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

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

pursuit lutes

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject