faderift | Truth or Dare: The Imperial Court

Truth or Dare: The Imperial Court

WHO: Select Orlesian and Fereldan Nobility and the Inquisition
WHAT: Josephine and Vivienne have orchestrated a good-will soiree in response to this dastardly rumor.
WHEN: Drakonis 15, Evening
WHERE: Skyhold Great Hall
NOTES:
- A list of nobles in attendance can be found here. The list was provided by the mods but there will be no npc support for them. Play away.
- A secondary outside party is being held in the valley in the tent town for anyone who couldn't/wouldn't attend and/or behave in the fancy pansty party.
- The goal of the evening is to clear up a spurious rumor about Cassandra and Leliana, with secondary goals of establishing the Inquisition as a respectable presence in Thedas (and fish for more money). Any major disruptions that would Game Over the court approval should probably be brought to the advisors and/or mods.

To say that Josphine has far outdone herself with this little soiree would be the understatement of the year. The Lady Ambassador has pulled out all the stops in providing a festive and yet elegant stage for this political intervention. Because sometimes gossip can be more deadly than a sword.

The Great Hall of Skyhold has been converted into a grand receiving hall, glittering with hundreds of lights around the room, in addition to the repairs accomplished to the original chandeliers. Of course, there has been artful placement arranged so there are a few shadowy corners for rendezvous of the more suggestive nature. Just in case. The majority of the floor has been cleared for dancing, and a fine troupe of musicians have been installed for the bulk of the evening's entertainments. Some members of the Inquisition have plans to entice attendees with their own artistic performances in addition to the group of mages performing illusory tricks to oohs and aahs.

For those who feel their energy flagging, there are chairs set against the walls, with a few tables interspersed between. Servers hired for the evening circulate the crowds with wine, fine Orlesian and Nevarran reds as well as crisp whites from Antiva. Refreshments are set out on buffet tables, tasteful and extravagant nibbles, including imported cheeses, spicy saucisson, dried fruits and nuts, and the highly sought after deep mushroom and anise petits fours that are all the rage in Orlais.

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While it was true enough that they'd both been in Skyhold for quite some time now, this shared space, there was enough of it to ensure there was no contact between them. It was simple enough, Alistair had his Grey Warden responsibilities and Fiona had her own as the one-time Grand Enchanter. Then there was the Inquisition itself and the various missions, it was enough to keep anyone busy. It was enough to ensure that she wouldn't be tempted to get too close.

Even if she wanted to.

The more she observed, however, the more she wanted to--and it was a party after all, it wasn't suspicious. Duncan had written to her many times, he spoke of how Alistair looked more like Maric, not a bad thing, and they did share some characteristics. Fiona might almost have said that there was very little of her to be seen in him, but then he started pulling faces behind the backs of nobles and there she was! And how could she not talk to him, even for a moment.

"I used to do that sort of thing as well," she said, discreetly, after he pulled a particularly amusing expression, "except I did it to my teachers."

"Not too late to start up again," Alistair says brightly, still pleased with himself and his target's struggle to maintain a straight face, before he's properly turned to look at whoever is addressing him. When he does look it takes him a moment to place her: there's a squint, then raised eyebrows like oh, and finally a smile. "Or I suppose it might be. You probably have to be on your best behavior for a while."

A while. Years. He's full in favor of mages having their freedom and all of that, but he's heard—through the grapevine, no direct word—that the Queen and Teagan weren't particularly pleased with what happened in Redcliffe. The Inquisition probably wasn't, either.

"I won't tell anyone if you aren't, though."

Fiona wasn't so shortsighted that she did not have any regrets at all--Redcliffe, Alexius, a moment of weakness--she had those and she knew that there were plenty of people that placed the full weight of it on her. She preferred it that way, if they were looking at her then that hardship fell on Fiona instead of them.

"As much as I might like that, I find myself standing firmly on the meridian of tolerance," tolerance being the lowest form of acceptance, like someone tolerates an enduring illness, "though it's nice to know I can count on someone not to tell on me if I need to let go every now and then."

She glanced down at her hands, threading her fingers together was an engrossing task apparently, before glancing back up, "there is something to be said about living vicariously."

Alistair keeps smiling down at her—his usual warm smirk, closed-lipped and crooked. The one that means he isn't sure what to make of someone but has no particular reason to dislike them, yet, so he needs an expression that can pull double-duty as both friendly and mocking until he makes up his mind which one. "Pick one," he says, "and I'll accidentally spill something on them before I leave."

It's a well-known fact that he's a touch clumsy. He can't help it.

"I'm Alistair," he adds, just in case it's news.

"Such a generous gift you offer, but I have no wish to get you into trouble," not that she didn't have her eye on a particularly ostentatious noble, all bumptiousness and no substance. It certainly would make her evening, but how could she actively encourage Alistair into making trouble? Amusing to her as it might be, his wellbeing was a concern for her and Orlesian nobles could be so combative for no reason at all.

"Alistair...I know you," she inclined her head respectfully, "...not by reputation, but because you remind me of an old friend."

"I've been trying to get into trouble all evening," Alistair says, "and no one seems to care. I'm starting to think I've lost the touch. Honestly, you'd be doing me a favor." And surely no one would actually duel or kill him. Not here. Maybe later, deeper in Orlesian territory, but he'd cross that bridge when it came. Hypothetically.

Right now, though, his expression flattens into something a little put-upon. He knows her by reputation; he's heard a few scant stories, light on details and probably half false, focused on Maric's decision to allow the Wardens to return to Ferelden more than anything else—but it's enough for him to make a prediction. A sullen one.

"Let me guess," he says, but that's all. The guess should be obvious.

"Well, I suppose it if means so much to you..." Fiona simply noded in the direction of the particular Orlesian noble who just happened to catch her attention. He really was too obvious, though she supposed that's why he chose him, there was something about him that was more Orlesian to her than most Orlesians.

Although she was quick to ignore the man upon noting the change in Alistair's expression. She could only imagine Maric was not among his favorite topics. It was very enlightening, she could only imagine how he would feel about her.

"Maric...he traveled with the Grey Wardens for a time, accompanied us to the Deep Roads," she was certain Alistair knew of these rumors, but few knew the actual details, "...he kept in touch, at least with those of us that were left, wrote about you to Duncan and I. Oh, you are familiar with Duncan, yes?"

Of course she knew, but pretenses must be upheld.

Alistair follows her gaze and nods as well, marking the man in his memory. He'll be covered in wine before the night is through, just wait. And the shift in the conversation is a deft one: at Duncan's name he brightens around the eyes, then cracks and smiles at the question. "My mentor," he confirms. "I suppose I didn't know him very long—six months—but he meant a lot to me."

That Maric wrote to him isn't a surprise, really; Alistair knows Duncan knew who his father was, knew from the inquiry into his parentage that he'd observed him now and then. For a few minutes he'd been upset by it—that he might have owed being a Warden to being a Theirin. But he's over it. His posture shifts toward Fiona, who has his full attention now.

"Did you know him very well?"

Fiona bowed her head, thinking about Duncan was difficult for her, thinking about her small Grey Warden family was generally hard for her. She still remembered him as a young man, younger than her, like a mischievous baby brother with a peculiar cleverness. They were the closest in age and therefore they shared a special kind of bond.

There were days where she felt as though she'd abandoned him, perhaps she could have made a difference all those years ago. Unfortunately, she had not been a Grey Warden for some time, the first to be kicked out, and as much as she would have liked to stay with him she could not.

"I knew him like one knows a best friend or a brother. I was witness to his Joining...he had a gift for mischief and trouble that led him to us. I do not suppose he mentioned that he was a handful? He was a mess...and funny, so funny, and singularly brave."

"Nooo, that must have slipped his mind," Alistair says, looking delighted by the idea. Duncan had a sense of humor, sure, but in his older age he left the trouble to his underlings. If he were here—

No. Not wandering down that path. Duncan wouldn't have lived this long, anyway, even if Ostagar had happened another way. Thirty years, at the very most, and Duncan had had twenty—Alistair's smile dampens but doesn't disappear, and his posture shifts back while he looks at Fiona for the first time like someone he's genuinely interested in rather than a pleasant diversion.

"You were really—" Cured, he wants to say, but given the crowd some vagueness is in order. "You really don't hear it?"

"I'm certain it did, he wouldn't want any of his recruits repeating his...antics," for they were certainly not few in number and often left their commander with more than just a headache. A lifetime ago, that was, but the memories were still fond and familiar. As if it could not have been more than yesterday when Duncan finally decided to grow out that beard he'd been attempting since he was a young man. Fiona often told him it was a silly thing to do to an attractive face, as if he would listen.

Though there was much she was grateful to him for as well, she owed her friend a debt that she could never repay.

"No, I do not," Fiona said honestly, knowing exactly what Alistair was vaguely hinting at, "but...I can understand exactly what you are going through, Alistair. I have heard it...before..."

A premature...no, it was artificial Calling, it was not the real thing, a lure, a hastening. It was a thing that drove their commander and drove her mad.

There are approximately two hundred questions that need to be asked, but he is capable of discretion. He stares at her for a moment while his mind works, then smiles a little, and says, "You should come visit us at camp sometime. For nostalgia's sake if nothing else."

She's not a Warden anymore, but it isn't as if they can't trust her. Whatever secret they have, she's kept so far. And maybe she can help.

"Oh...I don't...I'm not certain that would be the best idea," toward the end of her time as a warden there had been very little love for Fiona. She had cheated death, at least that was how she'd been treated, and she wasn't at all certain how she would be received if she visited the camp.

Though one glance at Alistair's face and she could feel herself floundering, wringing her hands thoughtfully for a moment, she finally nodded in finality, "okay, if it is what you wish then I would be honored."

"Great," Alistair says, with sincerity; if anyone resents her, they can go sit in the corner and think about how stupid it is to turn away someone who might be able to help them or know something they don't. "Come down whenever you have time. We're not going anywhere."

Throwing themselves at the walls of a Warden fortress half-full of demons by themselves would probably not end well. Unfortunately.

"I'm going to go dump wine on your friend now," he says, taking a step back. "Be ready."

"Whatever anyone else thinks, I am glad that the Grey Wardens are not straying far," or rather that Alistair wasn't straying far, though it was a comfort to be able to keep their eyes on all of the Wardens. She had a genuine concern for their well-being even if her reasons were personal. It would also give her insight as to what Alistair knew about Duncan's dagger and the medallions they wore in the Deep Roads.

"I will try not to make my amusement too obvious," not that she was trying terribly hard to dismiss the humor creeping along her face. Spending time with Alistair like this? It was enough for her, she knew that he wasn't alright, how could he be? But that he seemed to take a great deal with humor was heart warming. What she could do to help, she would.

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Truth or Dare: The Imperial Court

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