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

On the arm of Aleron, Bethany had not gone for a 'please don't see me' route. Instead, she had gone out of her way to be noticed on the arm of her beloved. Wearing a golden gown, with green ribbons in her dark curls, she glowed with a smile as bright as any candle in the room. She carefully matched her escort, and the effect actually got them a few nods of Orlesian approval, as strange as that was. That diminished when they heard her Fereldan accent, then appeared once more when she gave her title.

Grey Warden, and a Hawke? She was an interesting person to talk to. Or at least, be seen with.

Which meant she got to hear a great deal of gossip, up, and around her. Not to mention drawing the attention away from some of their other more subtle agents. She was glad to do all of it.

Not ever in his life has Aleron been one for stuffy social parties. Until the soiree which Bethany blessedly saved him from, he hadn't remotely enjoyed one of these gatherings since he was seven. Seven and trying to get his sisters to go back to the nursery and stop gawking at the adults from the gallery. That wasn't much fun either, come to think on it.

Tonight is a mixed bag of emotions for him, even if he doesn't show it. Much. On one hand, Bethany is stunning tonight and he's pleased to be with her in an open display of their ongoing courtship. He himself has been coaxed into a respectable formal outfit (that is not armor!) in his paternal family's colors of green and gold, with small ram's heads engraved into the buttons. They make a fine matched pair and every time he looks at her, he puffs up just that little bit more with pride. Even if the Inquisition is present as dressed up additional security, this is their first formal outing together and they do make a good show of it.

On the other hand, he keeps glancing to the entrance of the ballroom. Anyone well versed in reading his variations on non-emoting can see the strain in his eyes, the hard set of his jaw. The man is dreading who he knows is bound to be coming down those stairs any moment now. His mother.

Bracing himself against the inevitable, he glances down at his sweetheart and ensures that her hand remains quite easy and present on his arm. They must face his mother sooner or later, but for now, he wants to take his quiet joy in Bethany's presence as long as he possibly can.

As one of the few who could now in fact read those small emotions, Bethany only glanced twice over at Aleron as he stared at the door as if it had done something personally to offend him. She dimpled at the marshal she was chatting with, before she tightened her grip gently on Aleron's arm to get his attention as she spoke, "You will have to forgive me, your honor. All the heat in the room, I am absolutely parched. We will speak later, but now I am going to steer us towards the refreshment table."

The marshal bowed them off, calling after them as Bethany steered Aleron away, "Remember to try the ham!"

"Oh, absolutely. I adore the taste of despair." She dimpled, and then put her face forward as she whispered under her breath, "What's wrong, my love? Did you see something we need to warn someone else about?"

She knew they were here as a distraction -- but if Aleron had seen a Venatori agent or something else -- well. They had to report it as soon as possible, and she was already sweeping her gaze for Leliana or Cullen.

He's not the least disappointment to find himself being steered away from the marshal. Socializing is hard and tedious under the best of circumstances, and these can hardly be considered such. Though Aleron's impressed with how talented Bethany seems to be at it, without being over the top as his twin is. Another of her qualities to admire.

Mention of her being parched makes him feel guilty immediately, taking it as a commentary that he's somehow neglecting her well-being. He makes a mental note to be more attentive and considerate the rest of the evening. There's a small shake of his head when he sees her scanning for someone to report to.

"No, nothing, not yet. I do not mean to worry you." Rather, he guides her towards the tables to acquire a drink, for her rather than himself. En route, he shares the true source of his dread. "Mother will be attending tonight."

Which prompts him to steal another glance of dread at the doors. Names paired with long lists of titles are still being read, and none of them are the ones he's expecting. That buys them a little more time.

Bethany learned a long time ago that being diplomatic was the best way to survive anywhere - from the desolation of Lothering, to the streets of Kirkwall, to the halls of Orzammar. Manners and a smile could take you a long way, along with an earnest and open face.

She exhales with silent relief, her shoulders releasing their tension -- and then momentarily tensing again as she now looks to the door with dread. "Oh ... will she now?"

A swallow, before she lifts her chin, and gives him a determined smile, "Well won't she be pleased that my letter was not at all misleading, and she'll find you happy before long?"

See, take that away from his mother and she lost her only weapon in her arsenal to nag at him. Bethany added to that firmly, "You're already handsome, a good and honest man, and a Seeker in the Inquisition's purview. I can't see how she could not be prouder. I know I am full to bursting, myself."

That vote of confidence makes Aleron relax, at least a little. The tension obvious in his shoulders unwinds enough to be visible and Bethany gets one of his half-quirked smiles. "She will adore you. I'm certain of it."

There are no doubts on that score. His mother has been hounding him for years to get on with his life and remarry and give him more grandchildren to dote on. Nevermind that the family shipped him off as a child, unwanted, and shoved him into a life which seldom allows for happy family lives. If anything, it's irritated him that he's been pushed about by his mother's ambitions for decades but not once has she bothered to inquire what her son (that she claims to favor) wanted.

"I am more concerned by just how proud of me she seems to be. It's created... issues in the past." He was just a child at the time and still doesn't know the full scope of how her vocal and pushy favoritism managed to have her beloved boy shoved out the door to thwart her scheming. Aleron's got a pretty good idea now as an adult, but not the full-breadth of the familial scheming. "I feel I should warn you, my darling, she's got plans in the works and they involve me. Us. Mother's made no secret that she intends to put herself forward as the inheritor of my late Uncle Edouard's titles, with me as her heir."

The implication being if her son is married with children, it will assuredly bolster her claim. It's why she's been so pushy.

Almost embarrassed at being unwillingly featured in his mother's scheming, he colors at the neck then presses a light kiss to the top of Bethany's head. "It's not too late to change your mind." Please don't.

She squeezes his arm again, smiling once more, "Do you really think so? I hope so. I want to make sure everything is the way it should be, after all."

In other words, she wanted to make sure they did everything right, so not a single person would treat Aleron like they had treated her mother after she had married Bethany's father. Above board, with letters and proper courting from - well, both of them.

Although as he explained his fears about his mother, and her mother then using him to get an inheritance, her lips pressed together into a frown, "Oh, well, that's not ... really very nice at all, is it? Well, perhaps we'll get lucky and your Uncle won't like mages."

She dimpled, dimples that deepened as he kissed the top of her head. A little teasing tilt, as she gently poked him in the shoulder, "Hah, you won't be rid of me that easily, Aleron Darton. You promised me a proper courtship with a wedding, flowers, and babies. You're not backing out now."

"Never. I am committed to you and our life."

He hasn't considered that his mother or her schemes might have an objection to Bethany's magic, and he has no intention to allow it to have any bearing whatsoever in their own plans. There are legal obstacles to inheritances in the Free Marches, but he's not made a study of Orlesian law on the matter. Regardless, he intends to marry this beautiful woman who has enriched his life and if it means they settle in Nevarra where Mortalitasi are respected, then so be it. It might mean defying expectations laid on him for the first time in his life, but he's determined.

He's got no desire to end up a pampered Orlesian nobleman anyway.

Before Aleron has an opportunity to shower Bethany with more reassurances that his mother will indeed adore her, another arrival is being formally announced and it stops him short.

"The Lady Marlie Darton, Dowager Baroness of Endridge, Countess of Rieumont."

And there she is, standing at the entry. Marlie is a handsome woman for her age and has arrived in blue and silver, with a falcon mask. Even at a distance and with the mask, it's easy to tell that Aleron inherited his pale eyes and hair from her. There's a whisper nearby that it's bold to arrive claiming titles that aren't settled yet.

Feeling the dread settling in his chest, Aleron looks to his beloved, "Are you ready for this?"

"Then neither one of us has anything to fear, mother or no." She leaned up to kiss his cheek, squeezing his arm as she reached over to give him a goblet of wine, and pick up one up for herself. She has a feeling they might need them.

So when Aleron's mother floats into the room, Bethany has to wonder if she has developed the ability to read the future. It could be no one else, she realizes, even if they had not announced her name for the entire ballroom to hear. That hair, those eyes - they were mirrored in her beloved's. Yet there was a softness to Aleron's pale eyes that Bethany couldn't see.

The whisper pulls her attention, but just for a moment, as she sets her chin. Brown eyes flash, before she looks up at him, "With you at my side? I'm ready for anything."

She smiled, and planted another kiss on his cheek. "Shall we?"

Aleron bestows an adoring look at Bethany, loathe to draw his gaze away. She is too good and he's still not rightly sure what he's done in his life to deserve her. He does take a swallow of wine to fortify himself before they dive into the fray, but having his beloved close at hand makes the doing feel more manageable.

Lady Marlie has no intention of dawdling when it comes to seeing her long errant son. She's still bitter that her husband had her darling son sent off at such a young age and away from her. That he was given to the Seekers made the separation worse as he was taken off to who-knew-where not to be heard from in years. It was cruel to her. She'd been obedient and married a stranger, bore that stranger a number of children, but then was not allowed to keep all her chicks in her nest to make the long exile from her homeland tolerable.

She all but runs to her son, taking his shoulders in both hands and kissing his cheeks. It's not at all decorous but who is going to argue with a doting mother? "My handsome son, look at you!" she coos in her heavily accented Orlesian. Rocking back to her heels, she peers to his side, eyeing Bethany, though perhaps not rudely. Just examining the woman who has dragged her precious boy out from the abyss. Pretty and not at all a sickly thing like his first wife had proven. "Is this her? This must be her."

Poor Aleron barely has a moment to take a breath, much less steal a glance at Bethany. "Ah yes, Mother. Allow me to present Lady Bethany Hawke. Bethany, my mother, Lady Marlie Darton."

"Augh, Aleron, you are too formal with your mama! And with your soon-to-be bride." She's not giving her son even a fraction of an opportunity to back out of remarrying. The dowager does, however, give her son the stink-eye for his formality, before kissing both of Bethany's cheeks as well. "You will forgive my darling boy for his lapse of manners, I am sure. And you shall call me Mama. I insist. You are to be my new daughter."

Just to make matters slightly more awkward all the way around, more than one head has turned when they realize the Champion's sister is in the room.

That adoring look is met with one of her own - and honestly they should be making people vomit - if the looks weren't so sincere and dare they say? Appropriate courtly love. She sips from her cup, puts it down, and then slides her arm through Aleron. She only releases it when Lady Marlie moves forward to embrace her son, kissing on both cheeks.

Ah yes, she is quite Orlesian. When she is examined, she puts on her best, brightest smile as she folds her hands in front of her. Remembering the manners her own mother had carefully put into her, she drops into a curtsey. "My Lady - I - oh!"

All right, now there is cheek kissing! Bethany's smile turns a little quizzical, "Oh ... I, well, thank you." A pause, and she adds, "Mama Darton."

Eyes shift towards her, and she feels herself flush a little. Resisting the urge to wave, she carries on, "It's such a pleasure to finally meet you. I hope you've received all my letters?" Since she was already Aleron's fiancee -- without him even asking the question - she assumed her suit was ... well. Suitable.

Which, oh yes, means that now the entire Winter's Palace now knows that the Champion's sister is going to marry a Dalton. She dimly hopes she won't have to invite all these people to come.

There she goes. Aleron almost never shows any sign of emotion, but there is strain of being overwhelmed already in his eyes. It's rather like watching a runaway cart and he has no clue whatsoever what he can do to bring it to a screeching halt. Or just a halt. Screeching or otherwise. Realizing he's no real chance of sneaking in a word of his own edgewise, he lapses into a broody silence, even while his mother presses something small into his hand.

...it's her old betrothal ring. Maker, can't she even leave him to do for himself?

Meanwhile, Mama has already claimed Bethany's arm for a companionable stroll around the room while she chatters their ears off. "Ah yes! Your letters! They brought me such joy! And you have such lovely penmanship. My son, he is a good boy but I never hear from him. I wonder if my letters go amiss. I write and write and sometimes he writes back but he never speaks of what he does or where he goes or answers the questions I ask him." At this point she shoots Aleron another one of her withering stares because she just knows he's not reading her mail. Or if he is, he's not replying to vex her which is just as naughty. "I love him so much! But he is like his father. Very smart, very clever, but he does not know how to engage people and be charming like his sisters. You will help him with that, yes?"

Because Mama has plans that involve wresting her boy away from the Seekers once and for all and installing him and his new wife at the family estates in Rieumont. It's the perfect revenge against her father and brothers and husband. They thwarted her in their lives and she has outlived them and plans to thwart them in their graves. But she's not blind to her beloved son's deficits. He'll excel at managing the estates but is just wretched at playing nice with society and politics. That he had the good fortune to pick a celebrity of an intended? Well the Maker surely smiles on all her plans. Such a pretty girl too!

Said pretty girl is rapidly becoming the interest of more people in the room as the word passes along who she is. No surprise, at least two people have sent their servants on an errand to fetch their copy of Tale of the Champion hoping for an audience and an autograph. If there is anything in Thedas to convince Aleron that he does not want to move to Orlais in the future, it's the reaction he's already seeing in the ballroom. Bethany deserves a quiet life if she wishes one, not hounded for who her family is.

Bethany found herself ... literally claimed by the arm and then walking the length of the room. She was starting to understand how Aleron felt overwhelmed by this woman - had she let either one of them speak at all? She looked over her shoulder at Aleron, giving him a helpless look of amusement, as she turned back to Lady Darton to answer her question as nicely as possible.

"You are assuredly mistaken, Mama Darton. He's quite charming." She gave her beloved a warm smile, before she continued, "I believe he is merely serious - a man who does not look to take anything for granted. Which makes his friendship ever dearer, and his affections even more poignant to me, because he means them so sincerely. Aleron will never be one for fake smiles, and I'm glad for it."

There, let's just put it very nicely that her son is just fine the way he is and there's no need to go about changing things about him. He had his faults - so did she - but he was such a man of good and honest character that his silences just meant you should pay ever the more attention to what he was not saying.

She would have added more, if one of the servants hadn't run up to her with her master's copy of the Tale of the Champion to sign, and she could see a score of little old ladies bearing down on them, the question already on their lips, 'What is the Champion like?' and 'Oh do you know Varric Tethras?' True to her nickname though, she just smiled, graciously taking the book and ansering, "She's a wonderful person - strong, steady, a real inspiration to me growing up. And yes, Varric and I are old friends. He should be around here somewhere, actually .."

Edited 2016-12-02 04:06 (UTC)

translation in hover

lifeofendurance - 2016-12-08 18:24 (UTC) - Expand

Oooooooooo.

sunshinethroughgrey - 2016-12-12 02:49 (UTC) - Expand

omg so late :(

lifeofendurance - 2017-02-25 12:08 (UTC) - Expand

Re: omg so late :(

sunshinethroughgrey - 2017-02-26 05:12 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

lifeofendurance - 2017-02-27 07:09 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

sunshinethroughgrey - 2017-02-27 20:39 (UTC) - Expand

Of the many, many adjectives one could apply to Bethany Hawke, interesting was certainly near the top of the list. Obi-Wan himself, scrupulously polite, diplomatic enough to be bland, and useless, and studiously uninformative, is somehow dodging most female attention despite... Well, himself.

But he does look dapper, tonight, hair carefully in place, and a faintly Orlesian-style doublet that somehow manages to evoke nothing so much as exactly the robes he would likely have worn here, if he had not been forced into a shopping trip. Respectable, that's what he is-- look, it's got little embroideries at the hems, it's got to be respectable, hasn't it?

At an opportune lull in all the gossip, Obi-Wan steps in to offer Bethany a glass of wine and a sardonic glance. It's a cool night, but the ballroom itself is over-warm, both by design, and by the press of so many bodies. Thirsty work, this, despite all appearances.

Which is why they are friends - because they are both interesting in different ways. While Bethany is trying to be as bright as possible, to draw in those nobles. Obi Wan on the other hand, is trying his best to blend in. As best as a tall blonde man who is looking austerely attractive can be.

She shakes her head at him with some amusement as he slides over to her with a glass of wine. She leans into Aleron for a moment, whispering that she is going to take a turn around the room, and to stay here with the other Inquisition officials. She takes the glass, and then she takes Obi-Wan's arm, "So kind of you, my friend. Shall we enjoy the refreshments with a little refreshing ourselves?"

Loud enough to be heard, but it drops down low the moment she's sure the babble will cover, "Are you just here to give me the Eyebrow, or did you find something?"

"Must I always have an ulterior motive?"

Mustn't he? The correct answer is yes, but the truth is for once much simpler. Obi-Wan curls his arm around hers in a gentlemanly fashion, and offers a genial nod to a passing mask.

"It's been fairly quiet, to my understanding. Oh, all the usual sneaking about behind closed doors, but the most I've sensed or seen is a little scuffle in one of the back hallways. It seemed well in hand, though," He stops, for a moment, long enough that the change in tone, though subtle, is significant, "You seemed like you might want a break, that's all."

"No, but if you're just here to admire my gown - I think I shall put my hand on your brow to make sure you're not ill."

Is her light response, as she sips her wine and dips her head to the mask in question, before she glances over at him. A grateful smile touches her lips, and she nods a silent thanks, before she quips lightly, "Who knew being charming would be so very exhausting? I feel like I've been fighting a battalion of darkspawn."

"It's a very fine mode of dress, I'm sure," This part is quip, but then, quite unconscious of his effect, Obi-Wan smiles in a way that is warm and whole, "You look lovely tonight, Bethany."

She does, after all. Bethany is a lovely person, and if that's more to do with who she is than what she looks like, then it's no backhanded compliment-- rather, she is beautiful as well. But he is capable of sincere appreciation without attachment; one might easily think Bethany's charm were effortless, after all.

"I feel I might be obligated to tell you now, about how things are so much more civilized in the Republic," He begins, high-minded tone and lifted chin spoiled in the next minute by a chuckle, "But I'm afraid it's just the nature of politics that it's almost always something surprisingly petty and underhanded. Darkspawn might be simpler, at least."

"Well, when one is on the arm of one's paramour, one should try to look one's best." Bethany managed a haughty sort of sniff, before she just melted into another warm smile. When he wanted to be, Obi Wan was utterly charming. "I thank you for the compliment, kind serah."

She dimples momentarily, laughter flashing through her brown eyes, "Oh, why am I not surprised that the Republic has us on civilization?" She took another sip of wine, before shaking her head, "They are, honestly. You kill them, they are dead. Here, I don't think anyone really can die in the Game. You're just ... off your feet until you find a new angle to manipulate."

"I have friends who actually enjoy this kind of battle, if you can believe it," He replies, grinning like a shared joke. Is it even possible for this to be enjoyable? The very idea! "To tell you the truth, it really doesn't. It's just... It's bigger, that's all."

Some things get swept away under the tide. So many people, so many places, cities and cities, planets, nations, whole worlds made small by the context. Trillions upon trillions of lives, utterly invisible. As much suffering as joy, and it all seemed so... insurmountable. And now he was here, in so much smaller a universe, but still dealing with the same old political ridiculousness.

In some ways that was as comforting as it was horrifying, really.

"There is no death," Obi-Wan quoted, piously, "That's what my old creche-master used to say."

"...No, I really can't." Bethany let out a laugh, before she shook her head in amazement. She glanced over at him, before she looked thoughtful, "I thought the same of Kirkwall, when I first arrived. It is bigger, but it is really no different than Lothering. Gossip, resentment, politics but all on a much smaller scale. We humans seem to be typical across galaxies, countries, and cities."

She grinned, "I am fairly certain your creche-master has never been to Thedas, then."

"Ah, it's... from the Jedi Code, part of the mantras, the kind of thing children are asked to memorize for meditative purposes," He cleared his throat slightly, waited for a server to pass, and then recited, "There is no Death, there is only the Force."

A shrug for that, or the approximation of one in the sideways nod of his head. The Jedi Order wasn't an evangelical faith, and even had it been, he had no drive to begin converting anyone, let alone randomly chosen Andrastian friends.

"...As they say, old Jedi never truly die, we only fade away."

"I see ... so you continue on, for you are all part of the same ... life force? That sounds rather like the Fade, honestly. We do not fade away, merely become part of the Maker."

A pause, and a faintly wry, "Of course that would say that you believe in the Maker too and I think you are talking about becoming part of everything." She looked at him thoughtfully, "But I would really like to think you'll never fade away."

"Not exactly. More to the point, we already are part of... Everything."

He gestured, to include the party and everyone in it, the gardens beyond, green with their own kind of life. Everything. But not just this, everything, from the deepest fires in the belly of the world up to the highest stars, and the veil, and everything on either side of it. One sweep of the hand was more than merely inadequate to illustrate the point; so, he continued.

"The Force isn't just a source of power, and it's not... Not really like any Maker, or god," He pauses slightly before the last, uncertain of the philosophy. Obi-Wan was a practical man, though his faith ran deeper than most, and he knew that it would be impossible to explain if he somehow offended. No one likes to be told they're wrong, "It's the driving actions of everything and everyone that's ever lived, that's living now, or that will ever come to be alive; we create it, while it also creates us. That's why a Jedi can occasionally know the future, or look deep into lost histories. We truly don't die, we just... cast aside the physical, in a way."

There was a pause, faintly embarrassed.

"...And, I'm lecturing you now. I apologize, it wasn't my intention."

Bethany listened carefully as she sipped her wine. Frowning slightly with confusion - because how could everyone be part of everything without some center of it all? After a moment, she spoke quietly, "... It sounds like ...well. It sounds like the making of history, every moment of every day."

She waves her hand at his embarrassment, "You know me better than that, Obi Wan. I like to learn new things, hear new stories and new ways to see the world. Even if it is a bit above me."

Bethany Hawke || The Ballroom

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