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faderift2018-06-02 04:52 pm
faderifting) wrote in faderift2018-06-02 04:52 pm
MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, Part 2
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!
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.
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.
Iorveth | The Witcher
[ 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
Breathing out, he shrugs his shoulder, moving and stepping away. ]
I do not care what you do with it. Do as you will.
DICKS
She's just demonstrated this to a very riled up Orlesian gentleman when she sees Iorveth and she heads over, seeing he's mostly got things under control. Still some additional encouragement never stopped anyone so when she's level with the stall she raises her lightsaber and points at the Orlesians. ]
You heard the man. You should get home, surely you'll make better uses of yourselves there than stirring up trouble here.