OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART I

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

gwenaëlle vauquelin | the outer gardens

[elegiaque]

Although she'd arrived in Orlais with the Inquisition, Gwenaëlle had not remained with them long in Halamshiral; collected from their encampment in a carriage by Guilfoyle, who is both patient and polite but efficient above both of those things and does not permit the wasting of any time. The past few days she's spent in her home in the High Quarter, and when she arrives at the ball it's on her father's arm, his mood a determined pleasantness in the face of the blank wall of his daughter's indifference to making conversation with him. Acknowledging murmurs, the occasional thoughtful hum; it isn't terribly encouraging, but Emeric has done this dance before and he doesn't require much encouragement. All the same:

Her eyes track the gardens more attentively than the half an ear she attends her father with; looking for those she knows from Skyhold, who she might use as an excuse to slip away from him -

Not that he's keeping her terribly close, given the unique gown that she's opted for. It is not a dress that invites anyone to her dance card.

[rowancrowned]

It takes perhaps an hour after the first dance for Thranduil to approach, all silver and white and confidence. She had not returned his gift, and that is a very bare something. The absence of her company is something he notices enough to miss it. It is something he cares about enough to try and mend.

Gwenaëlle's life will be snuffed out like the candles on her dress, in what will be no more than a blink of the eye to him. It would be a terrible shame not to enjoy her company for as much of it as he might have.

He smiles at her father, first, gives that polite little nod that means acknowledging an equal, and once that's done, to Gwenaëlle:

"Might I steal you away for a dance, my lady?"

benevenuta thevenet | the ballroom

[ungovernable]

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

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

[doneisdone]

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

thranduil | the ballroom

[rowancrowned]

Despite tending to need to introduce himself as the cousin of the Rifter whom Gwenaëlle Vauquelin included an illustration of in her newsletters, Thranduil seems wholly at ease within the party. He has claimed a small portion of the railing overlooking the dance floor for himself, dressed in an outfit much like one he would have worn in Arda. There is no crown upon his brown, nor a mask-- the bright shard in his hand, glittering off his rings (silver, gold, one black and carven) should excuse most of his odd behavior, if he cannot talk himself out of it.

He knows how this is. He called is an elf when it is convenient, and then called a Rifter when it is not.

But most of all, he is himself-- and what Thranduil most likes about this night is the chance to dance, and mingle so freely. He has accepted exactly three partners so far, the epitome of a perfect gentleman (but for the shard and his ears) and an excellent dancer, easy to rely upon to know the steps to whatever the band calls out for. The height helps. There's very few here who would have the stature to successfully lead, dancing with him.

Now, he waits between songs. He has acquired a glass of wine and leans comfortably against that railing, watching, waiting. Things are happening tonight, and he needn't do more than watch and be watched. And perhaps dance a bit more-- he does quite enough it.

[liberalum]

And Dorian is there.

Dorian, currently cornered by a woman who has not only dared to venture into conversations with with an infamous figure of Tevinter, but has insisted on it. There's a lot of magique does not frightenne mee, or that is how Dorian will repeat it later to others, and many very pointed mentions of her most attractive daughter who Dorian seemply muhst meet. For a while, morbid curiousity has fixed him in place, but it's getting, now, to the point where he ought to find an opportunity for polite evacuation.

Not that he is above an impolite evacuation, but he'll behave if he can help it. Blackly lined eyes dart this way and that for a face he recognises. Unfortunately, his date for the evening in the form of Benevenuta has escaped the room for the moment, and Dorian considers the subtlety of draining his fully charged wine glass and leaving to get another.

It's tempting for more reasons than only one.

He is striking, anyway, in lavish reds, cut into the Tevinter fondness of generous skirts and asymmetry and hints of bare, brown skin about the shoulders. His nails are painted black, glossy as beetle backs as he raises his wine to drink from.

Inessa Serra | Outer Gardens/Servant's Quarters

[circleprodigy]

Quite certain she would be unwelcome in the ballroom and having no real desire to be there anyway, Inessa is nowhere near that area of the Winter Palace tonight. Instead, she lingers elsewhere, certain there will be trouble tonight and wanting to remain alert for when her aid might be needed. Plus, the servants are always far more interesting to speak with than their masters, and it's their perspective she'll desire tonight.

For a good portion of the night, she'll be on guard duty at the Outer Gardens, her immaculate mabari by her side. Garahel is not running around and begging for food or attention, not in this setting. His elven mistress has impressed on him the importance of his task and so the war hound will remain as alert as Inessa. Perhaps his senses can pick up what she alone cannot. In any case, she ignores the usual 'dog lord' comments in favor of perhaps teaming up with a familiar face or speaking with anyone who seems friendly. She will not truly let down her guard here, though, remembering what she's heard about the Game and how it affects all.

In the servant's quarters, she's a bit less guarded and more friendly, enjoying the music and taking the time to socialize with those present. Garahel is absent for this portion of the night, as Inessa was quietly told that his presence would be disruptive. Thus he is being spoiled elsewhere, taking a much-needed break from guard duty. For her part, Inessa remains lightly engaged, approachable but not engrossed in any particular aspect of the events and ready to remove herself if need be.

servant's quarters;

[anacardiaceae]

"Good evening, Warden Serra." Pamelia is holding someone's elven child to her hip, who is happily sucking on a hard sweet and occasionally peering up at the large red curls in absolute wonder and comfort. "I hope I find you well? How is your tea?"

The one she made for Inessa, not...whatever she happens to be drinking at the moment.

Teren von Skraedder | the ballroom

[doneisdone]

Bedecked in a modest and delicate yet formidable gown of blue and silver, and nigh-unrecognizable with a deftly made up face and graceful updo of her thick black hair, Teren is doing her rusty best to appear a woman of status. Which, to be fair, she is: as the Inquisition's Warden liaison, she holds quite a bit of responsibility, loathe as she is to interact with the majority of the party's guests.
Most of the wealthy Orlesians are likely to find her forward and crass, an unfortunate side effect despite her efforts to rein in her usual... Teren-ness. She goes maskless, and the toll the evening is taking shows periodically on her face in the form of a long, exasperated blink or a pinched bridge of the nose.

She used to know this life. But society, such as it is, has moved on without her.

[arcaneadvisor]

You know who else is considered to be, how shall we say, less than palatable to Orlesians? Morrigan. Not that she's officially anything to the Inquisition beyond freely offering her knowledge but she is still Celene's advisor so tonight demands she put in an appearance so here she is.

Finding someone who finds this all as much of a chore as her, long dark gown whispering across the floor as she comes to stand by Teren's side for a moment as if she might just remain there. One young man watching her progress turns the colour of curdled milk beneath his mask yet he can't quite look away.

"I had hoped the war might do us all a favour and rid us of a good many of those here, do you not agree?" There's a smirk pulling up the corner of her mouth but she honestly hasn't missed this part of being in Orlais.

Jamie McCrimmon | Patrol or Servants Quarters

[wontforgetyou]

As one of the guards, Jamie has deliberately dressed to blend in. For once his kilt is not in evidence. In fact, nary a scrap of tartan or anything resembling plaidweave is anywhere to be seen. Instead he wears the uniform assigned to the Inquisition and keeps his hands covered with a pair of gloves, neatly hiding the shard in his hand. With an accent that's easily mistaken belonging to someone from Starkhaven, so long as he doesn't start talking about robots or spaceships or things that don't exist in Thedas, he shouldn't have a problem...unless, of course, he happens to run into someone who doesn't seem to care much for Starkhavenites.

Apart from that, however, the fact that he's been here as long as he has and played this role before more than once in the past makes it easy to play the role he's been assigned to. As he goes about his patrols, he obediently stops when directed to, goes to resolve any issues that might crop up and has no problems with responding to the banter that's occasionally sent his way - but all the while he's keeping his eyes and ears open, listening for signs of trouble as well as seeing what bits of gossip and information are out there that might be useful to pass along.

When he's allowed to take a break, he does so willingly, tugging at his collar a bit to loosen it as he joins the crowds in the servant's quarters. He's more at ease here, a friendly and affable smile coming to his face as he strikes up conversations with anyone who's willing to talk or sneaks in a dance or two with a pretty lass. He's still listening, though, and paying attention to what's going on, because he knows full well that there's information to be had here, too. And if it comes along with a couple of wee cakes that don't taste like star anise and deep mushrooms, well, that's just fine by him.

Re: Jamie McCrimmon | Patrol or Servants Quarters

[alankazam]

Alan slings an arm around his neck, face split into a wide grin beneath a lop-sided, half-moon mask. He is very obviously very drunk.

"Do you speak Orlesian?" His grip tightens — holding to Jamie like a rock in the current. "I have no idea what's going on."

He sounds a bit bewildered, but pleased all the same.

Kennels-y Areas/Servant's Quarters/Outer Gardens

[alankazam]

WHEREVER IT IS THAT THE DOGS ARE BEING KEPT

That’s not a dog.

Sitting a polite distance from the attending Mabari and more common hounds, a lean black wolf rests in still, stately position. Clearly a pet — it’s far too well-behaved (and the Mabari far too quiet about it) to be some wild intruder. The scrap of cloth wound about its neck just seals the deal.

Wolves. Fucking Inquisition. Like the Fereldens weren't enough?

It turns an observant stare slowly over the courtyard proceedings, at silent, alert ease. Anyone approaching will cause its tail to wag.



SERVANT'S QUARTERS

Celebrations are in full swing — and it’s all a little too much.

Alan hunts desperately for something quiet to be doing, and comes up thin. No potatoes need to be peeled, nothing needs to be washed, and at this point he’s just getting in the way. It’s a short while before he’s kindly but sternly tugged aside, and assigned the stationary task of actually attending the fucking party.

He’s at it for a while, listening, asking slow questions and straining to pick topics from the chatter. As a small young man, in someone else’s shabby best, without a word of the language… he’s more of a curiousity than an eavesdropping risk.

A few drinks later, and he’ll be in far better spirits, quick to embrace a stranger, or switch masks with passerby. Eventually, he ends up in the courtyard, earnestly nodding along to the talk of fashion, and trying to make some sort of ill-founded metaphor about camouflage.



OUTER GARDENS

Alan leans against a topiary wyvern, watching the gardens with a tired eye.

His head is pounding, and he hasn’t dared return inside; his brief, rat-shaped foray was a whirl of people and noise, utterly overwhelming. Too much light, too many lies. It screamed at every sense, and he’d ducked back into the cracks as quickly as he came, terrified of discovery.

This place demands attention, for oneself as surely as the threats of others. It’s exhausting, like the shadow of an owl hanging overhead. He rubs his face, and it’s a long moment before he notices —

“Ah, I.” He turns, searching his memory for a fitting phrase to parrot: “Forgive me, the night has been long.”

It sounds fake, but so do most words exchanged tonight.

kennels

[tactical_alert]

A wolf is...definitely unusual, and yet at the same time, not really for the Inquisition. Malcolm does a little turn about the courtyard first, to greet people politely and to get a feel, while also subtly parading his poodle companion Milady around with a scrap of purple tied around her neck. Nobody is impolite enough to directly ask him if it's his way of supporting Celene. But he's not taking her inside with him, unfortunately.

When the wolf's tail starts wagging, so too does Milady's tail, excitable and galloping to approach. "Milady--" Alarm and admonishment. It's not unusual for her to enjoy the company of other canines, but usually she reserves that kind of excitement for other people. Hopefully the wolf doesn't mind getting an excited and playful dogger all up in its business.

Kain | Ballroom or Outer Gardens

[in_death_sacrifice]

Ballroom

Sigh. Kain really doesn't want to be here, but he'd been given the "you're a soldier so do your duty" talk, so he couldn't really refuse. He grew up with this culture, these people, which means he has to play the part, like it or not. And he doesn't like it. At all.

He's traded his favored Grey Warden armor for some of his Orlesian finery, all shades of blue, with dark blue gloves to cover his shard, alongside one of his fancier dragon-shaped masks. He'll mingle as much as he absolutely has to, and even dance if asked. But he does spend a great deal of the time standing and sipping wine, as he keeps an eye on what's going on, who's here and so on. There's a lot of tension in the room, that much is certain.

Outer Gardens

Finally, he finds a chance to escape. Loosening his cravat some, Kain heads outside, taking in a much-needed breath of fresh air. He would much rather be doing guard duty than attending the actual ball. He takes a look around then gets to walking, deciding that a little stroll is in order. He sincerely doubts he'll be needed back in there anyway... there are others who are far better and more interested in the diplomacy sort of situations.

Outer Gardens

[circleprodigy]

While Kain has had to trade in his armor for finery, Inessa has clung all the more ardently to her status as a Grey Warden for this event. As one not expected to enter the ballroom, she has the freedom to wear what she pleases, as long as it's appropriate. For this portion of the evening, a freshly groomed Garahel is at her side, as they take their part in guard duty. Far more behaved than usual, the mabari nonetheless wags his tail upon seeing Kain. Keeping a hand on his head so Garahel knows not to bark, Inessa smirks.

"What, Baron Ventfort's son has tired of the spectacle indoors? Scandalous." And completely expected. Kain was never one to tolerate such things for long.

bellamy | servant's quarters, outer gardens

[nonsibi]

servant's quarters.

Bellamy wears his mask uneasily, pushes it askew more often than not to scratch at his hairline or his cheek, rub at his nose with a faint scowl. The mask is a simple design, without embellishments, but he still doesn't like it.

He is, admittedly, more comfortable among the servants than he is the Orlesian nobility, which is why he has opted to find his food down here instead of among the glittering finery found elsewhere at Halamshiral. His eagerness to extract himself from the press of people isn't really an eagerness to get back to the work of patrolling, though of course he prefers duty to idleness, if only because duty gives him something useful to do. If given the choice, he would like to go home, back to camp at Skyhold instead of the camp outside Halamshiral--but duty has put him here, with a bundle of bread and cheese to take with him outside.

One of the maids has attached herself to him, and hangs off his arm as he ducks around the dice game. Either Bellamy doesn't have the heart or the room to detatch her; either way he's putting up with her presence for now. There's a door in sight, but before he can get to it, a giddy servant boy snatches his mask off his face and presses a glittery one into his hand instead. Dark blue, feathered, bejeweled, absolutely not his style.

"Hey--" Short, sharp, Bellamy shrugs off the girl at last and tries to pursue the thief. The boy wriggles past a kissing couple and disappears from sight, leaving Bellamy holding the fancier mask, which is probably stolen. Amid the pressing crowd in the narrow hallway, Bellamy takes the time to frown down at the offending object.

Great.

outer gardens.

The gardens need patrolling. This is far more Bellamy's scene, even if patrol carries with it an extra obligation at Halamshiral. The more conversations that are overheard, the greater chances the Inquisition has at learning some extra tidbit of information. Eavesdropping is lazy spying, but if it gets results, who cares.

Bellamy mostly walks his beat around the perimeter of the gardens, obviously foreign in both dress and carriage. His mask is in his hand, in favor of the cool night air, a refreshing change from the raucous activity inside the palace. Occasionally he frowns down at the mask, personally offended by its presence--incongruously fancy in contrast with his simple armor and clothing. Way too many feathers.

Occasionally, too, he stops to scan the gardens, surreptitiously listening in on quiet murmured conversations as he does his best to imitate the topiary stood around him.

servant's quarters;

[anacardiaceae]

A boy rushes past Pamelia and nearly bowls her over with a hurried apology; she looks to see what he's running from just in time to spot Bellamy and make eye contact with him.

"Would you like me to do away with that?" Considering whomever it was stolen from is bound to recognize it. Unless they're too far gone in their cups, which is a possibility.

Eirlys Ancarrow | Ballroom and Servants' Quarters

[ancarrow]

Ballroom
To say that Eirlys feels out of her depth is something of an understatement. Her dress is far nicer than anything she's ever owned and she keeps shifting the bodice and smoothing out the skirts, partly out of a nervous habit and partly because the fabric feels so luxurious under her fingers. She's made sure to style her hair to make her elven ears as prominent as she can, remembering Anders' advice that she needs to make sure they're as visible as possible within the Inquisition.

The sight of an alienage elf dressed up in such finery has provoked a few comments from the Orlesian nobility, and more than once she's been handed an empty glass under the assumption she's a servant, but she tries not to let it faze her. Mostly she's treated as a novelty - as the dwarves and Qunari and rifters must be too, she supposes - an oddity for the nobles to gawk at and gossip about for a moment - rather than feeling she's making any lasting bold statement about the place of her people both in the Inquisition and in society as a whole.


Servants' Quarters
This is more the party atmosphere she's used to, and when she does manage to break away from the ballroom she feels quite at home -- though the suspicious glances of the elven servants sting her in a way that those of the nobles couldn't, sizing her up in her finery and deciding that she didn't truly belong among them. She tries her best to throw herself into the swing of things nonetheless, recognising the dice game as one she was taught in her teens and quickly winning a sizeable sum of coins. She listens to the music with rapt attention, and when it quiets a little, offers a song from her own alienage in exchange.

Servants' Quarters

[circleprodigy]

Lingering near the dice game but not joining in, Inessa raises a cup to Eirlys as she approves of her latest win. She doesn't want to divert the healer's attention to the music, and so waits until the alienage song is finished. Smiling warmly, she approaches afterward...well, after taking a moment to weave around other, taller, elves. At least the size disparity isn't what it is among humans, but in the excitement of the night, it's easy for her to get bumped around if she's not careful. "That was lovely, Eirlys."

Bethany Hawke || The Ballroom

[sunshinethroughgrey]

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.

[lifeofendurance]

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.

James Norrington | OTA

[judgemewhole]

The Ballroom

It won't be hard to miss Norrington. He is after all, dressed in a formal Templar uniform, with the Templar sword upon his lapel in gold thread. His hair pulled away back, beard trimmed, he looked as much the part of a noble warrior as he possibly could.

Yes, he is here to see and be seen - but mostly he is looking for nobility who is sensitive to the Chantry's efforts, and might be willing to help the Inquisition if they see a familiar face. Failing that, a familiar uniform.

The Outer Gardens

James escapes here after the Ballroom itself becomes far too much for him - but he finds this place shrouded in soft lamplight, and some secrets. Here, things seem to flow a great deal more openly than they did in the ballroom. The Game seems to be in full flow at this part, not just the fancy dress and the fancy talk.

He makes himself available, then, standing at the railing to look out at the open landscape beyond the Winter Palace.

The Outer Gardens

[circleprodigy]

Garahel, immaculate for tonight, pads over to James with Inessa not far behind. His mistress is, for the moment, clad in her usual Grey Warden armor though it gleams thanks to some polishing. Wagging his tail, he woofs quietly up at James. Hi, friend!

"Hello, again. Escaping the ballroom or merely taking a break from it?"

Tyrion Lannister || OTA

[tallasaking]

Everywhere

Did you see that handsome dwarf dressed in red and gold, with curls like wheat and green-blue eyes that shimmer with some hidden joke? He says he's a member of the Merchant Guild. Oh, the charming, slightly tipsy fellow? Yes, he was in the Ballroom the last time I saw him, talking to the Duchess.

Really? I thought he was in the Outer Gardens, speaking to the Commander of the Third Dragoon. He had a lovely red-headed woman with him - I think - was that his wife? Possibly but ...

But wasn't he down in the servant quarters, talking to the cooks about where they could find better copperware? I thought he sold copper.

Wait, I thought all dwarves sold was lyrium. No, no, they sell everything.

So what was he selling?

I ... don't actually remember. But he was very charming - very attentive listener...

Outer Gardens

[anacardiaceae]

Pamelia is not in the ball proper, but one of the servants had pointed out the dwarf to her and she'd watched him flit from person to person with an ease not usually found among those from Orzammar. It made her curious, and there wasn't much else to do be done but satisfy her curiosity, so eventually when he moved from one person to another she caught his eye and smiled.

"Good evening."

Cade Harimann | OTA

[onlyhymns]

Ballroom

The ever-taciturn and nervous Cade stands by a wall on the edge of the festivities, dressed very smartly in a uniform that marks him as both part of the Templar Order and decidedly not a knight. In fact, he is specifically here to act as an albeit impressive-looking valet, a role that he takes seriously and even, in some ways, appreciates. He might have found it degrading a few years ago, but now it's just an excuse to not have to talk to anyone, to be invisible.
And for that reason, he's actually in a relatively good mood, glancing about the room with a pleasant expression and showing no particular signs of beating the shit out of anyone on a whim.

Periodically he attends to one of the Seekers or the Knight-Commander, running small errands for them, getting them refreshments, and so forth.


Servant's Quarters

Being that he's Cade, and nobody important really gives a shit that he's only the aide to the Templars and Seekers, occasionally he is sent on an errand for some other noble or yelled at by an underbutler to go do his job.
In fact, as the night wears on and people get drunker, Cade finds himself playing the part of an actual servant; the irony of this is lost on him, a man who grew up wanting for nothing due to a profoundly wealthy family, on account of how harried and busy he is. Besides, he's not going to just not do what a yelling important person tells him to, he's been trained too well!

He can be found in and out of the kitchens, the servants' passages, and weaving through guests, always with an air of duty and focus about him. It has to be perfect. What does? Well everything. Everything he's being ordered to do, anyway. By everyone.

servant's quarters;

[anacardiaceae]

Pamelia sees this man rushing about, to and fro; she knows he is not one of the servants, because she knows the servants, and thus she's curious.

He also looks like he might collapse under the weight of all that rushing and so she reaches out and touches his elbow, lightly, as he passes by. "Is there anything I can help with? They may yet run you ragged tonight."

Kaisa Daesun | Servant's Quarters

[unbrokenoath]

You couldn't drag Kaisa to where all those Orlesian nobles were gathered, being all...noble and Orlesian. It didn't hurt that she was probably not invited, anyway. Kaisa couldn't even blame someone for thinking better of letting a loud, boisterous berserker attempt to mingle with the nobles and their stifling etiquette.

She's certainly enjoying herself more here, anyway. Not too much, mind you. She takes the role of serving as protection seriously, even if she finds it unlikely for anyone to bother the servants. Her outfit tries to retain a sense of some kind of fancy decor, though it's clearly also something she can fight in, if need be. Reluctantly dutiful to the customs of Orlais, she's even wearing a mask, though having managed to secure a mabari mask soothes some of her wounded pride.

Kaisa freely mingles among the others, dancing without care, either alone or with whatever partner she can grab a hold of, takes plenty of opportunities to sample the food, and even tries her hand at the dice game. One thing that's noticeable, is that she doesn't touch any of the alcohol--a sign of just how seriously she's taking this job.

Feel free to approach her, try to play dice with her, or perhaps be the hapless person that she's chosen as her next dance partner. Just mind your feet.

[circleprodigy]

Great minds think alike, it seems. Inessa's own outfit (once her patrolling is done and she can be convinced to get rid of the armor for a while) is along similar lines, definitely preferring freedom of movement to stifling gowns of the nobles. She tries to avoid wearing a mask at all, but it seems inevitable that someone will catch her and change that. Without her armor, she feels more than a little vulnerable and does her best to hide that fact, trying to seem calm and assured in her demeanor. As far as she's concerned, the young Warden is here to observe and gather information, lingering among the festivities but not truly part of them.

Which means that she ought to be dragged into a dance, right?

Geneviève Lucienne De La Fontaine | OTA

[bouclier]

-Ballroom-

Geneviève does not arrive strictly with the Inquisition, having her own apartments in Halamshiral she was able to maintain, but as this is Orlais and they love to gossip it is known that she has been relocated to Skyhold. Before the war, she would have been part of the retinue guarding the Empress during a party like this, but tonight she is dressed up in green and gold silk, looking far more like the noble-blooded daughter she actually is. In it's usual place on her bodice is the gold and yellow feather pin denoting her as a member of the Empress's military, and the mask she wears also draws the mind to the reality that this is a chevalier and not just some lady dressed in fine clothes. Her fire red curls are piled on top of her head and laced through with gold and green ribbons.

Her dance card she's finding a little annoyingly full, her mother in attendance somewhere out of sight seems to be sending gentlemen over whenever possible, though to their credit they seem more interested in talking about the Inquisition than courting her.

She looks for escape often, and any member of the Inquisition, whether she knows them or not, may find themselves getting grabbed and roped into her escape plans.

-Outer Gardens-

The outer gardens are where Geneviève escapes to when the dancing becomes too much, which really doesn't take long. Here she walks with the familiarity of someone who has spent many hours here, stopping occasionally to speak with a guard she's familiar with or one of the other nobles who has escaped that she is friendly with. She's more approachable out here, although there's also a sense of alertness and anyone approaching her she'll turn to quickly, the fake and polite smile that is so very Orlesian touching her lips out of habit.

"Lovely evening, is it not?"

outer gardens;

[anacardiaceae]

Pamelia notices this woman and the ease at which she speaks to the guards (they recognize her, as well, considering she was the local healer of many of the city elves who live in Halamshiral - but they are not anywhere near as close). Still, the Orlesian does not miss it's mark, and Pamelia curtsies slightly.

"Quite lovely," Comes the Rivaini accent with an incline of her head. Pamelia's dress is not nearly fancy enough for the ball, but helps her stand out from the rest of the help, as it were. "I hope you are enjoying yourself."

Rey | OTA

[provenforce]

-The Ballroom-

Rey is truthfully only here because Obi-Wan suggested it. She would have been much more comfortable outside on patrol, or down with the servers, but here she is. When she is not following along in Obi-Wan's shadow, she's a fixture at the buffet table, a little away from the ballroom itself. She feels a little more comfortable here, and sampling the ridiculous amounts of food is helping with her anxiety towards the whole situation.

If any noble approaches her she's fairly terse and quick to excuse herself, not comfortable speaking with them for too long, lest she give away how badly she doesn't belong here. She wears no mask, as if that didn't make it obvious enough, but the outfit she's dressed in is something finer than anything she's ever worn, even of better quality than what General Organa sent her off with. It's green silk and simple, but she feels like she needs to be careful not to move too quickly in it all the same.

-The Outer Garden-

When the party gets to be overwhelming, which it quickly does, Rey escapes outside. She sits on a bench, watching the people coming and going, the steady green glow from between the curled fingers of her left hand enough to keep all but the most curious nobles away. She's an oddity to them, and she knows it. It annoys her a little, so she tries to block it out, working instead on meditation technique, calming herself and ignoring the outside noise, focusing only on what directly concerns her. While she might look distracted, anyone who approaches her as a result she will immediately look up, as if she sensed their intention to address her before they even have a chance to speak.

outer garden;

[anacardiaceae]

Pamelia is holding two cups (not goblets, not from the party, but cups from the servants quarters) one of which is steaming and smells of faintly of wine but more of spice. She smiles at Rey.

"Would you like something to drink? It won't get you drunk...but it might help you relax a little."

Malcolm Reed

[tactical_alert]

Malcolm has not spent money on a whole new outfit, despite the importance of appearance at the Winter Palace, but he's insisted on alterations. His outfit is still primarily black, broken up with silver clasps and buckles on his close-fitting jacket, the all-seeing eye of the Seekers embroidered in a shimmering black across its back to catch the light. But now his jacket has the addition of sharp coattails, and around his shoulders, a fur-lined piece of leather, the leather also black but the fur dyed a brilliantly deep and royal shade of blue, tied also with a string of silver. An equally blue silken sash is tied around his waist, just a thin piece knotted to the side, the dangling ends giving a flash of color to his movements.

He's left Milady to the kennels to be taken care of, as this is not the setting to be overwhelmingly Fereldan, though his leathers and lack of a mask will give that much away, much less his accent. (He had considered toeing the line with a purple mask, but he settled for tying some purple around Milady's neck, out of the way.)

Thankfully, for as long as he'd spent in Orlais at the Seeker headquarters, he's not ignorant to their ways, and will even on occasion converse in the language. His accent is not impeccable, but for a dog lord? Impressive. He is not here to patrol, but his eyes are keen and ears sharp for any potential incidents or items of interest. He does not often approach anyone for a dance, only doing so mostly for the sake of appearance, but he does more often get over his discomfort and approach people for conversation, gauging interest about the Inquisition, about who people support and why, but doesn't allow himself to get drawn into anything too long or argumentative. At times, he finds himself missing the company of Captain Reynolds, just to spice things up.

It isn't unusual to see him taking leave to take a turn around the inner and outer gardens, though whether it's for the air or to try and catch someone talkative unawares, who really knows.

Seeker Reed is somewhat aloof and exceedingly polite, a dark and intense figure, attentive, Fereldan, fashionable if somewhat outdated. Avoids sausage like the plague. Sticks to lighter, whiter wines.

HI BEST FRIEND

[onlyhymns]

It's not long after Seeker Reed's arrival that Cade appears, looking so dapper in his Templar-themed-but-decidedly-not-combat-oriented formalwear. He offers a quick salute and a duck of the head, smiling in a faint and hopeful way as he explains that he's at the Seeker's disposal if he should need anything throughout the evening. He's not their butler of course, he's still just their assistant, but he might not be offended by the comparison.

Mia Rutherford

[lettersfromhome]

She isn't generally much for frippery and fancy dress. Those realms are more comfortably explored by her younger sister Rosalie, who always dreamed of seeing sights the likes of which Mia was likely to see tonight. There's a pang of homesickness in that, though she promises herself to write every detail down for her sister's benefit.

The Winter Palace. It's Orlesian nobility, royalty, and altogether out of her realm of experience. But Cullen has important business here, and she won't put that in danger by throwing the court into scandal over letting some roughened Ferelden peasant on their doorstep. Musn't get dirt on their precious marble steps, can they? So she does her best to present well. Silks and brocade in red and gold and more or less Orlesian fashion, though it pinches her waist something awful. There's also a pendant at her throat, of Antivan make, in plain view with this low neckline. Maker help her.

Ballroom

While no retiring wallflower, Mia is not eager to step onto the dance floor and be picked apart by these vultures. There is very much a sense of constantly being watched and appraised. All she can do is keep her chin up and make polite small talk when necessary. It's frustrating. It's tedious. And the punch isn't nearly spicy enough to take the edge off.

Still, if asked, she might concede to a dance or two, if only to relieve her absolute boredom, or spare her from the gaze of yet another noble trying to size her up.


The Outer Gardens

While still not precisely comfortable, Mia does feel she can breathe a little easier out here. The night is beautiful, the flowers fragrant, and the feeling of being closed in a gilded cage starts to loosen. She even manages to find a queer little coin lying about, the purpose of which if she understands correctly is to toss into the exquisite looking fountain over there near the trellis.

Well, why not? Turning the coin over in her hands, she contemplates a wish to make.

outer gardens

[alankazam]

“I didn’t think they paid us to attend,”

Alan leans a careful distance back, the distance less polite than it is uncertain. He swipes the damp bangs from his forehead, peering to see. There’s a matching coin in his own hands.

“Or are these for the servants, do you think?” A beat, as he remembers to be polite: “Mademoiselle.”

It’s a mangled pronunciation.

servant's quarters; outer gardens; ota

[anacardiaceae]

The Rivaini mage is dressed in a somewhat simple cream and gold gown with lovely lines; her mask, while not too ornate, works well with the dress. Hair uncovered and unpinned, the red curls are a veritable riot among her shoulders and behind the mask.

She does not go to the ballroom - not because she is worried about making a fuss, but because she is elven, mage, and foreign to boot, and besides which the help knows her. Thus, Pamelia can be found most of those first few hours in the servant's quarters, catching up with various other elves and treating children who've fallen ill or just missed her in general since the last time she was at Halamshiral.

Occasionally she can also be found wandering the outer gardens, looking out for familiar and unfamiliar faces alike, smiling courteously from behind her mask.

outer gardens

[tactical_alert]

The hair is the dead giveaway if nothing else. Malcolm hasn't spoken to anyone on the last operation since they returned from the estate, or at least he hasn't spoken directly of the events. Not anyone but Anders who felt it prudent to thank him for the assistance of Milady, at least.

It's no surprise he hasn't seen her all night until now, of course. An elven Rivaini mage, who clearly is not the biggest fan of...people, as far as he could tell? Better to not be around the ballroom. Out here, with the cool fresh air and more space between bodies, quieter, he can give himself a few moments to unwind from the chaos inside. He gives Pamelia a nod on spying her.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks with a grim smirk.

Morrigan | the ballroom; ota

[arcaneadvisor]

Of course the gown makes a grand reappearance for the first time since the ball held in Skyhold so many months ago; dark in the Orlesian court though more than a few followed suit though going without the mask?

Perhaps a rare few can get away with that, and tonight there's always a whisper in Morrigan's wake, one that seems far louder than in Skyhold or perhaps it's simply the absence that has her noticing it now. The arcane advisor makes her return to court after her rather extended sojourn with the Inquisition, is it for good or is it for ill? (Of course that's a hot topic of debate amongst them, but it does tend to go very quiet when Morrigan herself sweeps past, her smile somewhere between a sneer and a snarl, daring them to say more.)

There are offers to dance, as there always are from this one and that one. They are all sent on their way as she holds the wine simply for something to do with her hands. It wouldn't do, she thinks, to go idly throwing a spell. Not so early in the evening at least.

[hattergonnahat]

Arcane advisor. Sounds important, doesn't it? He knows she holds some sort of position at Skyhold, though the information available about her is scarce, to say the least.

Well. One way to see about changing that.

Jefferson sidles in at some point early in the evening with a drink of his own, casting his eyes over the woman. She reminds him at least vaguely of Regina, though that could just be the magic and the preference for romantic gothic attire. He can swallow his initial distaste long enough to flash her a smile.

"Bored already?"

Beleth Ashara | Ballroom

[arlathvhen]

Beleth is one of the few Dalish who managed to secure an invitation into the ball proper, thanks in no small part to being a bard training under the Nightingale. She is, however, bound and determined to show that not only does she belong here as much as any other guest, but that she can thrive in this environment. The nobles aren't making it easy--Beleth's vallaslin isn't completely covered by her mask, and it's obvious to anyone who gets close enough that she's a Dalish.

The reactions vary, but with the pressure on everyone to behave, most who are ardently against a Dalish being among them choose to simply avoid her--including stopping conversations and turning their back to stomp off as soon as she gets close to them. She's not sure if that's better or worse than the people who treat her like a dancing bear, procured for them to be entertained by her acting like a real people. But no matter what they throw at her, Beleth is all sweet smiles and sweeter words. This is a test that she must pass to continue along her path to becoming a bard, and she will overcome it.

Main Ballroom
Here in the ballroom proper, Beleth moves along the sides of the room, mingling with what groups of other guests will allow her amongst them. She does more listening than talking, attention rapt as she tries to see what she can glean from the idle chatter. When she's not listening to gossip, she's watching the dancers on the floor, eyes intent on their movements. While she's fairly confident that she has the dances memorized, it can never hurt to get a chance to see them in action to further understand them.

She's open to being approached for chatter, or requests for dance. Alternatively, once or twice during her time in the room, she ducks out to the balcony to have some respite from everything.

Inner Garden
She was truly lucky, to have an opportunity to be able to play her music here. She's quite content to have it be off to the side like this, and settles on a bench with her lute to gently pluck away at it. To match the calmer atmosphere of the gardens, she leans towards ambiant music, slow and peaceful. When she does sing, her songs are mostly mushy love songs, a safe choice for the evening.

She's open to requests for songs, or she can be approached when she takes breaks to stretch her fingers and sip water.

in the ballroom --

[visus]

"They find you intriguing."

A young maid, with her golden hair piled high on her head, sweeps up to Beleth, before she can exit the ballroom. She is dressed in a gown that looks as if it has been spun from gold sugar, fine filigrees that twine up into a collar that coils high around her pale bare throat.

Her mask is matte gold, with a flat nosepiece and high cut eyes that make her look rather feline. She nods toward the group of noblemen that she has just left, all of whom stand in a small knot beside a pillar, engaged in conversation. They are not looking at Beleth.

The maid cocks her head. "Do you find yourself intriguing?"

Corvo Attano | Patrol or Ballroom

[watchesandlistens]

Well, this was familiar, wasn't it? A ball that tried to put a mask not just on the guests, but on the fact that the country was falling down around their ears. At least this one, from the sounds of it, was making some attempt to fix things.

Corvo was almost tempted to wear his old mask to this, but he got the impression that Orlesians would not find it quite as amusing as the nobles of Dunwall. His mask of choice instead is much more restrained, though it reveals far more of his face. But Corvo's expression might as well have been a mask, impassive as he moves around the crowd. He's clearly not here for the mingling, back straight and eyes sharp, watching for any troublemakers. He's tense, waiting for a strike that everyone is sure will fall, and occasionally reaches to the place that his sword usually hung--confiscated for now, unfortunately.

He takes a position on the side of one of the stairs, watching people come and go. As he watches a giggling couple slide past him, he breathes out a quiet sigh and murmurs under his breath. "Just missing the guestbook for me to sign." Though it wouldn't leave quite as much of an impression here, would it?

Corvo's rounds also take him to various other locations in and outside of the Winter Palace, and anyone can approach him while he's diligently watching for trouble.

Patrol

[circleprodigy]

Completely flouting the dress code for now, Inessa remains in her (carefully polished) Grey Warden armor. Likewise, there is no mask on her face, a quiet signalling of her disinterest in the Game. Let others handle such affairs; it's not as though an elven mage would be welcome in the ballroom and definitely not her mabari companion. Garahel, immaculately clean despite his pitiful whining earlier, remains at her side while she patrols the area. He spots Corvo before Inessa does, and heads over at a brisk pace. There is no loud barking from him, as his mistress has impressed on him the need for a code of conduct similar to the library. She's not going to give the Winter Palace an excuse to throw him out.

Cassandra Pentaghast

[stabsbooks]

The Ballroom

Cassandra is as uncomfortable in court as ever, and though she had won some small victories against Vivienne and her team of tailors - both her dress and her shoes are as modest and practical as they can be without crossing the line into prudish or, Maker forbid, unstylish - it is still a dress, and shoes no one should be forced to think of, much less wear.

That duke is staring at her again, though he is pretending not to. When she turns to stare back, he turns red, beads of sweat visible from his face even from her position halfway across the room.

"Ugh." She turns away from him, just barely hiding her repulsed expression. "If he dares ask for my hand - "

Well, she can't be held responsible for what she'll do then, that's all.

Outer Gardens

It is impossible to forget that she is in Orlais, even here. But the gardens are slightly less oppressive than the ballroom - at least she feels as though she can breathe without every movement of her ribs under her dress being scrutinized and judged by players of the Game. She looks up at the sky, trying to estimate the time from the position of the moons. Maker, but it already feels like this night has gone on forever.

Perhaps she can find a brawl to settle. Surely even Vivienne and Leliana could not fault her for stepping in to end a fight. And if her dress happens to be ruined in the process...well, it's all for the good of the Inquisition's reputation.

[apostasia]

In Orlais, Martel settles easily under the weight of being Lord Leblanc, who cleans up nicely in sleek black and silver, Leblanc-blue lining the cloak that hangs from one shoulder. Hair blackened and tidied, it's the cane he leans upon (more genuinely than he'd like to admit) that lends him a distinguished gentleman's air and makes for something of a conversation piece. He handles inquiries deftly, enough tales of the Venatori to thrill and unsettle without making anyone truly uncomfortable -

He is, though, after a short and sharp exchange with a Leblanc attache (one whose face may be familiar to those who encountered him as he came to Skyhold with an eye to seeing Adelaide tidily married, the family looking to strike while the iron is hot with the new order of things for mages); it is a discomfort that lingers as he works his jaw and manages only through long experience to dismiss the man without drawing attention to it.

A hint of a jewel gleams in his hand before he tucks whatever he'd been given in his doublet and takes a glass of red wine from a passing server without pause. It is not going to do anything to dissuade his family from their convictions, probably, when he steps casually to block the duke's line of sight with his own broad shoulders.

Araceli Bonaventura, ota;

[foxsays]

the ballroom;
No longer requiring her cane, Araceli moves more comfortably through the Winter Palace than she's moved anywhere in some time; the mask and gown are both new, and if her hand attracts attention then she can suffer it. The Nightingale warned her and in a way, how is it so very different to being the common lowborn girl thrown at the nobility back home where they all have their ideas, for better or for worse?

Unlike the last party in Skyhold, Araceli dances with a smile on her face whenever she's asked and if her leg starts to hurt then isn't that a good excuse to have a moment alone with someone? Part of her almost looks for the rest of the guard from home, expecting to spy them but that's ridiculous, they won't miraculously be here, but she relaxes into the atmosphere like she belongs because didn't she spend a year carving out a space in one world and now a year carving out one in Thedas? Why shouldn't she if she remembers her lessons?

Tonight she forgoes the drinking whenever she can though, nursing a glass of wine for as long as possible or palming it off on the nearest person if she finds herself with it because listening to rumours and gossip and keeping them straight isn't something you can do so well if you start getting drunk.

inner garden;
Shard in her hand or not, Araceli still looks and sounds the part of an Antivan to some and that means the odd request for a song someone heard once or twice in their youth. On their travels, you understand, or however that story goes as she settles her gown carefully on the bench. It's a good way to watch people too, and if anyone is in need of a distraction or to sit for a moment and know they won't be hounded? Well here she is, her lute is your shield.

Now and again there's a request - some close to a challenge, others a fluttering intrigue - for something from beyond the rifts, it would be so splendid, to hear what music they have from such places.

ballroom

[arlathvhen]

A rifter and a Dalish, what an odd pair of bards they make.

Beleth spots Araceli easily enough (the glowing hand does help with that) and weaves through the crowd to her side. "Araceli! I'm glad to see you in better health--and looking beautiful, as well." She reaches out to rest her hand affectionately on Araceli's arm, giving her a gentle squeeze, before turning to look at the rest of the ballroom.

"This is really it, isn't it? The Winter Palace. I can hardly believe it." And back to Araceli, shaking her head. "How is the Maid on the Shore enjoying the night? I hope no one's given you any trouble about being a rifter."