faderift | OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART I

OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART I

WHO: Open to all
WHAT: The War of the Lions comes to a head with tense peace negotiations scheduled for a grand Winter Palace ball
WHEN: This is forward dated to ~~Firstfall 30~~ Wintermarch 15. This post covers only the first few hours of the event, Part II will be posted in the coming days with the next stage.
WHERE: the Winter Palace, Halamshiral, Orlais
NOTES: Please make sure to read the OOC Post for more info!

The Inquisition's encampment at Halamshiral has grown to be a second home for some, having remained on the estate grounds outside the city for several months now. The field full of tents and campfires is quiet tonight, a large contingent having made their way to the famed Winter Palace to attend the evening's ball. It's not just a party, of course: it's also a venue for much-needed negotiations between Empress Celene and her challenger cousin, Grand Duke Gaspard. All of Orlais' highest and mightiest have gathered to see if tonight the War of the Lions will finally come to an end.

The Inquisition's role is not entirely clear. Some consider them mediators and peacekeepers, and it's true they've done their best thus far to safeguard the citizens of Orlais without overtly choosing a side in the conflict. But others see them as a foreign force marched into the heart of the nation en masse and fear some sort of coup may be in the offing. The Empress and the Grand Duke remain politely wary, but have agreed to allow Inquisition agents to assist with event security. Patrols rove the grounds (and, more discreetly, inside the palace), made up of small teams of Imperial guardsmen, chevaliers, and Inquisition members. It's a risky decision, pairing up people who have been on opposite sides of a war for the last year, with only the agents of a controversial religious(??) order as a buffer. The atmosphere is tense, everyone on edge waiting to see where the first blow will be struck--and by whom.

The Ballroom

The ballroom glitters, lit with hundreds of candles in sconces on the walls, bundled on stands, dangling from elaborate chandeliers. There are even servants assigned to circulate about the dancefloor carrying trees of slowly-dripping candles, the better to allow guests to appreciate their partners' finery or critique their neighbors' steps.

There's plenty of critiquing going around, whether from the couples daintily spinning and mincing about the sunken dance floor or the crowds milling about the mezzanine above them. Fashion and flirtation are the hot topics of the day, as ever, but there is an undercurrent of tension not usually present at such events. Many of the hushed conversations are about troop movements or Tevinter plots, destroyed lands and dead chevaliers. Nothing can quite make an Orlesian extravaganza somber, but no amount of wine and music can completely erase awareness of the war that has brought them here tonight, or the uncertainty about what will come of it. As a precaution the guards have confiscated all weapons at the door, but there is less rowdy behavior than one might expect, a combination of many young men having gone off to battle, and most of the people who remain preferring to remain on their best behavior in this trying time. Guests who do not do the same will be quickly and fiercely shunned.

But not all choose to spend their time worrying, and if it is not as carefree an affair as usual it is still most definitely a party atmosphere. Much of the laughter and chatter and fan-fluttering is as genuine as ever, flowery compliments and veiled insults abound, the food is plentiful and delicious, carried about in great piles by servants dressed entirely in gold. The wine is even better, flowing freely from the mouths of a multitude of sculpted lions (which grace the arms of both Celene and Gaspard). The music is brisk and upbeat, provided by a large contingent near the dance floor and several smaller clusters tucked about the venue.

The vestibule is quieter, aside from the constant cries of the heralds announcing each arrival. Conversation continues out here at a steady hum, but the music is more distant, the air less thick with perfume and intrigue. Beyond that are the Inner Gardens, where pairs and small parties circulate between elaborate hedges and topiaries on paths paved with delicate pieces of seashell that glow faintly in the moonlight. Many come and go as the night continues, taking the air as a respite from the crowd and candles inside or using that as an excuse to sneak off for torch-lit liaisons.

The Outer Gardens

The Outer Gardens are still ornamental but less intricately landscaped than the Inner: hedges are lower, topiary larger but less detailed. The torches are more numerous here, the better to highlight arrivals. Carriages of all sorts draw up one by one to the gilded iron gate, footmen in powdered wigs rolling out steps and assisting the passengers as they disembark. Other servants clad in simple lion masks scurry about, taking charge of coats and capes, delivering drinks for those who cannot wait even for the time it takes to walk inside, delivering news to the heralds and consoling those who arrive just behind a larger party and are forced to wait their turn in line to be announced.

The Imperial Guard are present inside, too, but subtly; here they are present in obvious numbers, breastplates shining, resplendent in purple and yellow surcoats, with matching plumes jutting from their helms. They watch each entering personage carefully, collecting weapons from all, no matter how exalted their position. Inquisition agents pass through the area as well, pairs accompanying guardsmen on their rounds through the gardens or up on the palace walls.

Some noble guests even linger here, the shy or the unpopular (or the too-popular), or those for whom even the Inner Garden has grown too crowded, spilling out to catch the cool evening breeze on a wine-flushed face or to continue a conversation too serious to have interrupted by tittering. It is still noble territory, that is clear, but it isn't entirely unusual to see a lady engage a guard in banter as he passes, or a lord stop a servant to inquire after inside information on her mistress.

The Servant's Quarters

Earlier the servants' quarters was a roil of activity, stoves loaded with pots boiling and pans sizzling, trays laden with food, casks rolled out full and back in empty with alarming frequency. But now the fountains are filled and the food all cooked and plated, delivered to tables and staging areas, leaving the vast majority of the staff at their leisure. And while the nobles are occupied across the gardens with their ball, that means it's time for a party here, too.

The rooms are packed, from kitchens and sculleries to dining halls and normal halls, store rooms, boot rooms, everywhere. The servants at Halamshiral have nearly all gathered except for the unfortunate number tasked with serving at the ball itself, and their numbers are nearly doubled by the presence of numerous Inquisition agents and outside retainers whose noble bosses are busy spending their visit dancing and gossiping. That's most of what's happening here, too, with a band playing loud and fast in the servants' hall, tables and chairs pushed back against the walls and piled up to make room for a dance floor. In other rooms, wine flows and food is piled high, leftovers from the ball and anything not quite perfect enough to serve to the upper crust.

The place is full to bursting, hot and noisy and raucous, the floors sticky with spilled ale. A dice game spills out from the cheese room, couples neck and giggle among the tall shelves of bottles in the wine cellar, a group of laughing young men dart among the crowd stealing masks off faces and replacing them with different ones, a cluster steps out in the courtyard to share a pipe beside ladies maids having a whispered argument about whose employer wore it better.

Please note: This post covers only the first few hours of the party, not the entire night. There will be a second post going up in the next week that will cover the conclusion of the event, so please make sure not to assume too far into the future in your threads here. Please make sure to also read the OOC Post for more info on who can attend which party and how we're using comment counts here to determine the outcome of the civil war.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Gowned in dove grey, Benevenuta is neither plain nor retiring - not in that dress, and not on the arm of Dorian Pavus, dark heads bent together in probably not openly conspiratorial fashion. It isn't difficult to draw her away to dance, however, and she is a shimmering swirl of silver in the center of the ball, changing partners, making new acquaintances, touching on those she'd met in Val Royeaux when the Inquisition first expanded there--

The occasional inquiries as to how she can be comfortable with the Tevinter receive gentle laughs and the lightly-delivered intelligence that her mother is Tevene and isn't it lovely to be able to share one's heritage with one's friends? Benevenuta's meaningful glances do not necessitate pointing out aloud the preference of Orlesians for Orlesians.

Early on in the night, a light touch of fingertips on her upper arm indicates that someone is behind Benevenuta, and that someone is none other than her... whatever Teren is. She's almost unrecognizable from the stark and unpolished Senior Warden that most are used to, and manages to look a good decade younger with a painted-up face and done-up hair to boot.
But what betrays her is her ever-present look of impatience, tempered only by the sight of Benny's face as she looks her over.
"You've cleaned up well," she quips, giving the girl a little tug on one strand of hair, "try not to accept too many marriage proposals tonight. Your mother would have my head."

"She might find it in her to forgive you, were it the right proposal," Benevenuta says, turning very slightly with the pull of her hair - much of it gathered up elaborately and fixed in place with pearl pins, but curls enough tumbling down one shoulder to be played with and pulled on as pleases. "Is Gaspard married, do you think?"

She isn't actually serious, although she would, if called upon to.

Teren narrows her eyes, considering the question at face value, even if it was asked in jest. "That all depends," she asks, still lightly twisting the strand of hair between her thumb and forefinger, "how much older than you is he?" Or, 'how soon until a convenient death of old age becomes feasible'? "What a scandal." She tucks the strand back amidst its fellows and pats it lightly as she draws her hand away.

"There isn't enough wine in Thedas to make this night bearable."

"Almost old enough to please you, Teren."

Gaspard's in his sixties - athletically kept, she imagines, war-mongering old bastard that he is, but younger men than he have accidents, and a carefully managed decline would not be out of the question did they have the kind of time to allow for some sort of plot to slip Benevenuta into his marriage-bed.

But he might well be dead before the night is through, and so she considers it only in the realm of a sort of thought puzzle.

A raised hand and a click of her fingers bring a server with a tray of glasses past them, and she takes two. Glibly, "Did you want one as well?"

(She is absolutely not double-fisting the wine. At least, not this early in the night, Dorian hasn't even offended anyone yet.)

"Did you?" Teren retorts, and takes one of them with a smirk. "And they're never old enough to please me. Old enough to please me is crumbling bones in the ground." She sips from the wine, rolls her eyes minutely, then sips again. It tastes like the swill from the barrels down at the warden camp, but she assumes this cost a fortune and some. All the more reason to drink more of it.

"I shall be expected to walk about all manner of Warden things tonight," she sighs, "I'm certain the Inquisition is regretting their choice of liaison now, appointing a bitter old shrew as the face of the organization." She sips again. "Or perhaps it was intentional. Keeps people from asking questions."

"Limited options," Benevenuta suggests, charitably, holding her glass rather than immediately drinking from it; too much that way lies tossing dirty old blankets over half-dressed Wardens.

(But there aren't any half-dressed Wardens! Yet.)

"Your lot are notoriously secretive, of course, I imagine no one truly expects you to answer them."

Fortunately there won't be too many Wardens to be half-dressed at least this early in the evening, though if Teren doesn't keep an eye on Alistair and Bethany in their respective circles...
Well, she will.
"Then their expectations are realistic," she intones, "something I never thought I'd say in the home of a wealthy Orlesian."

"Tonight, you are a novelty like the rest of us." A novelty prepared for trouble, Benevenuta expects; no one believes that the Inquisition is attending because Leliana really just has a hankering for Orlesian wine and fashion critique. Such a novel use of resources is behaviour reserved for outfits more explicitly Orlesian than one that merely has dubious ties to the Chantry and a charmingly international leadership. "At least for now."

She tastes the wine. Mm. She might not choose the vintage herself, but it's perfectly drinkable.

(no subject)

doneisdone - 2016-11-17 03:22 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

ungovernable - 2016-11-17 07:16 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

doneisdone - 2016-11-17 21:35 (UTC) - Expand

The next time Dorian approaches her, there's an amazing effect; the circle of nobles who'd been entertaining her and one another rather smoothly disperse with only a little less the abruptness of a school of fish avoiding a shark. They're smooth about it, of course -- they spy their cousin across the room, and must do their duty in saying bonjour, or they won't keep Lady Thevenet all to themselves, and one younger woman with a particularly ornate mask sort of implies she needs to use the bathroom before she swans away. Within moments, they're alone.

Dorian sighs, as if content.

"This whole affair is making me homesick," he says, mock wistful.

An amused glance following the trajectory of the woman following nature's apparent call, Benevenuta settles her hands at the crook of Dorian's elbow and doesn't even feign a reproof. Perhaps she ought to - be the thing with no edges that she is at her mother's elbow in Nevarra - but having made the decision to so visibly align herself with the Inquisition's prettiest scandal this evening, she might well lean into it. And it is not without merit: Gaspard seems inclined to shake things up this evening one way or another, and standing out might well be a way in. See how things lie with his people, and how those people might be nudged.

"I have been grossly misled to the tenor of Tevinter opulence," she says, instead. "I have seen no bloodshed, we are all fully clothed, and your mother is entirely absent."

A fan snaps shut not far from them. Benevenuta smiles beneath her mask.

"A blessing from the Maker. She'd either be trying to convince to me propose to you, or hauling me out by the ear."

Arm in arm, Dorian sets to lead her away, mostly to discourage people attempting to join their conversations. This is his reprieve, and he picks up a glass of wine from a helpful elven servant when one wanders near enough. Against her grey, he is almost garish in his decadent scarlet that can't be offset with his tasteful choice of mask in black filigree.

Appropriate, perhaps. He probably gets scandal on her by proximity just as much as he might offset her own status of foreign mage by being worse. "As for bloodshed and nudity, well, the night is young."

"I think I might yet lead a very happy life without seeing a great number of these people in their smalls," she says, contemplatively, "but if you do find yourself direly overcome, I am prepared to drag you away from them by the ear."

Though her gaze does follow some of the Inquisition members in the ballroom when she says it, and while she is not going to make the observation out loud where it can be repeated to someone else, Dorian does not currently top the list of people she is mildly concerned will need to be at some point removed before they can embarrass anyone. Whose bright idea it was to permit rifters (and a Dalish? did she see a Dalish?) to rub shoulders with Orlesian nobility, she does not know -

In her heart of hearts, Benevenuta is an anarchist who would gladly see it all burned down, but just burning it all down is not on the cards, so they might as well try to do the thing a bit more deftly.

Edited 2016-11-19 08:07 (UTC)

"That's assuming this whole affair won't end in an imperial assassination at any moment," Dorian says, speaking airily of violent overhauls of a particularly formidable Empire. "For the record, no one back home's even tried to ask me to nudge the Empress down a steep set of stairs. Here's to Celene having a good sense of balance."

It's no question, in his mind, who he would prefer to retain the throne. An unstable Orlais, a militarised Orlais, may be just enough to bait his own countrymen out of occupying themselves solely with their own shores.

Not to mention this whole Corypheus thing.

"You'd almost imagine the world wasn't ending," he says, eyes resting on the nearest cluster of splendidly ornate women they pass by.

"Almost." When they hold still long enough, the tension in the air could be cut with a knife - and might yet be, before the night's end. Perhaps this is why no one seems inclined to hold still at all, skirts swirling on the dance-floor, various masked faces close together and whispering at its corners and in darker places. The Inquisition, with its spidered hands throughout the room, is still but one player of many tonight, and the push of fingers not their own will have consequences yet unforeseen.

It does make life a little bit more exciting.

"Do you think they haven't asked because they think you wouldn't, or because they think you would?"

"They might have second thoughts on using Halward Pavus's estranged traitorous runaway son as the torchbearer for an outright act of war, no matter how strategically placed he may be," Dorian speculates, "but then, who better to denounce? Your guess is as good as mine."

"It would be a sledgehammer use of what might be a stiletto," Benevenuta says, "and I am prepared to credit my ancestral countrymen," a playfully delivered phrase, "with at least that much vision."

(no subject)

liberalum - 2016-11-27 11:24 (UTC) - Expand

Ser Pavus is causing quite the stir, and Benevenuta would hardly have it any other way. Malcolm's starting to wonder if anyone would have even noticed had he worn a purple mask anyway with 'the Tevinter' around.

Despite this, she is still a sight to behold and sought after for the occasional dance. Malcolm deposits an empty glass on the tray of a passing server boy and smoothly bows, taking up one of her hands. "Lady Thevenet," he says in his usual tone he takes with her when he straightens, "surely you can carve out a moment of your time from the esteemed nobility for my sake."

Malcolm knows the basics of dancing. He usually prefers to be a wallflower and to not dance, save for the sake of putting a smile on the faces of certain ladies, but it's the the ball of the Winter Palace. It would be simply appalling if he didn't save them both from the incessant Orlesian chatter for at least a few minutes to dance.

Since the passing of Hercules Hansen and subsequent dimming of Benevenuta's shine, there are few people in her life who can consistently expect to receive the warm welcome that Malcolm does, the smile that curves her crooked mouth as he straightens to see it. Her affection is as genuine now as it has ever been - for as much as that might reassure him. It is, after all, perhaps as dangerous to be in the light of her smile as the shadow of her displeasure.

"I've always time for you, Seeker Reed," she assures him, allowing him her hand. "We really must stop meeting this way--"

In Orlais, wearing masks, playing pretend. A jest and lightly delivered, feigning solemnity that mischief at her mouth gives away, but she expects he will be glad to see the back of all this when the crown is more firmly planted upon a head that can turn its attention more directly to the Inquisition's efforts. She doesn't dislike Orlais or the Game, and she can't say as she will be sorry, either.

He understands that the Game is simply part and parcel of how Orlais operates. He cannot change it, even if it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Had life gone differently, or were he ever forced to do so, he might be an all right player. Not the best, but a cut above those who clearly didn't know what they were doing. He'd learned a thing or two from his original teacher, much as he tried to keep it down.

But this is a place where Benevenuta can surely shine. And shine she does, in a literal and figurative sense both. It's been coming back slowly since Hercules, though whether it will ever make a full return is in question. "I can think of worse ways to keep meeting. And I prefer this to no meeting at all. Having fun?" With picking on the nobility and their sensibilities, that is. And toting Dorian around like a very pretty toy.

If there's anyone in the world that Benevenuta can be said to unconditionally and unquestioningly love - it's Dorian Pavus, who narrowly edges out her dogs. To lose Hercules was a body blow, but it is that friendship which has bolstered her, that she relies upon when getting out of bed is hard to justify. Her heart will heal. Thirty years from now, her lovers may have come and gone, but the only man she'll trust to paint her cat-eye will be forever.

They are charming together, if in an occasionally somewhat threatening way. Her placid smile at the prompt of having fun does not suggest that tonight is a night for harmlessness, but. Neither does literally anything else going on.

"I might tell you a lie and say I would prefer such festivities with lower stakes--"

But she would probably find them much less compelling to attend.

Edited 2016-11-27 00:54 (UTC)

"But were that the case, you would likely still be home, tending to the rest of your mother's whims and finding higher stakes and excitement elsewhere." There is a moment of microexpression, from thoughtful, to alarm, though a false alarm from the exaggerated way he cranes his head. "She is not here, is she?" No, clearly not here, but just imagine.

There are only so many people to whom Malcolm would act in a manner to deliberately try to rouse a smile or a laugh, and she is certainly on that list. As always in Orlais, he is well aware of the eyes that will be watching, but he can see no harm in showing off his comfort around the Lady and the Lady's dear friend. To treat this as normal is to suggest that the Inquisition finds it perfectly normal, which it does, and how people react from there depends entirely on how they feel about the Inquisition.

And at the end of the evening, there is a larger picture to be aware of, in some ways far greater than the Game. So he doesn't mind the chance to feel the slightest bit of normalcy in such an uncomfortable night.

Waiting until Lady Thevenet's escort has left her side for a convenient moment - Araceli has nothing against him but perhaps it would be tempting fate to throw a rifter, a Tevinter, and a Nevarran mage together in this company without somehow setting off some sort of wild rumour - she approaches quietly, lute safely tucked away with a servant. Even bards are allowed a moment without it, to mingle, to laugh, to go gossip or listen to rumours.

"I imagine there must be a few sighs of relief that Councillor Ataash does not appear to have a dance card this evening." Turned just enough Benevenuta's way that she can keep an eye and ear on proceedings, it allows her to give half a smile, or as much as she dares before her expression smooths out again. "Most of them coming from Skyhold and not the Orlesians."

Korrin is around somewhere - there's a sending crystal arrangement if one desperately needs the other - but Araceli is sure she would've had to step over more than a few fainting Orlesians had she been glowering at them in here.

"You will forgive me," Benevenuta says, turning only very slightly to permit that they are speaking together and not missing a beat to do it, her tone warm amusement, "for being one of them."

It isn't that she isn't very fond of Korrin Ataash. She is. Korrin is an interesting and formidable woman that she thinks highly of, a valuable voice on a Council that has sometimes felt like lurching drunken from crisis to crisis, pulling in different directions like a herd of angry cats. (One more voice against Vivienne's old guard politics, if she's honest - Benevenuta is not unaware of a tendency to lump her in with that, but she doubts Vivienne is stupid enough to think they align further than how they play the game.) Korrin is simply also quite possibly the least diplomatic person she's ever encountered, stubborn, capable of her own particular kind of close-mindedness, and - she is certain - unlikely to have any desire whatsoever to be considered appropriate for something like a ball in the Winter Palace.

"Dorian, I think, suffices if we wish a cat among the pigeons." Rather than a bull in a tea shop.

"There's nothing at all to forgive. Though the Lady Odette, of course, is utterly bereft. As she has told me each time I have had the fortune of passing her." Drier than most of the wine she's been sipping on tonight, and despite being good at slipping past those she wishes to there's a doggedness on the part of the aforementioned lady that has to be admired.

As much as Araceli enjoys having the monopoly on Korrin's time, and is always so very willingly to give over plenty of her own in return, this is work. This is work so like home that sometimes she wonders how it hasn't come to some sort of an argument between the two of them yet when Araceli can play the Game. Maybe being a rifter helps. Or maybe because Araceli doesn't entirely thrive on it even if she can't quite help herself when it comes to the satisfaction of ferreting out a good secret or taking the time to ruin a reputation instead of just charging in and setting the place on fire.

Tonight though when she's actually being even more of a bard than she's ever been before she can only imagine how much worse it might be at any sort of threat or insult. As amusing as it is, one foot wrong tonight and she has the feeling it's a very long unpleasant drop for them.

So instead better for her to turn her attention to where she might make herself useful. Even just tonight on a trial basis. "And is that something that we would want tonight? I am sure someone here must know the last time there were so many mages in attendance at court."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART I

benevenuta thevenet | the ballroom

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

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