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.]

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.

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.

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.

[archademode]

For her— for this— he stays beyond her reach for a moment longer, gloved hands rising to set his swords aside, tucking them in against his belt in the shadow of his curtained cloak. And lacking in armor as she is now, she may not realize how near to Archadian cloth the cut of her gambeson makes her. Not a lady, no. Yet not its antithesis, either.

So Gabranth bends forward, bowing his horned head, and drawing that gift— locket first— from her grasp with every ounce of dutiful ceremony he’d ever shown within the gilded halls of Archades; it rests as a vivid, gleaming speck within his darker palm.

“Should any succeed, it is only because I no longer draw breath.”

He says about a literal game

[archademode]

"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.

[poleaxed]

She laughs- not exactly the high and twinkling tones of a maiden. She pats him on the shoulder, sure that anything else would embarrass him for its earnestness. Once, she kissed his helm without thinking of it, but that was a jest. Now, things are... brighter.

"If it really comes down to that, I expect you to lose," she says, canny.

[archademode]

"You expect wrongly." He counters, stiff and stern to the very heart of it, though his shoulder tilts into her touch by a set of nominal degrees. Faint, and reactive, and wholly thoughtless.

"When are you expected to compete?"

[poleaxed]

"I expect you alive," she says. She's pretty sure he's doing that thing where it isn't really a joke, but close enough that it's not worth arguing over. She's tripped over that line before. Still, it bears repeating, especially with a war creeping ever closer.

"Four hours' time," she says with a shrug. "The Joust and the Melee, unless I get too cocked up in the Joust to keep going. D'you need me to bring you anything?"

[archademode]

"I have stood sentry for countless centuries." Spoken in that typical unyielding fashion: a testament to his age, when both appearance and voice might otherwise paint him differently. "I need nothing."

He could stand for days and suffer no weakness for it. His mood might sink into bitterness, or his irritation turned to talons— but it is doable. And he has weathered it before for worse.

“I regret only my absence. That I cannot be there to witness your success.”

[poleaxed]

She rolls her eyes. "I'm still going to bring you food when I can."

At what passes for well-wishes, she snorts and shakes her head. "Some folk train all their lives for this-" She looks around. No one is in earshot. "Noah. I doubt I'll get very far. And I'm not doing the Melee."

[bouchonne]

"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."

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.

[archademode]

“I do not refer solely to your performance in eventing, but the tournament itself, Jone. Perhaps not to have taken root if not for your want of it.”

And throughout, he will remain here, satisfied with his role in it. Pleased to have a place suited to him in the strange spectacle he could not have strained to picture before now.

That does not he will go easy on anyone that seeks him out; game or not, he is a creature without half-measures.

“There is pride to be wrested from that.”

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.

[poleaxed]

With her hair tied back like this, she can't hide her smile when she tilts her head forward. She doubts he's right. Still, it rates highly in the list of the kinder things to be said to her.

"Won't tell anyone," she says softly, "what a sweetheart you are. Swear to that, I will."

[archademode]

“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.”

[bouchonne]

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?"

[archademode]

She will think as she cares to, he will do the same. Somewhere in between might lie something of the truth: that hushed urging in Hightown weeks upon weeks ago, and dragon fire, and a perfect sense of timing has led to this.

Has brought them here.

To the sight of her grin half-covered, and the stiffness of his own posture before her, clutching a trinket to his palm.

If misery knows interludes, then this is one of them, undoubtedly.

“I expect nothing less, elsewise it would be unfair to the girl, Beth, and all her sworn secrecy.”

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.

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."

[poleaxed]

Jone smiles, grin widening. She reaches out to tap him, and finds her hand once again snaking under his armor, a true touch.

"Must be pleased about this," she says, "telling jokes."