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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.
III
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?"
I'm so happy
The question is quick and terse, and Benedict hasn't quite gotten a good look at the person asking. But when he does finally land his gaze on D'Artagnan, it stops him dead in his tracks, a chill running down his spine.
"I-- who are you?" Obviously if anyone should be answering that, it's the impostor with his face. He was here first, after all.
The beginning of a beautiful friendship
He's profoundly unwilling to show how much it's affecting him. He draws himself up, rolling his shoulders.
"I'm d'Artagnan, of Lupiac in Gascony, Musketeer to the King of France and soldier of the Inquisition, Monsieur," he says, his gaze unflinching. "Now tell me who you are, and how it is you came to be here."
no subject
How revolting.
"I don't take orders from you," Benedict finds himself saying, shuddering with the bewilderment of essentially telling that to himself, "especially seeing as it's you who has my face." This is idiotic, he knows it, but with someone of his upbringing it only stands to reason that discomfort moves quickly to incredulity.
"Are you a demon? I don't have time for this."
no subject
"Yes, I can see how occupied you were. No I'm not a demon." He rolls his eyes. This man wouldn't be the first to assume that about rifters in general, but it's somehow more annoying when it's coming from that mouth. "Are you? Seeing as how they don't exist where I'm from, it seems more likely. Are you here with the Inquisition?"
He's just going to keep asking questions until answers are forthcoming. He knows enough about his own face to recognise fear on it, and this man was afraid long before he was confronted with his more attractive double.
no subject
no subject
D'Artagnan stares at him, and then rolls his eyes. His mouth has curled into a smirk, because of course this man is with Tevinter. Of course he is! Where else would he be from, especially on a day like today.
He does manage to lower his voice after that initial outburst. Don't worry; they're in a crowd. Surely no one will notice them.
"That's perfect. I'm from France, which as far as I can gather, is the closest thing my world has to Orlais."
Though, it also seems close to Venice. Reports have been somewhat confused, and d'Artagnan has not yet had the pleasure of visiting for himself. No doubt that will be even more difficult now.
"At least now I know why you looked like that. Did you know what they planned to do?"
no subject
"No," he says, glancing around once more, "but if there's conflict with Tevinter, I need to get out of here." He looks D'artagnan up and down. "...and you do too, if you know what's good for you." Even just being mistaken for a magister's son could have dire consequences in the wrong hands.
no subject
That could be a problem.
"On that we agree. You said representative. You're an ambassador?" He says that with some doubt, but despite being at the Tourney, this...other man really doesn't look like a soldier. "You'll be needed back in Kirkwall. No doubt you'll be safe enough there."
no subject
"No doubt," he agrees, his demeanor shifting ever so slightly, the chip on his shoulder turning to an appeal for common sense. "It's important that I get there, for everyone's sake."
no subject
He sighs.
"And you could use an escort, of course, lest the people of Orlais take exception to you." He steps back, gesturing ahead of him. "I'll watch your back. You know you still haven't told me your name."
no subject
"Benedict, of House Artemaeus," Bene grumbles, "thank you-- but cover your face, will you?" Twins aren't entirely uncommon, but he's never been known to have one, and the last thing he needs is anyone thinking there's blood magic afoot. Peasants will believe anything.
no subject
"Cover yours, if you're so worried. I've entered every round I could these last few days; this crowd knows my face as well as yours. Perhaps even better. Do you have a sword you could wear? They'll expect it of you."
He refuses to apologise for his face. It's always served him very well.
no subject
"They don't know it better," he grumbles, puffing up slightly as he rummages around to find the knife he keeps on his belt. It's not a sword, but mages hardly need them.
no subject
"I'd wager they do, after today." All of this posturing would sound a lot better if he'd actually won anything. He didn't. "Anyway, if you're so worried..."
He pulls off one of his gloves, revealing the faint green glow of his rifter shard. That'll solve their problems; if anyone looks this way, the green is all they'll see. No one would look to a rifter to find a Tevinter spy.
"Satisfied?"
no subject
"...right," he says, knitting his brow and looking away, nonetheless appeased. He doesn't understand the things, isn't sure he ever will, and they give him the heebie-jeebies. But it'll do the trick.
no subject
"Good," he says, satisfied that they're at least not arguing about it anymore. "Did you come here alone or is there an entourage I should be looking for?"
no subject
no subject
So, all right. He pulls the hood of his cape up over his head.
"A shame the invaders couldn't have sent you an aide before they ruined everyone's day. You ought to file a complaint. This way."
He puts his head down and weaves a firm trail through the crowd, which parts more readily when he stops saying please.