faderift | SPA TIME [closed]

Entry tags:

SPA TIME [closed]

WHO: Beleth Ashara, Cassandra Pentaghast, Isabela, Rachette Dakal, Thranduil, Vivienne
WHAT: SPA TIME
WHEN: Kingsway 15
WHERE: Orlais (near Lydes)
NOTES: OOC plotting post

The famously exclusive spa at which the Grand Duchess Florianne is relaxing in luxurious treachery is Bains-les-chers, located on the coast near Lydes, across from Val Royeaux. Perched high on a rocky cliff, it is ideal for taking in the warm, salty breeze off the Waking Sea, considered to be good for one's health and complexion. Originally the summer escape of a royal cousin, the place is built almost entirely of white stone, with high walls on three sides and the sea on the fourth.

The palace itself is a large square around a huge central courtyard where the main spa facilities are located, and the ground level of the building is all open, made up more of pillars and curtains and pools than conventional rooms. Pristine fabric billows, bright sun filters through canopies, and the finest and most attractive masseuses in Thedas pad about the grounds in soft, silent sandals.

About a dozen nobles and their retainers occupy the various areas, alone or in small groups, lounging in warm pools, soaking in deep tubs, reclining on padded benches. Wine flows as freely as the springs that drew them here originally. It's a quiet place; guests are typically encouraged not to speak unless necessary, providing a respite from the constant babbling gossip of The Grand Game that fills the rest of the empire. Each visitor receives a suite of rooms in the upper level. Because of the large windows looking out over the courtyard and the surrounding landscape, they are less private than they sound, and noise carries far, as some have learned the hard way in the past.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Of course one is going to peek to see who their spa companions are. It's understood that even at a private retreat of a spa, there is some small curiosity which must be satisfied. Same as everyone understands that there is perhaps less privacy of conversation than one would wish. Understood, and yet it's a daring and fabulous opportunity.

And thank the Maker that it's Comtesse Claudette. That alone is a boon which can be turned to their favor.

Now mind, Vivienne doesn't push her head through the curtains to have a look. That would be rude. Instead, she waits for the sea breeze to flutter the curtains and she takes a quick and subtle glance through the aperture to satisfy that peeking curiosity. Just a little side eye as she's gliding to a relaxing couch, where she settles herself, with her back set to the pavilion neighboring.

They don't have much time and she's going to have to bank on both Claudette's nature as a pickled gossip and perhaps Cassandra's tendency to resist any sort of diplomacy. The moment Florianne hears of the party's arrival, she's like to cut and run. It's something which could be turned to confirm her guilt, but unfortunately would also force the Inquisition to find another way to corner her.

Knowing the Countess' eyes are currently covered in cheese, and with her back to the remainder of that party, Vivienne makes direct eye contact to the only man in their group and mouths firmly, 'Flirt with her.' Not right in this moment. But as soon as opportunity presents. Her husband truly is a yawn and a little flirting she's not initiated would do her a world of good. Her eyes flit to everyone else in the group, a quick acknowledgment that she will need them all to please for the love of Andraste (or Creators, or the Stone, take your pick), play along.

As she settles in, she opens the floor for the discussion while making it sound as if this was an ongoing conversation only interrupted by their arrival. "Now, darling, I won't hear another word of this Venatori alliance. I don't care what proof you have. We are here to relax and unwind, and I am quite certain Tevinter will not be taking over Orlais while we soak in the spa."

If the price that must be paid for stopping the Grand Duchess is having it circulated around Orlais that Madame de Fer was indulging in spa time instead of saving the nation? So be it.

Edited (typo) 2016-09-18 18:35 (UTC)

Cassandra looks blankly at the older woman on the next pavilion. Whoever she is, she must be important, if the Iron Lady's satisfied expression is anything to go by. As for Cassandra...well, she knows she isn't the Grand Duchess, and that's all she can say for sure.

But she knows how to play her part, even so. At least Vivienne's opening allows her to more or less play herself, and her irritated sigh is only half-faked.

"We are here in Orlais to help Orlais, and to stop the Venatori at all costs," she says, loud enough to be overheard. "Not to sit and be pampered while our enemies undo any progress we might have made." Another sigh, this one not at all faked, as she looks around in dismay at the lounge chairs and massage tables littering the pavilion. "I do not know how you managed to talk me into this, Enchanter."

"You might be here for Orlais, my dear Seeker, but I am here to enjoy the spoils I've earned. Besides, a little relaxation and time to yourself is good for you. It's why I make it mandatory for my crew. Helps with the crankiness," Isabela drawled. The pirate was definitely enjoying this, maybe just a little too much.

Even so, the Rivaini's eyes were quickly scanning and assessing the area... and perhaps lingering a little longer than necessary on the glistening guard.

With a casual arm around Cassandra’s shoulder, Thranduil projects an air of lazy contentment. That he might not need to uphold the illusion whilst no one is looking has occurred to him, yes, but he found a particular sort of enjoyment in making the Seeker squirm. He himself will be riding out a wave of distaste if he is to do as Vivienne wishes—

Which he will. He can appreciate her way of going about things.

He doesn’t leap into the conversation, listening instead—he is a guest of the three ladies important enough to guarantee their entrance. Instead, he waits until an attendant enters on the Comtesse’s side, and stands, detangling himself from Cassandra without looking at her. Thranduil cuts a pleasing enough figure, holds himself confidently, like he has a right to be here, to be smiling at the attendant and murmuring, “May I?” to usurp their job and the little bowl and brush they were carrying.

A smile for the guards—look at him, so tall, so unable to hide a knife anywhere that would not draw notice—before he turns his attention to the Comtesse and the cheese on her eyes.

“Pardon, my lady, but Lady Pentaghast sends her regards. She has asked that I place myself at your service.” He sets the oil down on the table nearest the Comtesse. “I believe you are due next for a massage, for which I offer my hands and talents.”

This whole thing is weird. Here Rachette was, mere days before, thinking oh, they'll sneak into some froufrou spa, slice open some rich snooty Orlesian throat, and something something help save a nation from siding with the bad guys.

And instead she's wearing what could be described as next to nothing, sitting on a fluffy bench of a chair, sipping on something cool and sparkling to do something that isn't snatching and/or killing the duchess lady. And since they're supposed to be mostly quiet here--well, at least she can do that part. It'd probably be suspicious if she sneaked away, but these nobles have got to have something worth taking in the rooms above. They needn't come away from this empty-handed.

(Could've just gone up the goat path, taken out some guards, at least have something in the way of weaponry, but nooooo, gotta be rich and snooty. And fake flirty. Ancestors, this is not her strong suit...)

Beleth is both entranced and uncomfortable. This is unlike anything she's ever seen before--she wasn't even aware of half the things possible here (and the other half was only because of Zevran). And she has to wonder to herself if she's the first Dalish ever to set foot in this spa--even if the fact that she's Dalish is currently glamored right off her face. Which is part of the discomfort. The dress that's only a dress in the strictest sense of the word is the other, and she has to stop herself from constantly fidgeting to make sure nothing untoward slips.

She doesn't join in Vivienne's conversation--she's a servant right now, not someone to go chatting with her like they're equal. But her eyes follow Thranduil making his way to the woman, and then go to the guards. They look bored, which means they probably wouldn't mind her wandering on over. And distracted guards were better than focused guards, right?

So she winds her way over, trailing after Thranduil, but stopping at one of the guards. If Vivienne disapproves, it'd be easy enough for her to fetch her errant servant without anyone noticing anything odd, surely. You know those elves, always wandering off. She tilts her head just right, so that she's looking up at the guard through her eyelashes.

"Aren't you two allowed to do anything here? Anything...relaxing?"

Cassandra can't say she isn't relieved when Thranduil slides his arm from around her shoulder and slips away. It is not impossible to ignore him while he is draped around her like a scarf, but it is more difficult than it would be otherwise.

She hardly notices where the elf goes, too caught up in her own thoughts and the role Vivienne expects her to play. That is, until she hears her own name, and whips her head around to see Thranduil, now - offering the Comtesse a massage? With her regards?

Wildly, she turns to Vivienne, her eyes wide with panic.

The attendant doesn't even raise a brow at Thranduil's request, just handing over the bowl and brush and walking away without hesitation. The guards take a longer look: flat-lipped, serious about their work no matter how ridiculous the situation might be. The one at the nearest corner is noticably younger, and he looks uncertainly to the guard on his left, who has a hint of premature silver in his hair. He considers Thranduil for a moment and then gives a brisk nod. He's more than familiar with his employer's predilictions, and he'll only be a step away through the curtain should need arise.

When addressed the comtesse's eyes crack open one by one, the little cheese wheels placed on her eyes wobbling but continuing to block her view until she gives her head a twitch and they tumble off onto the floor. It's distinctly undignified, but unavoidable, as her arms are bound to her side by what he can tell up close is most definitely seaweed. Possibly seaweed that has begun to go off after too much time in the sun. Gaze no longer blocked, sharp brown eyes scan Thranduil's body in undisguised appraisal. Also undisguised is the way her lips purse and the corners of her mouth turn up at the same time.

"By all means, monsieur," she purrs in reply, "You may use all your talents on me." The tilt of her head and arch of her brows suggest that she might flip her hair and prop up on one elbow into an alluring pose if she were currently able to do more than wriggle on the table like a beached seal. "How kind of the Lady Gertrudina. We shall have to meet later, it has been positively years since she came down from Cumberland."

It's a ruse, of course; she has been listening to every word that Vivienne and the others speak as they filter through on the breeze and knows not only that there is a different Lady Pentaghast present but that interesting business is afoot. But it doesn't do to reveal that right away.

When Beleth lingers, the younger of the two guards stands up straighter and puffs out his chest as he shakes his head. "No. We've got a job to do. Our duty is to protect our mistress, not to relax." The little sidelong glance he sneaks at his superior to see if this display of dedication has been noticed ruins the effect. Ruining it even more, his superior just shrugs, and adds, "If your mistress doesn't need you there's the servants' bath behind the stables."

With her back still firmly turned to the other pavilion, Vivienne shoots Cassandra a look. One that she is meant to take as 'calm down, for the love of the Maker.' Even though the Seeker's resistance to rest and relaxation can be somewhat played off, panic cannot. And her face is clearly in plain view. At least the others are playing along quite well, and the barest hint of a pleased smile twitches around her lips before it's carefully schooled away.

"The Admiral is quite right, my dear." See there, a little compliment for Isabela and a charmed smile, not even wholly false. The pirate amuses the Iron Lady, and frankly both women have more in common than one might think at first glance. "It's so important to take the time for self-care and if I don't make you take the time, I cannot trust you will do so for yourself. We cannot have you wilting because you willfully choose to neglect your health. Now do be a dear, and settle in." She sighs, loudly, dramatically, clearly she is the most put upon soul in all of Thedas. "I promise to hear every word if you'll indulge me in this."

She makes it sound like a compromise. But honestly she is banking on Cassandra diving in with their evidence where it can be overheard.

As for the "servants" in their company, Vivienne vaguely waves a hand in dismissal that they can depart and go see to the servants' bath. Or more precisely they can conveniently get lost and find out where Florianne is in the complex. It's a risk, but she will have to trust that they will remember their purpose there and not get distracted by other nonsense. Like picking fights over the Dalish or whatever gets their dwarf worked up. Possibly lack of roast nugs?

Edited 2016-09-23 05:25 (UTC)

"You should be grateful, Cassandra. It was Vivienne's idea to come here. My suggestion was more a charming brothel. Either way, think of it as a chance to be the heroine of your own story, getting to be thoroughly attended to by charming and beautiful company, and get wrapped up In whatever you like and covered in cream... Mmm. That, and if you don't relax, I might consider having to show you my nautical knots up close and personal," Isabela said with a wink. Her eyes glitter with mischief, but it's hard to tell how much of what she says isn't just her joking.

"What say you, Vivienne, dear? Where shall we start?"

Wow, don't be racists, Viv, roast nugs are nothing to write home about. Be glad she didn't snag any of your shiny things. Rachette gives her drink one last gulp (and gulp she does, downing the rest in a deep tilt) and takes her leave. All this sitting around, pretend talking around these noble types? Eugh. Why couldn't they have just gone up the cliff face, taken over some guards, and done it that way? Easier, in her mind.

They were all given a description of Florianne, but whatever, sometimes humans look alike to her. And of course she's going to get nice and thoroughly lost and pretend not to be on the lookout for her.

What might be better, though, is snatching up a few shiny trinkets while looking for the duchess. And the first place to start are the suites above. It's convenient that guests are given one of their own, because it means that she can slip into Vivienne's designated room as if to retrieve something or retire. The breeze is salty and warm but refreshing. And doesn't bother her when she slips out one of the windows to edge her way, above everyone, to any of the other nearby windows with their views and billowy curtains and such. The duchess could be in any of these rooms! ...And so could shiny objects. Priorities.

"I seek only to please," he murmurs, near bashfully averting his gaze and studying, instead, the various wrappings. She needs to be hydrated, if the smell is any indication- Men do the stupidest things to themselves, at least a dwarf wouldn't wrap themselves up like this- but that's what the brush is for, and the oil, so he sets to the task with considerably enthusiasm than he anticipated. There's no easier way to play the flirty charming manservant than slicking a woman up with a brush, and he's happy to have to expend minimum effort.

(Though, to be fair, painting tiny nugs against her seaweeded thigh- is that her thigh? and glancing at her with the occasional smile isn't exactly not fun. Let Vivienne do her best work of seeding the gossip. He won't even talk so the countess has the best chance of hearing.)

"Covered in - "

Cassandra cuts herself off abruptly, with a horrified look and a disgusted noise. She shakes her head, reluctantly lowering herself onto the bench at Vivienne's side.

"I do not wish to be wrapped in anything, and certainly not covered in anything edible," she says, shooting a suspicious look at the attendants as if expecting them to whip out dairy products and advance on her at any moment. She sighs. "But if you will listen, Vivienne, and if you promise to act...I suppose one day of relaxation would not be entirely terrible."

Now the tiniest of frowns shows on Vivienne's face. It's mostly feigned, and absolutely for show. Just in case. Her tone edges towards a little tart, again for effect rather than true ire. "Of course I shall listen, my dear. I did just promise, didn't I? And I'll trust you'll keep your end of the bargain as well." Preferably with as little sulking as possible, she amends to herself. "So relax, darling, it's Spa Day."

With one ear carefully trained on Thranduil and the baroness, she turns her attentions to the work at hand. Sharing the intended plan and getting the gossipy neighbor to take a bite.

Glancing to Isabela, her reply is relaxed and airy, though after a practiced pause. "We should start by taking the waters. There is nothing so refreshing as sea bathing." Meaning the staff will have to go through the hassle of hauling up sea waters for soaking, which buys them more time in which to move about. While soaking, if they need to move quickly? Who cares if it's in the buff. She doesn't need glamorous robes to cast magic, after all. And frankly, she wouldn't be surprised if Isabela and Cassandra both can (and do) hide daggers in their cleavage.

Well, she'd made the effort, and guard had provided a decent excuse for her to wander loose from the others. So she just blinks up at them with big, wide eyes, and nods. "You must be pretty dedicated. But that bath does sound nice--behind the stables, right? I think I'll pop over there. I wish you the best, sers. And be careful, I heard my mistress talking about--" She glances around conspiratorially, and does a stage whisper that in no way actually has the quiet tones of a real whisper, "--Venatori. Isn't that scary? Well--not for you, I guess."

She titters, then gives them both a charming smile, and a little wave, then glances back over at Vivienne, making sure she isn't needed. She looks like she's quite enjoying herself, however, and Beleth notes that Chette has already taken off. Well, double the people, double the ground covered. She slips out, and starts to prowl the hallway, making sure to have the wide-eyed, worried look of someone hopelessly lost, just in case she ran into anyone else.

When Thranduil is disinclined to be forthcoming, the Comtesse returns to ogling and eavesdropping. It's not much of a loss; these are, after all, two of her most favorite pursuits. After a minute or two she arches one eyebrow in exaggerated surprise.

"My word, is that Seeker Pentaghast I hear? Was it she who sent you, my plum, and not the Lady Gertrudina?" She rakes her eyes up and down the totally-not-elven man's form as if now seeing him for the first time instead of the fourteenth and then tilts her head, managing to twist her expression into something simultaneously lecherous, sly, searching, and taken-aback. "What a marvel this Inquisition must be, if the Right Hand of the Divine is now freely cavorting with morsels like you! I admit I had not believed the wild tales one hears but I see I was mistaken."

She manages to wiggle a finger free of the wrappings enough to trail it suggestively down his forearm, and makes her voice dip lower, conspiratorial. "We must keep this between us, pet, our little secret, or I shall owe Gabrielle Chambeaux a dreadful amount of money. I was certain the Seeker disdained men altogether! But I suppose I can hardly blame her for being moved by a lovely thing like you. Why you could make a woman do anything, couldn't you?"

Meanwhile, as Claudette chuckles and continues to do her best to turn the brush of an index finger over a wrist into filthy invitation, her guards are nonplussed by Beleth. Brows rise at the mention of Venatori but they seem uncertain what to make of it. The younger gives an awkward little smile and wave, quickly aborted when he remembers his superior is watching. His superior rolls his eyes and ignores her once she has passed.

The hallways are open and airy, the walls white marble pillars and white curtains, broken by many high-arched windows to allow views of the sea. Servants bustle about, carrying towels and pitchers and all manner of accouterments. Most pay no more mind to Beleth than a sideways glance until one, a young woman only a little older than her but with the world-weary air of a veteran, stops as she's about to move past and doubles back with a heavy sigh to catch her elbow. "Quel est le problème? Vous semblez perdu."

Meanwhile meanwhile, Rachette will find herself contending with narrow, slippery ledges of polished white marble. The windows are flung open down the row ahead, the better to take in the sea air guests have come to enjoy. Voices come from the nearest, audible as she gets close though still unintelligible. A man or maybe two and a woman, low conversation, a throaty laugh, moans. Mostly moans. Do you wanna rob a threesome? Or continue on ahead?

Edited 2016-10-04 17:07 (UTC)

That's very impressive, mostly for how she manages to keep it from sticking like that forever. If he was slow before, reaching for the low hanging fruit, he's becoming more comfortable now, leaning in to catch her conspiratorial whisperings. And share some of his own. He catches her hand in his own, thumb brushing over her knuckles as he swipes it over them, back and forth.

"But I am no man, my lady- I am a rifter." He bets on her liking the exotic, and the hand he's holding hers with is indeed the shardbearing one, a faint spark of green to it as it flares weakly. He kisses her hand, then, lingering once he's done so that he can murmur close to her, eye flicking up to meet her own. "I am beyond pleased I have saved you some trouble with whomever this Gabrielle is- even if it deprives us of a shared secret."

Then he pulls away, slipping his hand free of hers, reaching for the little table will all the accoutrement, bending to get it- yes, he has a lovely rear, yes, his greatest sin is pride, how did anyone guess.

"There is one woman I cannot seem to convince of my... usefulness." He's fussing to fuss, looking through bottles to gather time- even though he only has his back to her for a quarter of a minute, he needs the anticipation to build. He turns back to her, a flask of something, it gets set down on a corner, out of sight, while meanwhile Thranduil returns to touching the Comtesse. Obviously, the best way to reach her left foot is to stand at her right hip and have to lean nearly onto the table and across her body to reach it for a massage. Obviously. "In fact, she seems to loathe me and all my kin. Which is truly a shame, for we are all so curious about this world and all the wonders. The foods, the places, the lovely, generous people who welcome us into their homes, offer us succor."

He stops, suddenly, in the middle of working his thumbs into her arch. "Can you keep a secret, Comtesse?"

Look. Look. She would be remiss in her duties if she didn't at least look to see if the at least one woman in question is their target, right? But then, if she's close enough to see them, they might see her peeking in on them.

On the other hand, they'll be distracted, and she might be able to nab something. Does she want to rob a threesome? It's very tempting.

Mostly she's trying to pay attention to not losing balance or grip and plummeting to a very painful fall. Ease her way around the window and the open window ledge definitely gives her another surface to cling to, so. She breathes for a moment before leaning her head in to take a look. A look at the guests (not for any perverted reasons, thank you!), and maybe a look at whatever a quick look will show her of the goods. There've gotta be goods, right? Show her the goods not attached to a physical body! Or else she'll move right along and not disturb these crazy fancy nobles.

There are goods. Sort of. Visitors to the spa don't bring much in the way of wordly possessions, but nobody wants to be seen traveling in less than fitting splendor and so an end table near Rachette's window has several pieces of jewelry and two fine masks that are probably worth something to someone. The real goods, though, are in the bed, entwined with two men: the female moaner is in fact their target, Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons, with her well-known short-cropped blonde hair and a less well-known smattering of moles on her bottom.

They don't see her, even if Rachette elects to begin creeping up and over the sill towards that table. Too engrossed in each other, the trio remain blissfully (so very blissfully, judging by the noises loud enough to cover any Rachette might make in her entry) unaware.

Alas, it cannot continue. A sharp rapping at the door is followed all too quickly by that door opening, a flash of oiled skin and shining armor marking a guard who leans into the room. He delivers some news in rapid Orlesian, doing his best to avert his gaze from his mistress. She curses, and with great reluctance begins to untangle herself from her companions. The guard has admirable focus, eyes directed at the floor until a sharp, dry-toned remark from the Grand Duchess, who has not bothered to belt the sheer silk robe she's pulled on. Chagrined, the guard follows orders, only to find himself staring past the nude royal to the dwarf who has so very nearly managed to slip back out unnoticed. So very nearly, but not quite.

A squawk of alarm, the perpetual near-silence of the spa broken by loud Orlesian cursing in four voices, loud enough that it draws other voices from down the hall, and the slap of sandals on marble floors and jangling armor as guards rush to see what all the commotion is.

At just this moment somewhere down in the tents, the comtesse has leaned so close that she is nearly in Thranduil's lap and simultaneously has her chest in his face and her tongue on his ear as she whispers about the rumor--nearly confirmed, thanks to her own clever deductions--that a certain Marquise has found herself so unlucky at the gaming houses that she has been reduced to dealing in red lyrium to cover her debts. Her ears prick up at the sound and, with more suction that is necessary (if indeed any at all can said to be necessary) she draws back, giving Thranduil a little push out of her way as she moves with interest toward the shouting echoing out from the upper level.

In a side hallway, in search of the way back out to the courtyard, Beleth opens a door and discovers in the broom closet a dark-haired man of thirty or so--who judging by the size of the jeweled rings on his fingers can only be a nobleman--pressing a tender kiss to the forehead of a smiling elven woman in servant's costume. Both look up and stare, stricken, but before anything can be said, the commotion breaks out upstairs, noise traveling sharply enough to cause flinching, and the couple take advantage to push past Beleth and flee down the hall themselves.

All in all, it’s going really well.

The Grand Duchess is a blur of silk, perfume, and get thee gone. She does not rush through the door. No, instead she grabs up some clothes, and no quicker could you say you forgot your smalls she is over the balcony and descending using some sort of conveniently located vine while her guard hoarsely shouts for her to wait and hovers in search of a less precarious way to follow her. Undeterred, Florianne drops into a fountain and proceeds to bolt, pulling on clothes as she goes.

Whatever the Orlesian equivalent of pursuit banjoes might be, now is the time to imagine them.

Thankfully, the comtesse has done most of the work as far as extracting herself from Thranduil's person, so he doesn't even need to push her away as he stands and makes for the nearest door, bare feet on the floor, sprinting with surprising agility through the crowd and almost certainly knocking down less than three people. The most noise is coming from the courtyard, so he aims for that, snatching a knife from the belt of the nearest guard as he goes.

(Had he cleavage, he might have hidden one there from the start, but life is unfair.)

He stops at the fountain, wondering if he ought to wait for another member of their group before forging ahead, but Florianne is fast, and he decides against it. Better this than lose her trail- so into the woods it is.

So much for deliberately overheard gossip. Cassandra's head snaps up at the sound of yells, followed by a splash into the fountain. She jumps up, ignoring Vivienne's calls for dignity and calm, and dashes after Thranduil, bare feet slapping on the stone and spa robe fluttering in the wind.

She pulls a knife from her cleavage as she goes. Always be prepared, Thranduil.

Beleth stares for a few shocked seconds at the duo, and just as she's forming the words to lecture the servant on her appalling lack of standards, there's a shout, and Beleth is being rudely shoved aside--see, servant girl?? See what noble men are like???--and the two are fleeing. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts, and try to commit the man's face to memory. If nothing else, she can take the information to Leliana for possible blackmail.

Once she...learns who he is. Makers damn these shemlen.

But now is not the time to reflect on the ills of man. She takes off, momentarily forgetting that she'd discovered the couple by being lost in the first place. Well, she might have no idea where she's going, but she's getting there at a fast clip, at least. She has no cleavage for hiding knives either, it's okay Thranduil, but with a quick glance around to make sure no one is witness to her act of impropriety, she hikes her skirt up to take the small knife that had been hidden far higher up her leg than she would have preferred. Fucking shemlen.

Florianne, like any lady of fine breeding, has impressive poise. Enough poise, in fact, that she is able to progress from complete undress to “passable decency—”

Okay no she doesn’t, but there is a blouse and small clothes, and that will have to do. The rest of her belongings are shoved into a bag she snatches from a serving girl - who is unceremonious knocked into a giant fruit arrangement - and slung onto her shoulder, along with her bow.

The strike against the serving girl is a brutal one, but so too is it tactical; it sends pineapple spears cutting viciously through the air, leaving Thranduil accosted by tropical fruit. Other projectiles include but are not limited to citrus, melon, and more grapes than have ever been witnessed in such a battleground as this, leaving the ground a perilous landscape of squishy, slippery grape entrails. A couple of cherries, still on the stem, land rather perfectly on one of his ears.

Beleth unfortunately, lost lamb that she is, is right in the path of being mowed down by Florianne. Ever the pragmatist, Florianne is so thoughtful as to shove the Inquisition’s inked rabbit into a mud bath as she runs past. Terribly good for the skin, very thoughtful, what a good Grand Duchess she is.

And as for Cassandra? Well, she gets a little closer, but Florianne in all her roguish wisdom and experience uses the age old tactic of “you can’t catch me,” and is just going to keep this beautifully sculpted hedge (or this… giant green leafy swan) between her and Cassandra. If Cassandra runs left, she runs right, etc etc. She’s that bastard in tag, okay? Okay.

Everyone else… everyone else is possibly getting unhelpfully hindered by inconveniently placed marble status. SO MANY STATUES.

He'll save the cherries for a post-battle snack, ignoring the feel of grapes underfoot even as he feels them squish between his toes to reach the garden, stumbling briefly on the impromptu jam underfoot before he hauls himself to his full height. The cherries bounce against his hair as he looks right, left-- there's Cassandra, and there's Florianne, by the mockery of a swan.

At least it's easier to run on grass, coming up beside her with knife in one hand and ready to spring.

"Your choice, Seeker, right or left--" because she's a lady, and gets first choice. He's happy to address the side she can't-- or, perhaps, the Grand Duchess will attempt to get fancy and leap over the swan.

Cassandra stops as soon as she realizes what Florianne's doing, fuming and glaring at her over the swan. She's just considering hacking away at the leaves and charging right through - damn the lack of her sword, she'll do it with her dagger if she needs to - when Thranduil appears and makes his offer.

"Right," she snaps at him, and darts to the left, trying to catch the Duchess off guard before she can react. "Go!"

There is loud, angry swearing in Elven as Beleth is ungraciously toppled into a mud bath, and a great deal of splashing. Precious time is wasted hauling herself out of the damned tub and trying to wipe some of the mud off--then she spots Cassandra and Thranduil coming up on her, and realizes that it wasn't just some rude noble jerk that had pushed her. No, it was a rude Orlesian jerk that they were supposed to be trying to catch.

--Wait, shit.

Beleth makes a promise to herself to give Florianne a good kick if they ever catch her, and she takes off (feeling slightly ridiculous, still being mostly covered in mud. Fucking Orlesians). However, there's still a good gap between the two, and Beleth, thinking quickly, decides that it couldn't hurt to at least try to narrow the gap with Florianne's own help.

"You may be a criminal, Florianne," She shouts at the woman, "But honestly, I think the real criminal is whoever told you that those smallclothes looked appealing. Yikes."

At the very least, it makes Beleth feel better.

The very nice thing about everyone being shocked and surprised (admittedly, her as well) is that it gives a sneaky surprising dwarf time to actually go. With some shiny things that should fetch a good price on any market stuck in her cleavage, she takes advantage of the chaos to get out the window fully.

It's a near thing not to slip and fall, but she edges back along the way. Good luck trying to follow her out there, guards. But instead of going back the way she came, there's that balcony that helped Florianne down. The vines can hold her, or they'd better, because it's not a pleasant way down from there.

In all of her jingling, jangling glory, she'll try to catch up with the others, because if something happens, they'll know the damn way to go from there.

Maker take that woman and her wily move to escape. Vivienne hasn't trusted Florianne for decades now, nor should anyone with personal ties to the current Empress of Orlais. They cannot afford to let her get away. The information she holds is far too vital to the Inquisition.

Wasting no time, Vivienne fade steps to the edge of the balcony, watching the grand duchess make her attempted escape. Wasting no time, she throws a wall of ice towards the ground below. With luck it will serve as a barrier to trap her in place. Or if she happens to slip and fall, perhaps skewer her bare backside with some of the sharper points jutting up. To encourage that end, Vivienne sends a line of ice magic, like one would coat a weapon with, to slide along the vines. It will unfortunately kill the plants, but in so doing will make them unsuitable for holding onto. Not to mention the misery of the chill on bare hands.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

SPA TIME [closed]

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

pursuit lutes

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject