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

[altusimperius]

With a gasp, Benedict grips after it briefly; when it's clear that isn't going to stop it from going away, he shifts his genuinely wounded gaze to Gabranth.

"WHY?"

[archademode]

"It is unbecoming, Lord Artemaeus. And ill advised."

For others in attendance, there is no harm in making themselves the jovial, foolish spirit of revelry. For a man of his standing, fled from Tevinter and now surrounded by crowds of any and all sort, it is an unforgivable mistake.

Gabranth throws the cup aside, spilling it on the ground— and leaving it there to unceremoniously rest.

[altusimperius]

He didn't win, but it was still a victory of sorts, to partake at all and to not be booed out of the ring; he was cheered, even, but any triumph Benedict was feeling quickly turns to ash when Gabranth so flippantly tosses the wine away.

He's almost too offended to speak, his expression a shadow of the one he wore back at the dragon slaying fête, right before he lost his temper and poked Gabranth in the eye. But he restrains himself this time, too sore and, Maker forbid, maybe a little too smart to pull something like that again.

"That's not fair," he says, his voice tremulous, "...that's not fair, it was just one." Outrage bubbles in his chest, borne of the usual entitlement-- nobody tells an Artemaeus no-- but also, one might argue, from a growing sense of justice.

[archademode]

He sees it laid bare, the temptation. The rise of anger, indignation boiling in his blood. He braces, imperceptibly, for the outpouring of it. The imminent lashing out of narrow fingertips, or magic, should the mood claim him.

Instead, there is nothing. Nothing save for the low quiver of an unhappy voice.

"Think what dangers one drink alone might pose to you here, and speak again if you think it unjust, my ruling."

[altusimperius]

"Well if it's poisoned, then I'm not the only victim," Benedict snaps, "and nobody who isn't Riftwatch even knows I'm-- where I'm from." He glowers at the cup on the ground, then back up into Gabranth's eyes.

"I fought. I thought you'd be proud."

But maybe, an ugly little voice in his head whispers: maybe Gabranth is just one more person who wants to form him into their own kind of tool, and maybe that relies on watching him struggle, on picking at his efforts, on never being happy with him.
Whether or not it's true, that's enough to make the rage boil over. It's quiet and nonviolent, but honed to a point.

"Fuck you," he mutters, and turns to go. He'll get another glass, and leave Gabranth out of it.

[archademode]

Gabranth does not move, nor does he deign to give chase. The benefit to his helm— beyond its sightless visage— is the pure projection it allows. The way his voice will carry, even if he remains still as stone. As dust. As nothing.

"Was it not you who spoke of fleeing?" He calls, clarion and clear.

"Is it not vigilance we must all exercise now, without end? Or has the spirit of competition and glory robbed you of your fear?"

[altusimperius]

Ugh.

Gabranth is right, naturally, and he's not going to get hexed or jabbed over it, but he certainly does receive Benedict's middle finger in the air as the latter walks away.

Once again, he instantly regrets it, but he shoves the thought to the back of his mind in favor of returning to the refreshment table.