faderift | OPEN | the grand tourney!

Entry tags:

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

( 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. )

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.”

An easy, reflexive smile has already worked its way onto his face as he approaches Petrana and this new stranger, nodding along to that introduction. There's a brief moment of abrupt terror as he scrambles to remember what the hell a trebuchet is, and what archery has to do with it. But it doesn't show on his face, nor in the sincerity with which he says,

"That's an amazing accomplishment. It's nice to meet you."

He switches what's apparently his drink now from one hand to the other, offering his hand to Hanrahan.

Hanrahan clasps it at the wrist for a firm, brief and businesslike greeting—regarding Holden nevertheless with a slightly puzzled look until Petrana elaborates, “Mssr Holden is, as myself, not a native of these lands—he is perhaps more familiar with such work as Provost Stark's,” at which point his expression clears, and he chuckles.

“It would have been something,” he allows, beard twitching below what could be reasonably described as a twinkle of amusement. “Madam de Cedoux has been discussing with me your provost's desire to take siege weaponry to the sky.”

“Markham has apparently quite the community of entrepreneurial innovators,” she says, warmly. “It may be necessary to make a trip.”

Petrana, literally the last person he'd ever expect to be punk'd by.

But as he drops the man's hand, he can laugh at himself with good humor, taking his own slip in stride. It had been a funny joke, as Petra's always are. And he isn't sorry for the opportunity to see how Hanrahan reacts to such things, or his apparent grace at the notion of rifters.

(Unless her story is just that the likes of she, he, and Tony are from very distant lands. A possibility, anyway.)

"I didn't know that," he says of Markham, with real interest. "I think we can all agree that the skies would be better off if we had better ground-based means of dealing with aerial threats. Working together would get us something up and running better, and faster."

“A question of funding, I expect,” Hanrahan says, wryness wrinkling the corners of his eyes; not an objection, but a gentle poke back at Petrana, who has been wheedling her way into his good graces for the better part of the past fifteen minutes or so. I see what you're doing, madam.

She laughs; brightly, not chastened, lighting touching his arm as she says, “Among other things,” with good grace. “But all things do return to the negotiation table—and as a veteran of it, I would say that, wouldn't I?”

“I expect you might,” he agrees, good-humored. “Well, you're right enough,” is directed more to Holden, “we've seen that clear.”

"I," he says, briefly puts his hands up in a light gesture of surrender, "am not a negotiations person."

Most emphatically not a finding investors among the nobility person, is perhaps more accurately said. This is Petrana's show, he's just here to help, or something.

"But I'd call any weapon that stands a chance of taking that creature down money well spent."

No one wants to risk another Tantervale, surely.

There is no Riftwatch-adjacent reason for Marcus to be here. It is simply, he has never seen a tourney, and somewhat thankfully, it was indicated to him via a quick note from his sister that the Rowntrees would be too busy engaging in service to the crown to make good use of the gathering of Free Marchers. And so.

He spends much of the day on his own and content to be so, and for once blends in a little better in the rabble. No neckties or formal frockcoats, no massive war staff, dressed down into simpler garments, and between that and his scarring, he invites zero interest at all—save for the occasional invitation to place a bet, which he declines. It is a crowd unlike any other he has wandered through, rowdy and bustling and noisy, and so he spends many of the events posted up for a good view of the various happenings a little apart and above it all, with the same beer nursed over hours.

When he seeks out Petrana, it is after the overall champion from Tantervale has been declared. She's had work to accomplish and he hadn't wished to draw her focus or demand she keep him entertained. He's observed her from afar but has lost track of how many tankards have rotated into and out of her hands.

So he materialises by lifting her current one out of them, not out of concern or anything so much as a means to steal her attention as much as her beer.

"An opera, or a joust," he asks, "which impresses you more?"

Edited 2021-08-18 12:14 (UTC)

It is not an insignificant number; she has the coordination yet to protest this theft, but neither the height nor the willingness to risk spilling cheap Marcher ale all over her pretty dress to actually do anything about it, contenting herself with tugging complainingly on his jacket and then leaving her hands where they have found themselves in the process.

“A misunderstanding of what part of either might impress me,” she declares, without a slur but with an air of grandiosity that he might recognize as involving a certain loosening of her inhibitions. “An opera or a joust might both be the—the culmination of a great deal of work to hone a natural talent or determination to achieve greatness, the ends of someone's immensely dedicated means and worthy for that of admiration.”

Marcus has been to the theatre with her, though, so when she adds upon consideration, “But it is a good deal easier to follow the jousting,” it can come as no great surprise. Petrana will politely applaud the technical skills being displayed to her whether she gets opera or not, which is good, because she's spent more time there and she doesn't get it at all.

“That may lend opera an advantage, in its presumed complexity.”

Marcus drinks from her tankard as soon as he's asked his question, and then again midway through her answer, along with a skeptical eyebrow raise.

But his other hand locates the small of her back, quiet and demonstrative affection. At her pronouncement of which is easiest to follow—the most expected answer, when he'd asked—he awards her back her drink for the moment. "I'm sure the joust involves a skill," he says. Singular skill, to be determined. "Beyond mastering your horse not to flinch, which is more a credit to the horse's bravery. I think I was too far away to catch what it is.

"Have you eaten?"

The disparaging sound she makes at what sounds suspiciously like a disparagement of the skill involved in a joust does not, as it might have done, herald a lecture on precisely how many different skills a jouster might call upon that she can name off the top of her head—before she had been surrounded by mercenaries and ne'er-do-wells she had grown up in the shade cast by any number of strapping, plate-wearing knights—because she has to say,

“Here and there,” after thinking on it, to his question. “Oh, I've been occupied; I think I may call upon some new acquaintances after the tourney is done with.”

He might not deny it, if she were to accuse him of baiting her—having her admit she prefers to watch men clash over horses and lances than some Orlesian theatre, or explain to him the point of it all. The sound he earns gets a subtle smile, the kind that's easy to miss, and he offers his arm.

"Tell me about it," he invites. "And I'll find us something."

Presently, she is in a warm enough haze of the drinks she's had only to rise to that bait, and not to question the merits of being asked in the first place—it has been a long day, and not all of the conversations she's had have been as pleasant, but it has been broadly successful and the jousting was spectacular, actually, and now she has Marcus for company and the promise of being led to food,

and all is well.

“Well,”

and he might have meant the work she's been doing, but what he gets is,

“any sport which relies on not merely the competitor but his—or indeed her, I should say, in Thedas—steed relies on a rapport, a trust between the two. Upon great horsemanship, and of course balance—”

He is happy to get whatever she is giving, really, nodding and listening to her as he does. Here and there, he asks something like how a winner is determined under such and such circumstances, or what sort of man or woman suits such a sport—a brave one, or a reckless one, or a stalwart one—and otherwise entertains himself by giving her room to explain, taking her hand as he leads her along.

His other task is to find something he thinks she will actually eat in public—the turkey legs dripping in fat are probably not an option. Marcus is patient, winding through the crowds until locating a vendor selling savoury things wrapped in flaking pastry. He buys two, along with bun laced with honey to share.

"The next Grand Tourney is in a thousand days," he says, offering her one of the pastries. "You'll have to help me prepare."

Whether he means as a better spectator than he was today or as a competitor is up to her.

While Margaery is unable to resist the pull of the festivities, she's managed to keep herself spotless - and on the fair side of fashionable by creatively repurposing scraps of silken cloth to look like colorful flowers adorning her hair. It's these small details that help her retain some presence of dignity even as the taste of sweet pudding lingers in her mouth and she feels the husky quality of her voice deepening with every wild cheer she allows herself to indulge in.

She misses her perfumed baths and endless vials of oils, but it's so easy to forget the stubborn callouses in her hands like this, lost in crowds of good cheer.

By chance she spots Madame de Cedoux, but the fearless energy of the crowd carries her forward easily, without second thought, even as she observes that her mentor is not alone. Her footsteps only falter when she notices the underlying tension that broadcasts itself loudly through body language. The desire for a brief and bright greeting is replaced by something a lot more purposeful, shifting even the pace of her walk so a sense of urgency is believable.

"Madame?" Her tone is apologetic, sheepish even, as if she knows she's not meant to be interrupting such an important conversation. Her eyes flit from the delicate features of Petra's face to the nobleman's to play ignorance of the heavy hand lingering where it does not belong. "I was told that there was a matter that required your attention, right away if possible."

Petrana is both too well bred and too well practised to grasp Margaery's hand too tightly when she takes it—hers remain as soft and manicured as they had been when she first arrived; she has set herself to a particular sort of work, and the marks it leaves on her are harder to find—but she does take it, offering the man she's been speaking with a convincingly apologetic look—

“My lord, you must forgive me. I'm certain we will speak again,”

but not alone, the second time. She is conscious of how close to her he still is, the broadness of his smile and his shoulders, and the casual entitlement in the way he farewells her with the touch of his hand to her waist and her back.

“Of course, Madame de Cedoux,” he says, casting a smile towards Margaery that doesn't reach his eyes (which do find time, on the way, to reach her cleavage). “I look forward to it.”

She does not, but they are some feet away before Petrana's fingers dig into Margaery's, and that is when she lets go.

She spares them both the pretense of misunderstanding— “My thanks.”

She's not unused to this sort of attention. In fact, it'd probably be far more accurate to say that there was a time she would have relished the stare as a measure of success, but that Margaery, with all her wealth and power keeping her safe from the danger of undesired interest, is dead.

In this moment, it's all she can do to smile sweetly under a false pretense of polite interest before her expression drops in its entirety when they're safe.

"Of course, madame. Is he someone you'll truly need to engage with further?"

Surely there are other nobles - none of which are particularly desirable, but Margaery wouldn't consider it a stretch to think that even the creepy lord who likes to collect mummified animals would be a far better prospect.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

OPEN | the grand tourney!

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

for jim | schmoozing.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject