no time in packing her things. Fortunately, she brought little and nothing that couldn't be packed rather quickly. With time to spare, she will venture to the neighboring tents and raise her voice a little, politely waiting outside unless or until she's invited in.

"This is Inessa. We're due to leave soon; I've come to see if any assistance is needed?"

[in_death_sacrifice]

"Stop me from wanting to go right to the home front?" Kain has been pacing frantically as he packs things, and is in a bit of a state of disarray. But knowing that his homeland is yet again undergoing war, an invasion at that... It doesn't sit well with him. Sure, he hasn't consistently lived there in years, and he's more of a Warden these days above all else, they're his true family and home... but Orlais is still important to him. He's especially concerned for all of the friends he still has back there. "I know I ought to wait and see what the Inquisition does to respond... and the Wardens, for that matter... but I don't like being here while all of this is unfolding there."

Teren

[doneisdone]

III

Teren hasn't been especially social at the Tourney-- not that she ever is, but having been even less so, it's all the more surprising when she can be heard shouting "NO!" at the top of her voice and pushing through the crowd away from the source of the rumor.
Little time is wasted; she gathers her things and tacks up Riddle, frenzied and intense, to gallop out of the camp just as soon as she physically can. There will be no stopping in Kirkwall for her; those who know Teren will know where she's going. And they'll know it is, based on conjecture, essentially the front lines, though that's not why she's going there.

There's only a tiny window of time in which one can attempt to stop or join her, but she's not slowing down for anyone.

Benedict

[altusimperius]

I.

The gaggle of arrogant wealthy Tevinter fuckboys with which Benedict has been spending most of his time is out in force at the final celebrations, being drunk and entitled and probably mean, much to the embarrassment of their parents and likely most everyone else. Benedict himself is somewhat more reserved, and though he drinks and laughs along with their antics, there's something self-conscious about how he holds himself and the way he looks around at other partygoers, namely Inquisition.
Perhaps something has changed.

III.

In the stampede of Tevinters trying to leave, and the mob of Orlesians trying to stop them, Benedict is trying his best to simply stay out of the way. He's visibly nervous, casting his gaze about for anyone from the Inquisition with whom he could take shelter until this particular chapter of the chaos has concluded. After all, he'll be going back to Kirkwall, not to Minrathous; for once, he doesn't feel completely united with his countrymen.
He is, however, quite frightened.

I

[eruit]

It takes Hanzo a little while to pick up the trail and begin to figure things out, but he eventually hits a dead end - no one he has spoken to know anything about the mark Wren had asked him to investigate, and anything from his own knowledge doesn't even seem close to fitting. There's nothing and the only avenue he has left is to attempt to approach the Tevinter faction at the tournament; there might be some people there who don't recognise him and, if they do, may still offer him some kind of loyalty for his former position.

Either way, he knows he has to be careful.

The group of young men just makes him want to roll his eyes, even from a distance, forty years long enough to know that the immaturity will do nothing more than get them into trouble. He waits for a moment, for as long as he can, until he can approach Benedict and stand at his side, enough that whatever he says might go unnoticed for as long as possible.

"We must talk."

III

[mousquetaire]

D'Artagnan is not frightened, but he's certainly trying to leave. What began as war games have become real all too quickly, and it feels somehow wrong that he isn't rushing towards the fight. Part of him wants to; a very large part, in fact. But Orlais is not his country, no matter how close their language sounds to his own. He needs more information than he has, and for that he needs to be back among the Inquisition.

It's in his haste to get back to his own camp that he sees this face among the crowd. At first he overlooks it, and then he looks back, frowning and unsure of what he's seeing. He changes direction in that instant, making for the man that could be his brother. When he stops before him, confusion rises to disbelief.

This is uncanny.

"Who are you?" he blurts, without gentility. Generally speaking he's more polite than this, but circumstances being what they are...

His own hands are gloved, but regardless, his eyes scan the other for signs of a green shard.

"Are you of this world?"

transfers this here;

[supersonic]

Pietro just gives him a look, flat. "Yes, I am quite convinced. A single organization struggling to protect the whole of the known world from an apparently imminent threat must have a plethora of men to spare to confine and guard some Tevene mage who has not done anything."

Please. Even if this does turn out to be little more than another military arm of the Chantry subjugating mages for their own ends, he doubts they're quite that stupid.

marcoulf | ota

[esquive]

i. "partyin'"
In the congratulatory aftermath of the Grand Melee, there's a point where the Grizzly Legion's camp has begun to melt into the edge of the Inquisition's. An upright barrel there has been conscripted for shooting dice on and in the wake of the competition, it's become a popular place to congregate for anyone too bruised (be it under the skin or on the ego) or too old to fuss with the more raucous celebrations happening around the ever present bonfires. Circles have formed, smaller fires have been, and shit is cheerfully talked as bets are called and dice rattle off the edge of the barrel's topmost hoop.

Marcoulf isn't betting, but he's drawn up a crate to sit on and has found a way to make himself valuable despite it. Between his knees, he holds a bottle of Antivan wine which he's game enough about sharing to make quick friends for the evening. Pouring it is a challenge - one of his eyes has swollen mostly shut from an early battering on the field of competition -, but luckily there's nothing wrong with drinking straight from the bottle.

iii.
The sour tang in the air is unmistakable even after the Vints have made their very hasty retreat. There's a grim quality to the whole field as tents are struck, animals packed, and picket lines unstrung. In an hour, this place will just be a muddy field again.

For the time being, there's plenty to be done - and quickly. Anyone wandering, caught looking too lost or bewildered by the news of the invasion and the following mob is quickly enlisted with:

"You." Marcoulf shoves a length of rolled canvas into unsuspecting arms. "Take that to the nearest wagon."

c. wildcard
Marcoulf might be quiet and unobtrusive when left to his own devices, but he's certainly good at keeping himself busy. Never mind that he's sporting a few scrapes and bruises from the tourney; he successfully spends the evening drinking (enough, accent growing heavier) and struggling to get his boots off before falling into his bed roll. In the morning, he might be caught nursing a headache while cooking an egg over a small fire or helping with tending the horses along the Inquisition's picket lines. Or later, once gossip catches fire throughout the camps, talking quickly in Orlesian to some splinter of the mob intent on chasing off or pinning down the Tevene (they don't seem certain of which either).

iii

[swordproof]

It has been a very long set of days; Six has entered each contest and been bested each time, but she didn't quite have the strength of heart to be mad about it. She's content to have tried and done her best to bring to light that not every Rifter was a nightmare to behold, even if a six foot woman with a greatsword might have encouraged some terror.

She's bringing the horse back to Marcoulf when she stumbles into the upset of the camp. It doesn't take her too long to gain an understanding of what's happening - an invasion, a quick pack up so they can figure out what is going on, mob mentality taking over to an extreme extent - before she's nodding her head and tugging on the reigns of the beast to bring him back. It inspires her to her usual generous nature, wanting to help anyone here who might be at a loss, wanting to support them and help in whatever way she can.

It's what makes her quick to grab whatever it is that is being pressed into her arms, dropping the reigns of the horse and nodding her head.

"As you say." And, without hesitation or some stern word for being ordered around, she goes and shoves the canvas on a wagon before she comes back.

"What else needs doing?"

iii

[onlyhymns]

Lost and bewildered are two words that describe Cade well in times of high anxiety, and he's more than grateful to take the task and do as he's bidden. He comes back a moment after, looking around, seeming as though he's having trouble keeping a grip on his concentration.
"What's happening," he asks in a hushed tone, "have we been attacked?"

partying partying fun fun fun fun let's get ready for the weekend

[villieldr]

There's a thud of glass against wood as Magni heavily sets down a green bottle of something probably of dubious origin, and slumps to sit opposite him.

All she does on sitting is offer a fractional smile, and point at him - a silent gesture of you, which could be plausibly followed by look terrible or ridiculous, or some other adjective. Magni, herself, tall and resilient though she is, looks a little worse for wear. There's a split in her lip that's still raw, and a purple-green mottling over part of her jaw and cheek.

And then she taps the crate with the side of her foot, to bring his attention to the bottle. She's carrying a sack with her, but it's probably nothing important.

Fenris- OTA

[lyriumcarved]

I.

Somehow or other, Fenris has ended up with a rather odd-looking wineskin helmet on his head, a prize from playing one of those silly carnival games. The woman running the booth had been a little too eager to make sure he got it. Oh, joy. But he'd filled the helmet and is now quietly wandering the grounds and drinking. He's got a handful of other odd prizes with him as well, which he can carry since... he doesn't need to hold a drink.

Is he concerned about how foolish he looks? Normally, he would be, but... he's really needed to drink and ease his mind after this whole thing. If nothing else, Varric or Isabela would approve of this headwear. At least he's a bit less gloomy overall than he'd been earlier in the week.

III.

"If we're meant to preserve the peace, we ought to be getting rid of Tevinter," Fenris grumbles to whoever's nearby. Whether or not that means simply kicking them out or "getting rid of" in a more permanent sense is entirely up to interpretation. Yes, he can clearly see that those Orlesians definitely count as an angry mob, but he can't help but think they're in the right. He's going to need some convincing to do what he's been told.

III

[gatheringstorm]

Korrin knows she ought to be convincing Fenris to focus on the greater good, and she will...eventually. But earlier encounters have left her with a petty streak, so she's slower to do than that otherwise might have been the case.

"No disagreement here. Some vint fuckboys were trying to bait me during your armed combat bout. That waste of air Bene was one of them; it's tempting to go find the fucker and loom over him now. I bet he'd be less quick to call us slurs when it's two against one."

gwenaëlle baudin

[elegiaque]

ɪɪɪ

The fun parts of the tourney are over.

This is true even before the rumors and truths have reached Gwenaëlle; there are no more fights and demonstrations to watch, her private celebrations...thorough...and so she misses the prize-giving, sleeps through it wrapped in blankets and a borrowed shirt with teeth-marks in it and when those with obligations she doesn't share stir and rise she rolls into the warmth left behind, lets Hardie get into the blankets, and goes back to sleep a while longer. She's very proud of everyone, obviously, but what could possibly be so important she has to actually get up for it in the morning.

—and then her father comes.

“Felix is going home,” he's saying to her, he's been speaking, his hands are in her hair (tousled and tangled and there's a flower, incongruously, still there) trying to make some sense of her while she struggles with the knot to close her own robe as much as with what he's saying, jerking her face frustrated away from his fingers. “He's going to set everything in order for you, darling—if it's done, it's done, I'll make you a gift of it, it's all arranged—”

He holds her still with his hands on her shoulders and she says, “What the fuck are you talking about?” and he kisses her forehead, which is the point at which she gives into the impulse that's thrummed beneath her skin for all of this exchange and punches him in the stomach. It feels less satisfying than she'd imagined it would.

Emeric leans forward, heavily, catching himself against her shoulder and exhaling a breath. “Bless that woman,” he mutters, and he must mean Coupe, so—but this time he catches hold of her fist and holds it, firmly. As strong as she ever remembers him being. “Ma petit, I have a duty.”

“And you had rather run away to die than face it—”

He is fifty-eight. He is a wreck. He cannot go to the front.

His horse is already ready. The camp is being packed up around her. Hardie pushes his head beneath her hand, and Gwenaëlle is so angry she can't speak.

ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ

( at least everyone's been feeling warmer towards the inquisition? hit her up. )

Shortly after the scene above:

[overharrowed]

[Julius is striding through the camp with purpose, but slows when he catches sight of Gwenaëlle. A small part of him points out she is a) not his problem and b) possibly unlikely to be thankful for him acting otherwise, but even before he registers his own mental objection, he's changing course.

Once he's near enough not to have to shout but not so near he'll startle her:]

Mlle. Baudin. Do you need any assistance?

[She looks as if someone deserves a thrashing, but under the circumstances, it's unclear who the look is aimed at.]

[rowancrowned]

Iorveth is triumphant but wounded, but not beyond the scope of the healers, though he will be in their keeping until they leave for Kirkwall. Thranduil intends to fetch him a few shirts, a book, the sort of small comforts that might ease his time, because he does not want to consider the habits of a bored Iorveth. And Gwenaëlle, yelling, breaks his reverie. He does not run—it is angry yelling, not in-pain yelling, and the Inquisition currently respected enough that anyone accosting her would be subject to the crowd.

But it is only her father, hardly worth the long-striding walk to get to her, and he slows. This is normal, somehow.

And she hardly needs him, with Hardie there, under her hand. The support he would offer her is not suited to public display, not yet.

“Comte,” he says, when he is close enough, because it isn’t as if he could walk away—he is too incongruous for that, tall and elven and familiar to the man—for her sake or Iorveth’s. To Gwenaëlle: “Iorveth is in the healers’ tents. I thought to bring him some of his things.”

A chance to bring the conversation inside.

Kain | OTA

[in_death_sacrifice]

I.

Kain has gotten a nice assortment of prizes at this point. At this point in the Tourney, with his events done, he can be found:

a. Wearing a furry bear hat upon his head made from a real bear, a magnificent cape, and bouncing around on a... "spring-end hopping stilt", as it was called. He has a couple of false starts with the thing, but eventually he's bouncing along and even somewhat enjoying it. He may have consumed some alcohol. (There's no rules against pogo-ing while intoxicated, right??)

b. Sitting off on his own, bent over his new dragon-skinned journal, writing thoughtfully. A lizard resembling a Gamordan Stormrider sits in a terrarium that's set nearby.

c. Receiving his second-place reward for the Joust. There's a lot of fanfare with the award ceremony, and when his name is called, he proudly strides forth to claim his prize. After shaking hands with the winner and other runners-up, he heads off, carrying a nice set of dragonscale tack and a heavy coinpurse.


III.

So Kain is finally swallowing his pride and going to belatedly congratulate the Orlesian team who'd beaten his in the Grand Melee. He feels it only right. After all, they're technically his countrymen. As he approaches their tent, though, he finds a bit of a chaotic mess throughout the Orlesian area. People are running around, talking heatedly or conferring in serious whispers about something.

"What... what's going on?" he looks around wildly for someone who can give him a clear answer.

[pinprick]

I: C

Whenever he is off the field and headed back to camp, Kain gets a heavy slap on the back. He can turn to see a superior officer beaming at him.

"Second place in the joust!" Nathaniel's grin is enormous. "The chevalier I squired to came in fourth one year and was very pleased indeed, and he was one of the best fighters in the Free Marches. Second place! Congratulations!
You've done the Wardens very proud, Kain."

Brónach ota;

[earthbones]

ii
As it turns out, lugging a dead deer is far easier than lugging a life-size, yet fully poseable halla across the tourney grounds because Brónach spotted it with her winning tickets and immediately decided yes.

Not that it looks any less bizarre or sketchy. Wood, metal, cotton and feather padding, white fennec skins holding all of it together as the head bobs stiffly from where it's slung over the other shoulder to her quiver as she continues the march across the tourney grounds.

Maybe you've stopped to confirm that it's not a real halla (who knows, it's a tourney, alternatively, it's Brónach) or you want a shot sitting on it. Or she's put it down because there's an antler stabbing her in an uncomfortable place and--

"She probably weighs as much as an Orlesian child, spoiled children are fat."

Brónach that's rude. (And true. Eat the rich, there's good eating on them.)

iii
Buzz well and truly gone as soon as the animal side of her woke up - you don't live through Skyrim without being awake and alert - Brónach paces, slips past and through people with a restless air about her. Her voice is caught in her throat from where it tried to come out--

And she was wise enough not to.

Packing up, moving, always ready to get away, this is what she's good and ready for, and the first person that looks to be struggling, or dawdling or slacking when they should be away already will find a Bosmer staring before she prowls over.

"Give it here or tell me what needs doing, the sooner it's done the sooner we'll be away from this." It's not unkind, just the hard edge of pragmatism, not even a rattle from her own things already gathered neatly and stashed about her person. Well, not the fucking halla but that's what wagons are for.

wildcard
Or hit me up for something else and I'll roll with it

Iorveth | The Witcher

[aenseidhe]

I NEED HEALING;

[ though the Inquisition's Team 1 - Iorveth, Helena, Hanzo and Norrington - took the championship in the final round of the Grand Melee, it was a brutal, grueling battle, and both sides are left beaten and bloody. They use the last vestiges of their stamina to cheer on their victory with the crowd roaring for them, but once off the arena field, Iorveth's near to toppling over.

He'd limped his way off the field, armor a mangled mess, with a deep wound from an arrow through his upper right thigh, left shoulder still somewhat out of place from when it had been dislocated at a point, then popped back into it's socket on the field itself, because like hell some human is going to think they can disarm him without ripping the arm all the way off. Another deep sword wound down his back, and having taken a hid from Penelope's maul directly to the chest left him with a bruise that'll last some weeks and probably a few broken ribs to boot. It isn't pretty.

Once out of eyesight of the stands, Iorveth's shuffling his way towards a bench or low cot to collapse on it, in whatever locker type room, preparation area, or medical tent is set nearby. Time to be dead for a while. ]

Bandages. Please. [ But, he's still not so out of it that he can't let out some snark, pointing an arrow in Hanzo's direction. ] Told you.

CONGRATULATIONS YOU DONE IT;

[ Once Iorveth (and his teammates) have been patched back together enough that they won't bleed all over the sacred tourney sword or pass out on the victor stage, onto the ceremony they go, Iorveth still half limping his way along despite attempts to hide it, but gosh darned it, he's going to claim that prize(s) and all the rest of Thedas can suck it.

With the sword laid out across each of their hands supporting it, Iorveth's eye casts over their names engraved along the blade with so many others. likely most of them all the same brand and origin - the rich, the privileged, the human. Though many in the stands would like to contribute the victory to Norrington alone, the four of them must be aware that they'd made a unique, and startlingly unlikely team. Norrington a human Templar, the bread and butter of this world, Hanzo a Tevinter, Iorveth an Elven Rifter, and Helena a terrifying, foreign woman and Rifter as well. They should be proud of the accomplishment, and what it says of the Inquisition and their strengths when put together. ]

We ought to display it. Somewhere any can see. [ not just the Inquisition, but all visitors, the merchant princes and elven servants as well. a symbol to all that come to face the Inquisition, or to question them. ]

[CLOSED TO THOR] HUMPTY DUMPTY;

[ Iorveth is neither in the mood, nor the health, to be chasing people down and being bodily intimidating, but things are starting to get Tense, and mediators (aka, the Inquisition) need to mediate. the entire tourney audience knows he stands as reigning champion for archery in thedas, so he's decided he'll just find himself a perch, pull out this fancy new bow, and dare anyone to act up in front of him instead.

the problem is, getting up there. with a bump leg, an arm still recovering from a temporary dislocation, and eight million other bumps and bruises along his person, he's having A Time of it, trying to climb up to the top of one of the taller stalls. standing on a crate, were he in normal shape, hauling himself up the ledge would be easy, but as it stands, he's having a good amount of trouble, not quite able to hold on long enough or pull hard enough to clamor over, plus, the bump leg means he can't really push off anything without risking toppling over, so it's all dead weight.

Give him a boost before he hurts himself worse than he already is, Thor. ]

STOP BEING DICKS;

[ Once situated onto the stall roof top near the main exit many seem to be gathering around to harass others before they escape home, Iorveth tugs out the new Dragonthorn Recurve bow, with a superb frost rune. He'll never forsake his Aen Seidhe bow, and it's bizarre but deadly design, but this new toy is pretty, and he wants to play with it.

After some time sitting around and watching the goings-on, tweaking the tension and familiarizing himself with the weapon, two Orlesian patriots take to harassing a couple Tevinter mages, who can't very well start tossing spells around in the middle of the tourney grounds. The mages make to skitter away, and Iorveth takes aim at the ground between the Orlesians and their prey, loosing a bolt. the arrow thuds into the ground between them, the rune's effect spreading out a frigid chill to the gras around it, frosting over the blades with a thin icy sheen. neato. ]

That is... very nice. [ Iorveth mutters, absently, while watching the puddle of frost on the grass, before realizing this had been about stopping a fight. Oh. Right. About that. ] You two. Stop it. Next one goes in a knee.

[ yes, very committed to this being a responsible Inquisition agent thing. definitely not just playing with the new toy. He needs to figure out how to wear a second bow holster on his back now. ]

WILDCARD;

[ hit meeeee ]

congratulations

[eruit]

[ Hanzo looks at the sword and feels... Very little. It doesn't mean a great deal to him, not really; he had entered the competition because Iorveth had suggested it after the failure of his attempts in the archery. Being able to rise up and take this mantle... Does not feel anything as close to grand as he had imagined it might. It doesn't feel as good as he had hoped, if only because he can picture a handful of people - one in particular - that ought to be here as well.

Breathing out, he shrugs his shoulder, moving and stepping away. ]

I do not care what you do with it. Do as you will.

Geneviève De La Fontaine

[bouclier]

i;

After the Melee Evie is somewhat moody, Having several scrapes and cuts needing to be fixed up, as well as a concussion that had been what had ultimately taken her out. She's happy her friend James was part of the team that won the day, but after her insulting loss in the joust she'd been hoping for a good solid win.

Anyone looking for her during the partying can find her by her tent, resting after a long day, wearing a loose tunic and holding an ice pack to the side of her head.

ii;

Receiving her prizes for the Armed Combat helps cheer Evie's mood somewhat, and not too long after collecting them she can be found tying the pelts to Calixte's saddle in preparation of leaving. She isn't sure what she'll do with them just yet, but she's pleased with the fact that she came in fifth, even though she knows she could have done better.

"We'll just have to train harder for next time, hm, Calixte?" Evie says cheerfully in Orlesian to her horse, rubbing his flank affectionately.

iii;

It's all Evie can do to keep from mounting her horse and riding for the front herself. She has standing orders to remain with the Inquisition, and she isn't one to obey orders, but Maker it's difficult when the news that her home is under attack makes it to her.

She deals with that frustration by helping with the calming of the crowds, some angry Orlesians find her standing in her Chevalier armor between them and the Tevinters that they are so keen on laying into. It's strange to be protecting Tevinters, and yet here she is.

"I understand your anger, my friends, but it does not do our country credit to stand and fight here, like children! Gather your things and leave these people in peace!"