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

[archademode]

Were Gabranth privy to Jim Holden’s reflexive thoughts in that moment, there would undoubtedly be the sight of a bristling, dangerous scowl etched across the Judge Magister’s otherwise tepid face. Sweet is not a word he’d ever want attributed to him. In fact, by his own rigid culture, it would only read as insult despite truer intent.

As it stands, he’s pleasantly contented, white flowers offsetting dark armor and stray wisps of blond hair.

“I did.” He confesses, candidly. Rare thing that it is. “Though few had sense enough to prove themselves worthy.”

There were, amidst disappointing flocks, a small number of bright, memorable spots.

“What of yourself? Were you also a combatant, as Jone and the others chose to be?”

[acreage]

He smiles, warm, at the admission. If there were ever anyone who deserves to have some fun, surely Jim Holden is looking at him right now. He cuts such a different figure now from the grim immortal in an abandoned safehouse. It suits Gabranth more than he'd surely think, this sunlight and festivity.

At the question, he shakes his head. "No, I watched." Not without amusement, "Someone had to clap for all of you, you know."

[archademode]

“From what I could hear, many did. But I am glad to know of it all the same, your own enjoyment.”

For more reasons than simply the most obvious of them in this moment, where Gabranth’s hawkish, silvered eyes seem to almost passively bore into Holden’s own. They are surrounded by mirth, the scent of ale and wine lingering high above laughter and clattering metal, and yet something in Gabranth’s expression is divorced from it entirely. From the ease of his own prior response.

“I was told he is no longer here, your mechanic.”

There is a note of hesitation to that word. Mechanic. He follows the correction he’d been given before, but it is clear enough, that there is more to it than just rank or purpose between them.

That the man had meant something to him.

[acreage]

If there's a flicker of betrayal in his eyes, well. This is a party. But he just breathes out, accepting the sentiment for what it is, and nods. Any insinuation manages to fly over his head for the moment. It's true, after all, that Amos isn't just a guy who works on the ship, but a member of his family.

"He vanished not too long ago." And then, since he isn't sure if Gabranth knows, "Rifters do that sometimes. No one really knows why."

[archademode]

Holden is permitted to bristle. Nothing is held against him for it; Gabranth knows full well the intrusion he’s brought forward by dragging this topic between them now.

But he had warned Derrica of his own lack of grace. Better to be forthright, to be candid and open, and unafraid of the consequences of his own tempered concern, than to speak nothing of it and risk the man unearthing those intentions himself.

“Lord Artemaeus fears such an outcome.” Gabranth confesses it with something akin to ease; proof of a lack of unrest, as steadfast as when he’d spoken in private of death— and all its endless bounds.

“I do not share his apprehension.”

[acreage]

Truthfully — Holden doesn't either. And maybe he should, because there's nothing to say he won't disappear tomorrow. But like Wysteria told him once in jest, almost a year ago, he's all too aware that there's a war on. He'd almost died in Tantervale. He could, any day, on any mission. The dreams could come true and the Venatori could take him. He could get sick. He could vanish.

And there's a part of him, more instinctive than rational, that doesn't think he'll leave until Thedas is done with him.

"I've seen it happen twice now," he says after a moment. "It doesn't seem painful. People are just there, and then they're not."

Not that he thinks Gabranth fears pain. But for what it's worth.

[archademode]

"The other...?" He asks, clearly more adhered to that topic than the prospect of either confessing his lack of concern for pain— or attempting to foolishly wave away all implications.

Ever has he been a poor hand at soothing hearts or minds beyond the stretch of his own blade.

[acreage]

"Naomi," he clarifies, voice warming around her name. "She left before you got here."

Except, of course, that isn't much of a clarification at all. He's not sure he's ever mentioned her by name to Gabranth, and that suddenly feels like a failing. It's too easy to skirt the topic of people he's lost, here, but he doesn't want it to seem like they never existed either.

"We were together," he says, lays emphasis on together, "back home. Here too, the few weeks she was here."

Maybe it's strange to use past tense, but he's not sure how to describe what they are anymore. He doesn't expect to see her again; and that had made it easier to shrug off the idea that he may never have a life for himself.

[archademode]

Weeks.

He had once told Jone her life was— would be— no more than the blink of an eye in the full expanse of the eternity he's known. Weeks are all they've had since, of closeness, of comfort where nothing and no one might dare shatter that fragile veil. It is less than nothing, that short a span.

He cannot fathom it. He does not wish to.

His expression, perhaps for the first time in a long while, pinches tight across the edge of his brow.

"Do you believe she might yet return?"

[acreage]

He's sorry for that, spoiling that moment of rare contentment in his friend. And he can't help with that even now, when he shakes his head in response to the question.

"No. People don't come back too often." It's not impossible; he's friends with someone who has. But, more importantly, "And it was hard for her to be here. I'd never want her to be put through that again."

That, or the ramping up of hostilities in the war. She'd seen, at least, a small window of relative peace. He can be grateful for that.

[archademode]

They've both had a hand in this outcome. In the sullen patch of earth where they both now stand, surrounded by kinder winds and fairer conversation, distant as it might be.

"...she was unsuited to this world?"

It is a halting question, colored by his own inability to picture what that must have been like.

https://pics.me.me/kids-could-you-lighten-up-a-littlet-37350052.png

[acreage]

"It wasn't good for her here," is as much as he's willing to say about that. It's easier to continue with, "And that's only part of it. She's strong, and she's a genius, but I don't want her to get caught up in this war."

She could bring a lot to the Research division. She would be able to see through situations with clarity and understand what the right thing is. But one of the first things he really learned about their enemies is what they do with rifters.

"If something happened to her here — "

He would die, so much more surely than anything happening to him.

[archademode]

The silence that slips in at Holden’s cut-off exhale seems to noticeably mute their surroundings, turning a raucous celebration into nothing but distant noise. A humming nothingness. Insignificant.

“It would be unbearable.” He manages at last, finishing where Jim Holden left off. A gap filled with his own determinations.

His own, stony brand of inexpressive dread.

[acreage]

He takes a long breath, and seems to settle. Pulls back from that particular hypothetical.

"It's not just her," he says at last, crossing his arms loosely. "If my crew is safe, I can handle anything Thedas has to throw at me." He says crew, and he means family. "You call me captain, but I'm not captain of anything here. No ship, and no crew. But if there's a way to protect them, even if it's just hoping no one comes back here, I'll do it."

He has no power over the Fade, of course. He has no control over who might or might not ever show up. The idea of bearing the brunt of their war for his loved ones is a fantasy, and he knows that. But it's the kind of fantasy that gets him out of bed in the mornings, so it's not without power.

[archademode]

“Then a captain still you remain.”

To safeguard them from afar. To think of them, and their well-being, and all that they require to live in peace. It is odd, and not uncomfortably so, to think they are more similar than he’d ever initially believed.

Their customs and approaches are different. Their means and methods, their beliefs, their strengths—

Yet at the heart of it all, their reflections are unique.

“For as long as you act for their sake, they are not lost to you.”

[acreage]

Even given the heaviness of this conversation, a pocket of unhappiness surrounded by drunken cheer, he's able to pull out a smile at that answer. He can even mean it.

"That's the idea, anyway."

The title doesn't mean anything to him but a means to protect them. And while it can feel like a cold comfort on bad days — ones less blessed with sunlight, and the sounds of off-key singing — keeping people he's lost close in this way is the only, best way he's ever figured out how to do so.

Then he shakes his head.

"You should get back to the celebration." Conspiratorially, "The ale's terrible, but if you drink enough of it, you stop noticing."

[archademode]

“Hold fast to it. Your work is not in vain— and you are not alone. ”

A lingering press of snared sentiment, given before the moment fades— before Holden has the opportunity to wave it all away with but a shake of his head, and Gabranth cedes once more to his own dour bearing.

“I do not drink, but I thank you for the suggestion. What will you do from here?”

[acreage]

Unsurprising that Gabranth doesn't drink, really. He shrugs, glancing back at the crowd before looking back to his friend.

"There are a few more people I'd like to congratulate before going anywhere."

Derrica, for instance, killing it at the Quintain. But he's not intending to stay the rest of the night, even to enjoy the party.

[archademode]

"Then I shall keep you no longer."

No objection is held in regards to the notion that Holden might not linger beyond the most immediate scope of this celebration, necessary as it is for the greater populace; Gabranth, after all, can claim no better. Before moonlight crests high overhead, he'll be gone, returned to Kirkwall most like. Returned to duty, and all its demands.

Or so he intends.

"Enjoy what remains of your evening, Captain."

There is, beneath the rest, the slightest emphasis placed on the word Captain. Holden's to ignore— or take note of.