OPEN | the grand tourney!

[poleaxed]

WHO: All Y'all.
WHAT: It's the Grand Tourney! Like a normal Tourney, but grand.
WHEN: August Now.
WHERE: Kirkwall.
NOTES: Sports... injuries?

Every thousand days, the Grand Tourney is organized in the Free Marches, and all the City States-- and even challengers from farther abroad-- come together to celebrate the freedom of the Marches. This year, the event was intended to take place in Tantervale.

When that, uh, fell apart, the tourney was hastily moved to the relative safety of Kirkwall.

Festivities begin early, with musicians and entertainers coming from all around to entertain lords and ladies as they set up tents. Food vendors complete the picnic atmosphere-- you may not be able to get a seat in the stands, but the hills around where the field where it all takes place makes the event easily viewed by all. Jesters, bards, troubadours, food vendors, all are happy to serve and make the event lively and lovely-- for a price.

The first event is the Joust. The announcer goes through everyone's names, their origins, the part they play, so the crowd knows who to root for and who to boo. Before the individual bouts begin, the jousters are expected to ride around the field collecting favors.

The second event is the Quintain. A similar setup to the Joust takes place, with announcements and cheering, gaining favors, etc. The major difference-- besides the content of the event itself-- is the hastily erected judge's stand, where they can view the skills of each comptetitor. Some scores are met with cheers, some with boos. Some competitors schmooze with the judges before their bout. It's all very classy.

In the intermission guests are invited to play a game of tug-of-war over two large piles of flowers and flower petals. As the loosers will discover, there's a pit of mud underneath the flowers. Hopefully you brought a second pair of clothes, or maybe you just don't care Edgard.

If tug-of-war isn't your game, there's drunken archery. Darktown's very best (worst) booze has been generously donated (appropriated) for the event. One shot to begin, and more shots for every subsequent shot of your bow. Landing closer to bullseye garners more points, and prizes can be collected for high point scores. Nothing particularly valuable, it's more like carnival fare-- stuffed toys, shiny gems (they are colored glass), wood carved in various shapes (some lewd). The most expensive prize is a hangover cure potion (it does not work).

The final event is the ever-popular Melee, where several one-on-one matches take place simultaneously, until someone is either undefeated or the least defeated. As with previous events, each combatant is announced to the crowd and expected to walk around the stands, receiving favors. However, they're expected to do this between every match in the melee, as their popularity rises... or falls.

During all of this, the ever-noble Pas d'Armes event is taking place. If you wander away from the event at any time, Gabranth will be there, at a nearby bridge, judging and / or fighting anyone who wishes to pass. Of course, if you wish to pass without issue, he will accept a favor from you. At the end, he'll be crowned with a white wreath of flowers, in a 'peace offering', and that is the sign that the tourney is done.

Not counting the partying into the night. No medieval camping trip is complete without waking up half clothed in a field, right?

JUST TELL ME WHO WON ALREADY.fine, fine, jesus.

THE JOUST

1st Place: Tony Stark, The Iron Man (Erroneously called 'The Man of Iron' at least once by an announcer. Several people in the stands asked if he was made of iron, why he was called that, what is he doing, why.)
2nd Place: Weary Winona of Wycome (Never took off her helm, which was shaped like a woman's face and painted like she was crying.)
3rd Place: 'Sir Sullivan of Bonneville'(Who might just be Edgard in disguise, however legend has it he's actually an undead noble trying to reclaim his family's honor in the joust. This legend was started by Jone.)
Crowd Favorite: Ellis, The Bachelor (He was, at one point, mostly just a mass of favors, which may have been why he didn't rank. The crowd screamed his name repeatedly and at one point threw flowers at him while he was riding past.)

THE QUINTAIN

1st Place: Derrica, the Rivaini Raider (The chant 'carry me home' began during her bout, and continued whenever she walked near the field.)
2nd Place: Derek, Son of Derek, of the Ostwick Dereks (The 'carry me home' chant continued during his bout, as some confusion arose over whether Derrica was a distant relation of the Ostwick Dereks.)
3rd Place: Madame Noir of Hasmal (A ghostly pale woman wearing only a black gown during her match, there were rumors she'd bribed the judges with money or a low neckline.)
Crowd Favorite: Beth Greene, The Lady of the Green (Rumor has it that she was a wild woman who came from the forests just to compete. This rumor was also started by Jone.)

THE MELEE

1st Place: Pierre the Virtuous of Hambleton (On a particularly sunny day, some suspect he only won because the reflection from his bald head.)
2nd Place: 'The Dark Jaguar' (Who may be Erik Stevens in disguise. A nighttime assassin, he appears from nowhere during a fight usually with the aid of a conveniently placed piece of hanging black fabric but shhhh.)
3rd Place: Laura, Lady Nightshade (Rumor has it she threw her fight to get third place, but everybody who knows Laura knows she'd never do that... right?)
Crowd Favorite: 'The Acolyte' (A young man of roughly the same height and build as Benedict Artemaeus, the crowd really responded to how nervous, yet trying to be brave, he looked.)

THE OVERALL WINNER OF EVERYTHING:
Ser John 'the Anointed John' Pembroke of Tantervale
...who trained for this every day and is a professional Tourneyman, and whose win for Tantervale really lifted the spirit of the game to a high note, so how can we be bitter, really.
(Note to 1st placers in other events: this means he beat you in your event.)

[ooc Also final reminder that you don't have to have signed up for an event to have your character participate!!!]

Comments

Pas D'Armes Event | OTA

[archademode]

Gabranth takes his duty seriously. He has been ready for this for an age now, or what passes for it in the aftermath of such a turbulent set of months, culminating in a terrible climax that leaves even Kirkwall suffused with the weight of wandering misery.

Perhaps there is no better time for this, then. To test hearts and minds as well as the bodies that house them— to bring to bear the full weight of want beneath skill. To notch blades for more than just the hateful hungering of war.

There, not so far away from the shouting and jeering of starving crowds, stands a lone bridge guarded by a lone figure: stone still in broad stature, gauntleted palms folded across the pommel of its sword, faceless helm and its pronged horns unmoving even upon approach— perhaps making it seem much like the tarnished statues that haunt Kirkwall’s equally rigid architecture.

Waiting.

I: FAVORS

He makes no judgments. Wades not into hostility, regardless of the appearance of those who draw near seeking passage.

The rules had been simple enough to learn, even for a man as habitually recalcitrant as Gabranth: passage across the bridge must be bought through declarations of peace— and the gift of a token favor of some sort, whether worthless or treasured, beautiful or unremarkable. All that matters is that it be stated as such, and thus would he yield to it, permitting untroubled crossing.

Even so, the voice that bristles beneath his shadowed helm is as monstrous and foreboding as the harshly-wrought metal itself, at odds with a strikingly blue midday sky— the otherwise serene hillside that surrounds.

“Why have you come.”

II: TRIALS

He feels at ease in this task; it is reminiscent of the near-eternity he’d spent guarding the fringes of hell, before Thedas sought to pull him from it. The countless trapped souls he’d challenged to best him by will or by blade— those that succeeded permitted to pass back into the realm of the gods, rather than wallowing aimlessly in banishment.

The stakes are much lower here, however, though the now heap of unclaimed favors (ribbons, scarves, flowers, trinkets— even a thicker book of hand-bound poetry) seems to suggest that a scant few have managed to succeed in retrieving any thus far.

Gabranth would argue that is not his fault.

There are other means to success than combat, although the siren song of heroism in besting such a grim figure is likely why those who failed had turned away the idea of proving themselves through questing or virtuous argument— or even simple, humbled supplication.

“What is it you seek.” He demands coldly when footsteps draw near, the hollows of his helm weaving an already growling voice into something near inhuman in its cast.

III: AFTERMATH

The end of the game sees him wreathed in flowers, pale as moonlight and fragrant enough to be unmistakable— perhaps even unmissable— at a distance.

He can be found still wearing it about his neck, helmetless and far more relaxed, hovering near the farthest edges of the tournament’s established grounds, where combatants and champions tend to themselves as much as their armor, shadowed by the coming night.

He is, in his own way, enjoying himself.

He isn’t, despite that simple truth, smiling.

IV: WILDCARD
[ooc: event details are here! Mix and match prompts, make your own, do whatever your heart desires and I'll be here for it. As always, willing to match prose or brackets, no fuss no muss.

If you'd like to plan out deeper specifics, feel free to tap me on plurk or discord, or screech into the void where I exist.]

wild cardigan.

[poleaxed]

Of course Gabranth is about before the tourney starts. She has a plan, of course; she's had it for ages, now. Exciting thing, to have lived through a siege so she can pin a favor on a man. It's a stupid fantasy, that she's a proper lady and all, but Noah never stops short of indulging her.

When she finds him, she pulls one of the two green ribbons out of her hair, and loops it through a familiar, cheap little locket, closed tight. She holds it out to him, eyes brighter than they've been in weeks.

"It's not much, but," she ducks her head. She knows he doesn't care. "Let none take it from you."

She knows he loves pomp and circumstance-- responsibility.

[bouchonne]

"Just here to watch."

And to watch in style. Byerly is clad in a fop's garish apparel - there's no prospect of fighting with trousers that tight or hems that frilly - and he's arriving not with weapons, nor with tokens, but rather with a scenthound at his heels (sweet-tempered Whiskey, who will never see the battlefield) and a courier who he's bribed to carry a picnic basket and a camp-stool. He directs the courier to set up his chair in the shade of an elm near where Gabranth stands, and then says -

"How many have you dropped so far? Looks like a decent little hoard." He nods to the pile of treasures.

aftermath

[acreage]

Holden hadn't participated in this game, or any other; but he'd been an enthusiastic applauder from the crowds. It's been good, to see people he loves have a good time. Like a transitive property: the warm glow of friends' joy is as good as being happy, yourself. He leaves Gabranth to his work, and doesn't think to go disturb him until after the Pas d'Armes is complete. Unsurprising that a self-proclaimed eternal Judge Magister should prove so good at this particular challenge.

"Was the game your idea?"

The game, or his participation in it. Either/or.

does it count as a trial if it feels like every day of his life is one?

[voidtransport]

He'd waffled back and forth throughout the day on whether or not to attempt this event - the concept of gaining a bit of renown and respect made it seem worth it but then he'd pass the bridge and see the failings of an overconfident challenger being bested - usually in combat, which made the figure guarding it all the more intimidating.

Maybe he should come back after drunken archery, at least then he'll be too drunk to be embarrassed until tomorrow...

No, it's better to go about this with his head properly on his shoulders! Or so he tells himself, and so finally he musters up the courage to actually approach the bridge this time instead of all the times he chickened out from a distance before.

And then he's, uh, greeted...? and Allumin almost withers in response, body language going from attempting to convince himself of confidence to retreating inward and back like a spooked animal.

"I, ah -," his voice cracks a bit and he clears his throat, "was hoping to cross the bridge?"

for Beth:

[archademode]

He does not expect to see her. Not here, where he stands alone and isolated, far enough away from raucous crowds that only the noise of it carries during some great triumph— or defeat. Yet her approach, bright and slender as she is atop a road more dusty earth than solid stone, is one he easily notes.

Even so, he does not bristle when she reaches him. He does not growl to see her there, standing still as a carved sentry, his gauntleted hands heavy across the pommel of his overturned sword.

"Have you come to prove yourself?"

ii + wildcard.

[clawings]

"I dunno," comes Erik's easy response, as he approaches Gabranth. He puts up a hand in greeting. The melee is over; he's tired, still in his armor, but has netted a second place in the event, behind the all-around champion of the entire tourney and a man with a bald spot that shone in the midday light.

Not bad, all told. He's feeling pretty good about it, actually.

"You still got a lotta shit here. Want me to take some off'a your hands?"

favors.

[indissection]

"Should I have ignored you?"

Sidony would, of course, have given all her favours to her husband, were he to perform in any events, but in lieu of that... Well, she has other friends, other people she cares for, and she can offer them things as well.

Finding Gabranth is never particularly difficult, but seeing who he has become for this event is enough to make it almost painfully easy. She steps up close, arms behind her back, head tilted as she looks at him fondly.

"Must I go swiftly, or might I bother your time a little?"

III Aftermath

[altusimperius]

Having spent most of the day either in the melee or knocked flat on his arse in the healing tent post-melee, Benedict finally makes the time to limp over to the helmetless Gabranth, holding a glass of wine and grinning in the lopsided fashion of one whose face is too swollen for his whole mouth to move properly.

He raises the glass in a shaky toast, spilling some of the wine as his arm twinges from the effort, but looking no less proud for it.

jone | ota.

[poleaxed]

Jone knows she's expected to be the Monster of Denerim, but it doesn't really matter, today. For the first time, she gets to fight in a tourney without it being a means to snag a patron. It can be just fun.

Maybe she lets herself dress up. Her finest gambeson-- the dangling metal bits haven't all been ripped off, the green dye is still bright enough to contrast her hair-- and a rare moment of pulling her hair back. A simple plait at the back of her skull, but a green ribon is interwoven.

She sidesteps her traditional bout at the Melee, and prepares for the Joust. She's no special skill at it, that much is clear. While no amateur-- she knows when to bring down her lance, how to sit right on the horse-- she lacks the skill of the most professional opponents.

Still, she is never unhorsed. Instead, she takes several beatings with the lance, until one finally lands so hard it twists her armor. She laughs all the way to the medical tent, where the bone is set and the wound is wrapped.

Afterward, she mostly watches, booing and cheering where she sees fit. Talking to her between bouts is easy-- she's used her spending money to buy an array of vendor food, and is all too happy to share, and the drink she's procured.

With a broken arm, she's no good at drunken archery, so she gives out prizes instead. Do you want a stuffed mabari? A stuffed wyvern, with glass eyes? No one, she says, seems to want the stuffed dragon. As the event goes on, and she dips further into drink, she starts trowing them at people.

As the event closes, she can be seen near the bridge Gabranth guards. She sings along to whatever songs the nearest troubadours strum, even if she doesn't know the words.

Wildcard; do whatever you like, i'm up for it.

Drunken archery

[kantikoy]

Adrasteia? Not an archer. She's barely drunk, really, but she's so small that one good mead is enough to have her more than tipsy. So she closes one eye and takes her best shot (which is hands down not as terrible as it could be but is still bad), throwing her arms in the air with a loud whoop when she does manage to hit the target rather far from center.

Please to be tossing her reward at her, Jone, otherwise she's just going to bound over there looking like an overeager child.

"I think I won something."

[molineux]

Margaery's easily caught up in the lighthearted revelry of the day, happy to wander here and there to catch glimpses of triumph and glory. It's happiness as simple as she can imagine it to be, with cheap trinkets dangling off of one hand via ribbons, and the sweetness from the latest treat lingering in her mouth.

She barely hears Jone's call before there's something flying in the air towards her, causing her to instinctively reach out and grasp - some sort of stuffed animal? A dragon.

"Are you giving me this dragon to help me remember you by when we're apart?" she asks with a laugh as she approaches Jone.

Sir Sullivan of Bonneville OPEN

[muckspout]

Entrance

Sir Sullivan of Bonneville enters the field clanging with every step. His armor is shining as is his horse. He certainly looks the part.

He may stop you and say in a booming voice, “I am Sir Sullivan and I am here to compete in the Grand Tourney.” The voice is very loud, very self important, and dark. It’s a voice that has seen combat.

You also may approach him as he is readying his mount. It would be kind to greet a stranger.

Joust

Sir Sullivan struggles to mount his horse which may hint to some that he is not used to armor, but once he is up it is clear he knows what he’s doing.

He holds his lance steady as his eyes turn deadly.

If you are truly a worthy opponent, he might get some help from a certain whistle hidden under his armor.


Intermission

Sir Sullivan of Bonneville sits to the side and observes the tug-of-war game. He is taking a well deserved rest from the day’s events. There is a shriek as one side loses and a splatter. His eyes widen underneath his visor, it’s a pit of glorious fantastic mud.

It is the sort of mud one dreams up in their head, but doesn’t think actually exists. His heart lifts and he starts to stand. Then he remembers, he is Sir Sullivan of Bonneville. Sir Sullivan is stern and clean. Sir Sullivan probably doesn’t like mud.

He must resist. He quavers.

entrance;

[clawings]

Erik is kind of geeking out at this whole tourney thing. Like. It's the best parts of a ren faire, which he's never actually been to, but with real stakes, because he's in it and there are people who aren't just actors pretending to joust or civilians who are actually accountants during their nine-to-fives hanging out.

Folks train for this shit. It's pretty amazing.

So when Sir Sullivan of Bonneville comes up to him, he's in a better mood than he might be otherwise to be approached by a loud suit of armor. "Yeah? Welcome to the grand tourney, man. What's your event?"

ellis / ota.

[heorte]

The last time Ellis participated in a tourney it was—

Well.

No one's reminiscing today. Certainly not Ellis, who's outfitted in a bright blue gambeson and gleaming breastplate, mace at his hip. He'd been making his preparations early, and is easy to be found passing among the tents offering assistance as needed.

Or you bumped into him on the way to the Joust, bearing an utterly absurd amount of favors. Surely that's Ellis under there, correct? Afterwards it's possible to run across Ellis shedding a few of the more cumbersome offerings.

Regardless, he's lost most of them by the time the Melee rolls around. And after the melee, the medical tent, where he's helped out of his breastplate by a loudly tsking healer.

Afterwards he's easy to find, orbiting the festivities. It's more observation than participation, enjoying the songs and stories and mock-reenactments of the events generated by the crowd. There's always a chance he can be prevailed upon to join in more directly. Who knows, maybe he'll oblige a few requests.

WILDCARD Do whatever, I'm down.

wysteria.

[heorte]

A number of tents have been set aside for the competitors, and in a corner of it Ellis has claimed a space for himself. There are others in various stages of preparation, chattering among themselves, and though Ellis has not fallen into conversation with anyone, he too is doing up laces and straps, securing armor into place.

But he still pauses when he catches sight of Wysteria weaving her way towards him through the bustle.

"Shouldn't you be securing your place in the stands?" is the greeting offered, half-done buckles at his sides abandoned momentarily as he straightens, turns in to meet her with a small smile.

derrica / ota.

[tender]

You know who's never been to a tourney?

If you guessed Derrica, you're correct.

It apparently agrees with her, as she's beaming her way through the early festivities. Find her watching the troubadours and jugglers or sampling from the food vendors before the main events begin kicking off.

After elbowing her way to a place in the stands to cheer for fellow Riftwatchers through the Joust.

She has to descend from the stands for the Quintain, which goes surprisingly well. The singing has her laughing through the entire intermission, which is marked by some minor attempts at genealogical excavation by the Ostwick Dereks pondering the chances of distant relations in common.

Once she's trounced in the Melee, she makes her way in to the medical tent to volunteer her time. Splitting her efforts between magic and traditional bandaging, she has to be fetched for the judging.

In the aftermath she's more than happy to dance with anyone asking, to sing any song she recognizes (and some she doesn't) and enthusiastically congratulate any other competitors she comes across. Any Riftwatch members can reliably assume she'll ask them to dance, if she catches sight of them in the crowd.

Plus: WILDCARD Do whatever, I'm down.

aftermath.

[charmoffensive]

Loxley, for his part, made only a reasonable showing at the Melee before someone with a very large sword got sick of his shit and put an end to his whole career before he could place. A bit of bruising to the ego was at least soothed by getting to watch the rest and get a headstart on the revelry.

Which means he is in decent spirits, existentially and literally, when he spies Derrica in the midst of the celebrations. He's still dressed in the vaguely piratical armors he'd worn for his bout, that he'd been rifted in with, umber-toned leathers over brighter colours, patterns of purple and cream. And she doesn't have to come drag him to dance—he is already on his way over, winding his way through the crowd and on an unbreaking trajectory to loop his arm around her waist and pull them both into the current of people.

"How's eternal glory suiting you?" he asks.

tony stark. ota.

[propulsion]

Tony has been training for this all his life.

Well, he's been training for this for approximately two weeks, which feels like all his life when it comes to focusing on mainly one thing for two weeks. He shows up to the Joust with the objective to crush it, anyway, in a full plate of armor of slightly unconventional design, less clanky and rattly than your standard, tinged red with bright silver. He understands that the Iron Man branding is a little confusing? But it's not for you.

Anyway, he is increasingly obnoxious at each victory, and by the time he is on a path to winning the damn thing, the cheapseats have now gotten used to the concept of a high five when he gallops his horse by them and executes a dozen such exchanges as he passes. It's not very chivalrous, but it is fun.

And then Ser John the John of Johnsville knocks him on his ass, and there's a little pageantry in throwing his helmet to the ground, but the amicable handshake seems genuine. Next time, John, you handsome bastard.

The Quintain, he participates in, and the Melee, he watches, glad to be out of armor and into civilian clothes.

Revelry is, however, not a spectator sport. There is at least one incident where he and his new best friend for an hour, some guy called Osbert who is a good foot taller than he is and a whole lot heavier, organise a kind of drunk people-joust, with some remaining unbroken lances, some hay piles, and people on people's shoulders charging at each other. Tony on Osbert's shoulders calls that quits for the night after an incident that sounds a lot like, "Have at thee— oh, shit," and a broken table.

And then there's some more normal revelry: dancing, talking, singing, trying to pretend to be sober when someone kind of influential and rich tries to talk to him in the capacity of his being Provost, which is a wild thing to do, he thinks, but having met with heads of state while plastered in the past, it's a piece of cake.

Anyway. Some steam is being let off, probably. Join him, won't you.

closed to joselyn.

[propulsion]

If you're sick of jousting, you might have wandered off by now to get started on the kegs, because it's the last match. The Anointed John has already been introduced, has made the rounds on his horse, and let's be honest, flying Tantervale colours and being well known in the circuit means there's a whole lot of favour being flung his way. Probably, Tony should make peace with the fact that beginner's luck has a ceiling.

Or, absolutely not do that. When he is announced (and there's nothing he can do towards convincing them to drop the 'the' in 'the Iron Man'), he comes charging out the gate, his steed prancey and lively and happy to accommodate this level of energy as he goes racing around, kicking up dust.

When he spots Joselyn near the front of the stands, he lifts his visor, and canters on over. "Pretty sure I'm meant to collect some stuff from you," he says. "Handkerchief, handsewn scarf with my initials on 'em, silky underwear."

closed to maud+

[heirring]

A full day of hootering and hollering should not be exhausting, and yet it is amazing how a simple afternoon spent in the sun and humidity shuttling about from one hastily erected tournament arena to another can drain so much life from the blood. Of course, it is not quite so tiring as to convince a body to entirely opt out of an evening of dancing and boisterous conversation (and a little light boozing, but that goes without saying). However she is not entirely as resistant to the concept of spending only "a short time" in attendance as she might ordinarily be; it a promise easily made to her companion. Yes, yes, they will leave certainly leave in time to make the last ferry back to the Gallows.

So.

Wysteria is still wearing her caramel colored nugskin gloves, but has managed to send the expansive hat which has shielded her all day ahead to the Gallows with some other member of Riftwatch. She is nursing her second cup of cheap ale and her attention, such as it is, is actively pinned to a statuesque woman in all black on the dance floor. Madame Noir of Hasmal's neckline seems to have contrived to lower a few inches further since the quintain.

"Can you imagine being so outrageous?" She is hissing to Maud beside her without looking away from the woman in question as she is passed from partner to partner on the dance floor. It is, for the record, a deeply appreciative sort of hiss. "And observe her complexion. It is truly perfect. No one we have hardly had any dances this evening."

(That is probably not the reason; it likely has more to do with the oil slick dark serpent Wysteria currently has coiled about her shoulders.)

[radicans]

Maud has done less hooting and hollering than her companion but any energy saved has surely been expended in her quiet but constant buzz of tension, persistently on edge--she will confess if prompted--at the possibility of meeting anyone she knows and having her presence questioned for one reason or another. Some of Prince Sebastian Vael's knights are present to show support and while she's had no word from her husband, that does not absolutely rule out his attendance. There is uncertainty, too, about the appropriate attire for this combination of tournament, sweltering summer weather, and mourning, though she's hardly the only lady in the crowd attempting to walk that line today.

Thankfully she elected not to match Madame Noir's color scheme, adopting a pale charcoal and a far more conservative neckline extended even higher in embroidered net. Like Wysteria she's sent her hat back to the Gallows, and touches at a hair pin with one gloved finger as she watches the rifter watch the Hasmali with the faintest furrowing of her brows in bemusement.

"She is rather remarkable. But I think the snake and my refusing that first fellow are the more likely culprits. I ought to have gone along, but I've not had nearly enough ale to attempt a saltarello with a stranger. Now he's told all his friends we snubbed him."

adrasteia, a grey warden | ota | wildcards welcome

[kantikoy]

Adrasteia, in a set of robes that are wine and dark blue, doesn't participate in many of the events of the tourney. She's spending a great deal of time in the medicine tent, offering her skills as a healer to those who have problems more serious than a simple broken bone. She has potions of various strength on hand, too, should they be necessary in a pinch.

However, she does want to see and be a part of the festivities, so. While she misses the Joust and half the Quintain, she's around during the latter end, well enough to see a familiar face do very well. Someone is standing towards the center of the crowd not too far from the medicine tent, shouting YAAAAAAAAY DERRICA at the top of her lungs.

During the intermission, she participates in a round of drunken archery, avoids the tug-of-war, and checks back in with the medicine tent. The melee has her mostly inside dealing with injuries once again, but afterward, there's always food vendors to buy from, and ales to sample.

She has no intentions of waking up sans half her clothes in some field like she's sixteen again, but she does plan on getting drunk, so. We'll see.

drunken archeryyyy

[voidtransport]

Allumin does his first shot of booze for drunken archery and his face scrunches up like a cat who has smelled something truly awful after it goes down. He has had some truly heinous liquor before, but this? This is worse.

He thought that his ability to handle hard liquor a little better than ale or wine would benefit him here. Now, he isn't so sure or confident anymore.

Still, he takes a bow and arrow to the range, thinks fondly of his brother and that little moment where Lux showed off his archery skills for his brother the day he'd reconnected with his family at home again, and let the first one fly for the target. It misses despite trying to imitate his brother's form from memory, and he sighs. Back over to the table to receive another shot of bad alcohol and an arrow.

It's so clear on his face that he's disgusted and doesn't want to do the shot, but he's also resolved in landing at least one (1) arrow on a target. He throws it back and gags a bit after, a bit pitiful and mostly hilarious as he looks over at Adrasteia nearby as he takes the arrow he's exchanged a fraction of his dignity for.

"Do you think that gets easier to drink the more you have, or worse?"

for fitcher

[fripon]

"And Maker, look at his grip," Hugo gestures with his wine at a young knight of Wycome with a heron on his shield, "Somehow he has succeeded in arranging every single angle incorrectly. I predict a complete miss. And look at the state of that one's tack," this about his opponent, a merchant not-quite-prince from Antiva who seems to have confused ornamentation with armor and has weighted down his gelding with a truly excessive amount of faux gilding.

He swaps his drink into his other hand, the one extending from a sling made of a brightly-patterned silk scarf, so that he can reach over and pluck a grape out of the bowl in Fitcher's lap and pop it in his mouth. "This may be the worst bout yet. I'm delighted we haven't missed it after all."

proud of you for making that icon 100% relevant

[unshut]

"Care to wager on which finds the dirt first?"

It's not the first time this afternoon that she's offered him odds. He also hasn't been her only victim. The bench in front and directly to their left have both slowly become less crowded as various sore losers have slouched off to go lick there wounds somewhere they won't be charged a premium to do so. That it's all dumb luck (or a frank willingness to lose her shirt to a bit of gambling) is happily relative when one is up.

"I promise not to ruin you too badly," is punctuated with both a demure smile and a bat of eyelashes so flagrant that she laughs over it after—a low gravel noise under the perfunctory blare of the trumpet which calls both challengers to the ready.

petrana de cedoux | starters below, wildcard me if u desire.

[ipseite]

( she will generally be: watching the various events, gladhanding the various wealthy drunks, and remaining impressively together for the amount she's keeping pace with them. )

for jim | schmoozing.

[ipseite]

While a not insubstantial amount of Petrana's time is spent simply attending the tourney's various events—the joust seems a natural habitat for her, and she is hardly the only lady in attendance whose skirts are going to need to be thoroughly beaten of dust later—it is not her sole or even most significant reason for attending. Above all else, the tourney is an opportunity to be taken advantage of and that is what she's doing when Jim finds her having apparently been given another drink in the interim while he was meant to be helpfully fetching her one and engaged in animated discussion with a Markham aristocrat more stodgily attired than some of his peers.

There's a great deal of sturdy, practical brown; it is, nevertheless, of sufficient quality to make plain its costliness. There is a certain wryness about him as she indicates the Provost, the Iron Man, as the fellow behind the ideas she now espouses to him—he is from Markham's own elite, with an interest in manufacturing, so he is not entirely unfamiliar with eccentric geniuses.

“Ah, and Mssr Holden,” she introduces him, as he joins them, “this is my lord Hanrahan, whose trebuchet design might have quite invigorated the archery.”

loki | ota | wildcards welcome

[icasm]

Loki does not participate in the tourney itself. At least, not as a combatant.

Instead he starts a betting pool at the beginning of the Joust. He gives very little advice about the competitors (except to tell people that perhaps they shouldn't bet against The Iron Man — no real reason given, just a 'hunch', he explains) and will take any bet offered.

Plus, you know. A processing fee of five percent or so. He's up front about it, at least.

He has a drink in his hand for most of the day, wandering through the crowds that have gathered. When The Iron Man loses to Ser John Pembroke of Tantervale there's a small explosion of colored lights above the arena — fireworks shaped like pinwheels, but bright enough to be seen in the daylight — and it happens every time Ser John wins at an event. Unlike most of the assembled, however, Loki never looks up when they appear.

bracketin'

[bouchonne]

Hm.

[ Byerly frowns in mock-thought, then holds out a silver. ]

A bet against The Iron Man, in that case.

sidony venaras rutyer | ota

[indissection]

Sidony is not the kind designed to take part on the tourney; she has no skill with hand to hand, can ride a horse to travel but not to knock other people off and the idea of her taking part in a tug of war and getting her hand (and dress) dirty is something completely out of reason. So, instead, she spends most of her time as a spectator, watching other people take part, cheering on some and ignoring others.

If anyone were to ask it of her she would offer them a favour for them to keep - a handkerchief stitched with little swords and shields, dropped into their hand with a small smile. It shows off the ever present noble blood in her, something she can't quite shake.

Beyond that, a great deal of her time is spent in the medical tent, helping and offering her services to anyone who needs it. Her hands are full with salves, potions and stitches, bandaging here and closing wounds there, but she can be drawn away if someone desperately wants her attention.

Finally, when she finds herself out of work (or, rather, needing some fresh air) she manages to wander around to get some food and sit by herself in the grass, a blanket out under her to protect her dress, closing her eyes and letting herself enjoy the warmth.

spectating

[armd]

Abby has never seen jousting in her entire life; she's read about it, in books. It reminds her of the Canterbury Tales, but it's difficult to discern why some knights are getting loud, happy cheers, and others still are getting booed for their efforts. She gets that they're setting up some kind of story, but–

"How does this all work? Do they– draw straws or something, to determine who plays the 'bad guy'?"

She's asking Sidony because she seems to know exactly who to cheer for, and when.

Allumin | OTA

[voidtransport]

Trial: Aiding the Injured

There is one part of the trial, he thinks, that is easy enough. After having too many shots participating in drunken archery earlier it's actually a bit of a relief (he's still feeling them) - gives him a good reason to say no if someone were to offer. He is also still just drunk enough to be blissfully unaware of how hungry he'll be later when his senses start to return from their own trial earlier doing shots for shots and the scent of fair food hits the olfactory part of his brain again.

Until then, however, it's time for the other part of his trial: going to the medical tent and helping the healers there. When he first arrives and asks if there's anything he can do to help, he sees the look he gets - tall, slightly drunk elf who is not 1) a doctor, or 2) a mage with any kind of healing magic. He explains that it's part of the - he forgets the word for it - the bridge quests (close enough). There's an 'ahhh, I see' and then he's put to some little bits of busywork at first, running things back and forth before he's trusted with any unsupervised wound care.

If you've participated in an event, or just happened to get a knick or sprain while enjoying the festivities, Allumin is there to help which comes with his terrible bedside manner. If you happen to have a more gnarly injury, this means that fun experience when someone sees your situation and goes from neutral to oooo yikes as they suck in through gritted teeth. So comforting. If it's less severe, maybe you'll get lucky and he won't say something with his whole foot in his mouth, as he is oft to do.

Or perhaps you are also helping out with mending the injured so that they can enjoy the rest of the tournament! Which is good because there are plenty of times where Allumin finds himself overwhelmed in the tent. Between heavy combatants in just as heavy or heavier armor dropping all of their body weight into Allumin before reaching a chair or cot and the elf doing his best not to fall over as he wheezes "help..." from having the wind knocked out of him, to needing to call someone over to set a broken or dislocated bone, or correcting his technique as he tries to clean someone's wound and it's just a series of "ow!" sorry "ow!" sorry "ow!" sorry while the lad gets nowhere fast.

You could even arrive at any given moment and engage in a bit of temptation to foil the success of his quest...

I'm also cool with wildcards if you'd like to encounter Allumin around before or after his trial. Once he's free from his Pas d'Armes quest he'll be enjoying the late night reveling and too much alcohol into the wee hours of the morning.

helping out

[armd]

Abby wasn't intending on helping, but the sound of somebody wheezing out for help draws her attention instantly– she springs in to gather the armored patient, taking the bulk of their weight into her capable arms.

"Easy–"

Pretty heavy. How anybody moves around like this and manages to fight, she'll never know, it's like– resistance training. Except all the time.

She helps them make it to cot and get their feet off the ground, before she addresses Allumin. Seems the patient left a blood smear on her front, but she doesn't really seem to care. "You alright?"

closed to thaïs.

[luaithre]

A clamouring cheer lifts up into the sky from the decisive victory of one half of the tug-of-war competition over the other. The winners rejoice, and the losers crawl out from a pile of limbs, flowers, and mud that will dry fast in the sun.

No, Marcus isn't participating, nor was he watching. He turns to look in response to the noise of it, a slight bristle of cat-rubbed-wrong-way nerves at the over-friendly chaos of a crowded arena like this one. But he is, in spite of that, enjoying the day, and only continues his path towards locating a decent place to watch the Melee before everyone else gets the same idea.

And so the crowd is thin enough that he recognises the tall silhouette of one Thaïs de Lamorraine, seated alone. He only thinks about it for a second before he moves in that direction.

"Might I join you?"

And maybe Thaïs will recognise him too, if she's observant, but perhaps not. He is also dressed down from how he normally presents at the Gallows: no too-heavy battle staff being dragged around, no formal coats or neckties, just worn leather, rough-spun cotton, all still neat and well-tailored despite the simplicity. He is looking at her expectantly, from where he's stopped at a polite distance.