faderift | OPEN | the grand tourney!

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OPEN | the grand tourney!

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!!!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I have kept no tally." Gabranth confesses coolly— so much so, in fact, that it might seem laced with pride despite the tonelessness of its dour delivery.

But surely not.

He shifts his helm nominally to watch Byerly and his attendant set up an insignificant camp, unbothered by the prospect of an audience. Less so by this one in particular.

"Your ward has been concerned for you as of late. Yet I trust you've returned to finding some amount of rest."

Translation: he isn't here to nag.

"My ward?" The courier finishes setting things up; By hands him a silver (and it's clear enough that this is no gentlemanly footman, given the rather rowdy layout of By's little picnic and the man's good-natured cheers in response to the payment) then settles down in the seat. Wine is poured, a strawberry is taken up, and By's head cocks in Gabranth's direction.

"Are you speaking of Artemaeus? He's my employee, good fellow, not my ward." Then, with a shake of his head - "And I can't believe he was complaining of it to you. Maker, I wasn't mistreating the boy that badly."

“It was not a complaint. It was worry.”

His correction is mild, removed enough to be respectful, rather than bullish or sharp. The weather is fine, and it suits even the suddenness of Byerly’s makeshift affair. The sight of wine and fruit and that small little stool.

And frills.

“An employee would not offer up such considerations when his own world unravels.”

By clucks his tongue, waves a hand in acknowledgment. But: "The boy is dependent upon me," he says by way of explanation. "Flint is a danger to him, and neither of the other two have any interest in coming to his defense." His smile is a little sharp. "Believe me, the young man has no love for me; he sees me as a means to an end."

But it's a fine day. There's no point in arguing the intentions of an absent person. Instead, Byerly lifts the bottle and offers up - "A glass to wet your throat?"

“I’ve no desire to call you a liar, thus can I only disagree. If this is what you believe, then I hope it serves as strange solace, for I can think of no other reason why you would be so misaligned in your assertions.”

If it makes his world a simpler one. A more bearable one, to whittle down the concepts of care or concern.

Still, Byerly is correct about one thing: there is no point in arguing.

“My duty requires a clear head. Indulge for us both.”

"You've too much kindness in your eyes," By replies, "which leads you to see it when you look at others. A charming quality, and one that I lament speaking against."

Nope. No point in arguing.

"Some cheese, then, at least?" He offers some of that cheese to Whiskey, who takes it from Byerly's hand with immense delight. Which would be an insult to another man, but By has an inkling that the fellow is fond of Whiskey and will not take it as such. His reaction will let By ferret out a bit of the truth.

The lowered rumble of disagreement in his throat is leashed only to the mention of kindness, not the subsequent offering— or how it’s granted while Whiskey indulges in just as much pampering as her fine-boned companion.

Sometimes he feels as though Byerly pulls at him intentionally, though he can prove none of it.

“I need nothing. Do not waste what you have brought.”

On him, he means. Not Whiskey.

From somewhere nearby, the roar of the crowd reaches a fever pitch, stretching out even across the hills.

“You would be better entertained there.”

"Good Gabranth," By replies with a click of his tongue, "I would not think to instruct you in the ways of swordplay. Why, then, would you think to teach me about entertainment?"

He pulls forth some sausage. "Come," he says, "I could make you a little snack. Bread, cheese, sausage. Surely you're a little peckish, standing guard all this time."

“I do not— “

Flustered, in that houndish, rigid way of his. For the briefest of moments, his unmoving posture fails when that helm snaps over to fully meet Byerly’s stare, gauntleted hands faintly twitching from the suddenness of the movement.

Corrected a moment later.

“Why did you choose to sit with me.”

Is it amusement? For fondness or reunion after so long away? To watch him shatter the dreams of foolhardy challengers?

Or is it simply loneliness, when work consumes so much of his time.

Gabranth finds himself incapable of doing anything other than demanding it, the appeasement of his own silent curiosity. The need to know if this is a game.

"Would you prefer that I did not?"

By smiles a rather opaque smile, and reaches down to lift Whiskey's ears up. She gazes up at Gabranth; her limpid eyes are a very silly contrast to her great big ears standing on end.

He is used to this. The elusiveness that slithers in when Byerly finds either opportunity— or simply does not wish to answer.

Gabranth, however, is stubborn. And the facelessness of his helm betrays nothing as he watches those limp, furry ears go high, tugged up enough to cast a shadow across her own glittering eyes.

"I would prefer you confess whether you have come to see me, or the sport I am tasked with making."

By maintains that ambiguous smile a moment - and then sighs and drops back. Maker, Gabranth is really getting into the spirit of the whole dig in your heels and don't let anyone budge you thing, isn't he? He ought to have been born a Bann of Ferelden instead of an odd little fragment of some dream.

Byerly is, himself, quite stubborn in his own way. Eely and evasive, yes, but that evasion is in service of the sort of hard-headedness that would make his ancestors...Well, not proud, but at least marginally less ashamed of him. And so, even defeated by Gabranth's stolid insistence, he won't surrender enough give a direct answer.

"I don't exactly have an eye for appreciating pretty swordplay," he says.

Byerly has declared himself neither participant nor challenger. But maybe, given the nature of the pressure he’s now been forced to endure, Gabranth’s chosen to test him regardless.

To draw out more than simple conversation or the pettier niceties of companionship.

The answer he’s given, however, seems to satisfy something in his own posture, and his hands fold a few degrees more gently across the pommel of his sword.

“I have missed your presence as well, then.”

Sincerity. Byerly scoffs softly, and lowers his head to busy himself with the business of slipping bits of sausage to Whiskey. By this point, she's eaten far more than he has - and given her round belly, contrasted with his gauntness, it seems that's a pretty constant state of affairs.

"What," he says, somewhere between wryly and dryly, "not enough fops in your life?" But then, because the man was so sincere, Byerly unbends enough to say, "That's very kind, good fellow. I'm flattered, if a bit puzzled by what I might have done to earn that sort of regard from someone like you. You really don't want any cheese?"

“I am on duty.” He counters coolly, though it is a flimsier excuse than usual given that no one else stands within their broadened line of sight.

Perhaps that’s why his voice is less struck through with sternness than usual when he says it. Softened by potential, or at the very least the idea that somehow he might both keep dignity intact and find opportunity to draw away for just a moment or two of more personal satisfaction.

Months ago— and across lifetimes ago— that would not have been the case.

"Hm."

Byerly cracks open a loaf of bread and assembles a rather nice sandwich. Sausage, cheese, and - in a pleasant touch - a few thin slices of tart apple. He closes it up, then climbs up off his stool and makes his way over to the bridge and holds it at face level.

"Helmet off."

There is an eyeless glance fixed Byerly's way for the longest of held beats. It is possible, all things considered, that this is the prelude to yet another refusal— matters of rank and station aside.

It would not be the first time Gabranth has defied him, after all.

Yet instead his sword is set against his own hip, spare hand lifting to remove his helm, shadowed behind Byerly's taller (yet significantly narrower) figure. He does not question the absurdity of this. He does not grouse or grumble when he steals a single bite of that sandwich, made of finer things than all his usual fare in Thedas.

It is, almost unfairly, good.

"This is unbecoming." Gabranth murmurs offhandedly after a beat, as though Byerly is somehow unaware of it.

"I like things naughty," By says.

A keen eye can likely start to tell the difference between Byerly's smiles: some of them are crueler, false, while others are more genuine. This one is true, a grin of real pleasure as By takes a bite of his own out of the other end of the sandwich and then bends down to feed Whiskey her own share.

Whiskey sits down on Gabranth's foot. She seems pretty satisfied with life right now.

"And besides, you took no oath to suffer discomfort, did you?"

“Longing for comfort is a sign of weakness.” Fussed over, flesh and bone and that length of blond hair on display, there’s no mistaking the depth of his own humanity— and the fallibility of it. The mortality of it. “To be witnessed in such a state as this would no doubt mar the image I strive tirelessly to maintain. The sole purpose of a Judge Magister.”

Yet when Whiskey seats herself upon his armored foot, the only thing he exhales is a lone, long-suffering sigh.

Some part of him, ancient in its make, is weaker than the rest.

He denies it by changing the subject.

“How is it that you do not understand the nature of my own respect for you?”

Edited 2021-08-17 09:08 (UTC)

Respect. Respect? The very word makes Byerly nearly crawl out of his own skin then and there, a skeleton emerging from flesh. Surely, surely, Gabranth is too good a fellow to feel any such sentiment for Byerly. Surely a man that handsome, clear-eyed, square-jawed and broad-shouldered, a fellow that knightly and chivalrous, can see right through the scrawny little liar standing before him.

"Why, my good man," By says with an easy (false) grin, "because I'm ever so disrespectable." Then he flutters his eyelashes flirtatiously, and invites him, "But you're welcome to tell me all about the things you admire," and he hopes that that's flirtatious enough that flustered Gabranth will do no such thing.

Easier: "And longing for comfort is simply the nature of all living things. Bodies want what they want. And sometimes they want a soft bed and a plush fur to rub their cheek against."

He sees a great deal. Orzammar chief amongst his memories, when the man before him hunched for hours across his given desk, scrawling away simply because it needed doing.

If he is a liar, if he laughs in jest, or divests himself from the yoke of his own responsibilities for a time here or there, it does nothing to change what Gabranth has already witnessed. What he is confident of.

“You cannot distract me.” He says, although there’s a thinness to the words that suggest he is still— beneath an iron gaze— somewhat vulnerable to the tactic.

“What is there to fear in knowing you have done so much for Riftwatch? In knowing your efforts have held us aloft in most dire times? You speak as though you crave shallow praise, and yet spurn the truth as poison.”

What is this, some sort of punishment? By doesn't generally think of Gabranth as particularly subtle, but it certainly seems like he's devised a clever little revenge indeed. The temptation to hurl the sandwich off the bridge and flee is strong - or to say something witheringly unkind, something cutting, something destructive.

"Oh," By says, laughing again (maybe he could hurl himself from the bridge?), "I'm a failure. Others would have done it better. Say, how would I go about challenging you?"

“You already have.”

Byerly had, after all, stepped in near enough to be considered a spectator no longer, entirely of his own volition.

And if there is a note of dry, invisible cleverness dwelling in Gabranth’s admission— Whiskey’s warmth now permeating the leather and metal of his boot— his stiffened gaze betrays nothing else of it.

Well. Look at that. It seems Gabranth is a bit of a bastard, after all. Who knew.

A battle of wits, and you're getting trounced. Shape up, Byerly.

"But my dear man," By says, making a grand show of horror, "I'm unarmed. I must have a weapon if we are to fight. Give me a dagger, won't you?"

"You remain sharp enough without one." He counters easily, batting aside the performative display before him with dour wryness.

But the scales are then silently reset; pale eyes fixed on Byerly without the weight of a sightless helmet barring them from one another. He blinks too little, perhaps that too unsettles.

"So I ask again: why think yourself a failure? Why wallow in the supposed certainty that you are undesired, untouchable— known to few and suited to less? Do you believe me misguided, or would you call me a liar for my care?"

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