faderift | OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART I

OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART I

WHO: Open to all
WHAT: The War of the Lions comes to a head with tense peace negotiations scheduled for a grand Winter Palace ball
WHEN: This is forward dated to ~~Firstfall 30~~ Wintermarch 15. This post covers only the first few hours of the event, Part II will be posted in the coming days with the next stage.
WHERE: the Winter Palace, Halamshiral, Orlais
NOTES: Please make sure to read the OOC Post for more info!

The Inquisition's encampment at Halamshiral has grown to be a second home for some, having remained on the estate grounds outside the city for several months now. The field full of tents and campfires is quiet tonight, a large contingent having made their way to the famed Winter Palace to attend the evening's ball. It's not just a party, of course: it's also a venue for much-needed negotiations between Empress Celene and her challenger cousin, Grand Duke Gaspard. All of Orlais' highest and mightiest have gathered to see if tonight the War of the Lions will finally come to an end.

The Inquisition's role is not entirely clear. Some consider them mediators and peacekeepers, and it's true they've done their best thus far to safeguard the citizens of Orlais without overtly choosing a side in the conflict. But others see them as a foreign force marched into the heart of the nation en masse and fear some sort of coup may be in the offing. The Empress and the Grand Duke remain politely wary, but have agreed to allow Inquisition agents to assist with event security. Patrols rove the grounds (and, more discreetly, inside the palace), made up of small teams of Imperial guardsmen, chevaliers, and Inquisition members. It's a risky decision, pairing up people who have been on opposite sides of a war for the last year, with only the agents of a controversial religious(??) order as a buffer. The atmosphere is tense, everyone on edge waiting to see where the first blow will be struck--and by whom.

The Ballroom

The ballroom glitters, lit with hundreds of candles in sconces on the walls, bundled on stands, dangling from elaborate chandeliers. There are even servants assigned to circulate about the dancefloor carrying trees of slowly-dripping candles, the better to allow guests to appreciate their partners' finery or critique their neighbors' steps.

There's plenty of critiquing going around, whether from the couples daintily spinning and mincing about the sunken dance floor or the crowds milling about the mezzanine above them. Fashion and flirtation are the hot topics of the day, as ever, but there is an undercurrent of tension not usually present at such events. Many of the hushed conversations are about troop movements or Tevinter plots, destroyed lands and dead chevaliers. Nothing can quite make an Orlesian extravaganza somber, but no amount of wine and music can completely erase awareness of the war that has brought them here tonight, or the uncertainty about what will come of it. As a precaution the guards have confiscated all weapons at the door, but there is less rowdy behavior than one might expect, a combination of many young men having gone off to battle, and most of the people who remain preferring to remain on their best behavior in this trying time. Guests who do not do the same will be quickly and fiercely shunned.

But not all choose to spend their time worrying, and if it is not as carefree an affair as usual it is still most definitely a party atmosphere. Much of the laughter and chatter and fan-fluttering is as genuine as ever, flowery compliments and veiled insults abound, the food is plentiful and delicious, carried about in great piles by servants dressed entirely in gold. The wine is even better, flowing freely from the mouths of a multitude of sculpted lions (which grace the arms of both Celene and Gaspard). The music is brisk and upbeat, provided by a large contingent near the dance floor and several smaller clusters tucked about the venue.

The vestibule is quieter, aside from the constant cries of the heralds announcing each arrival. Conversation continues out here at a steady hum, but the music is more distant, the air less thick with perfume and intrigue. Beyond that are the Inner Gardens, where pairs and small parties circulate between elaborate hedges and topiaries on paths paved with delicate pieces of seashell that glow faintly in the moonlight. Many come and go as the night continues, taking the air as a respite from the crowd and candles inside or using that as an excuse to sneak off for torch-lit liaisons.

The Outer Gardens

The Outer Gardens are still ornamental but less intricately landscaped than the Inner: hedges are lower, topiary larger but less detailed. The torches are more numerous here, the better to highlight arrivals. Carriages of all sorts draw up one by one to the gilded iron gate, footmen in powdered wigs rolling out steps and assisting the passengers as they disembark. Other servants clad in simple lion masks scurry about, taking charge of coats and capes, delivering drinks for those who cannot wait even for the time it takes to walk inside, delivering news to the heralds and consoling those who arrive just behind a larger party and are forced to wait their turn in line to be announced.

The Imperial Guard are present inside, too, but subtly; here they are present in obvious numbers, breastplates shining, resplendent in purple and yellow surcoats, with matching plumes jutting from their helms. They watch each entering personage carefully, collecting weapons from all, no matter how exalted their position. Inquisition agents pass through the area as well, pairs accompanying guardsmen on their rounds through the gardens or up on the palace walls.

Some noble guests even linger here, the shy or the unpopular (or the too-popular), or those for whom even the Inner Garden has grown too crowded, spilling out to catch the cool evening breeze on a wine-flushed face or to continue a conversation too serious to have interrupted by tittering. It is still noble territory, that is clear, but it isn't entirely unusual to see a lady engage a guard in banter as he passes, or a lord stop a servant to inquire after inside information on her mistress.

The Servant's Quarters

Earlier the servants' quarters was a roil of activity, stoves loaded with pots boiling and pans sizzling, trays laden with food, casks rolled out full and back in empty with alarming frequency. But now the fountains are filled and the food all cooked and plated, delivered to tables and staging areas, leaving the vast majority of the staff at their leisure. And while the nobles are occupied across the gardens with their ball, that means it's time for a party here, too.

The rooms are packed, from kitchens and sculleries to dining halls and normal halls, store rooms, boot rooms, everywhere. The servants at Halamshiral have nearly all gathered except for the unfortunate number tasked with serving at the ball itself, and their numbers are nearly doubled by the presence of numerous Inquisition agents and outside retainers whose noble bosses are busy spending their visit dancing and gossiping. That's most of what's happening here, too, with a band playing loud and fast in the servants' hall, tables and chairs pushed back against the walls and piled up to make room for a dance floor. In other rooms, wine flows and food is piled high, leftovers from the ball and anything not quite perfect enough to serve to the upper crust.

The place is full to bursting, hot and noisy and raucous, the floors sticky with spilled ale. A dice game spills out from the cheese room, couples neck and giggle among the tall shelves of bottles in the wine cellar, a group of laughing young men dart among the crowd stealing masks off faces and replacing them with different ones, a cluster steps out in the courtyard to share a pipe beside ladies maids having a whispered argument about whose employer wore it better.

Please note: This post covers only the first few hours of the party, not the entire night. There will be a second post going up in the next week that will cover the conclusion of the event, so please make sure not to assume too far into the future in your threads here. Please make sure to also read the OOC Post for more info on who can attend which party and how we're using comment counts here to determine the outcome of the civil war.

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"The responses would be entertaining, to be sure. But perhaps another time, when the pressure isn't on us." Then again, when isn't it? Inessa pats Garahel, who bumps up against her affectionately. "Garahel will like that. He knows that unless we're patrolling, he'll have to return to the kennels. No mabari are allowed in the servants' quarters, either."

There's a soft, mournful noise at that. No begging for scraps from him.

Grand. She can only imagine what she's going to hear from her idiot brother about this later -

"Keep walking, Marcellin," without pausing. The proposal to leave her with someone (with Marcellin, ugh, she's never going to hear the end of this) like she's a child or a dog that can't be unattended, she does not dignify with a response; walks away from both of them without a backwards glance.

"Chin up, old son," Marcellin suggests, cheerfully, as he leaves: "She's like that with everyone."

"What is this 'we'?" he says, pretending affront but sparing a smile for the Orlesian lady when she dares include him in her. "You expect me to drag you about the room?"

Comic as the thought is, there's violence coming. There has to be-- this Empress and her cousin are in the same room for the first time since the war began, and neither will turn down the chance to make mischief. He would rather be over prepared than under. But enough of musing on such things. Thranduil sets down his empty glass on a nearby table, and acknowledges the woman with a graceful bow, a few degrees shallower than propriety calls for.

"And it is a delight to be a guest, lady...?" Carefully waiting for her to finish the sentence for him.

He did not intend to encourage the fracturing of the mask Maia wears so well, but is confident enough that the younger elf will not mind for the moments it takes him to regather and reapply his composure.

"If you began with this and ended with peace, you have done well. How long did it take for your to-- let us call it 'grasp the reins'." He, too, looks out over the dance floor, and ties a glamour about them. Just for a moment, just so they won't be overheard.

He considers Maia with a critical eye, all the layers of fabric and shining jewels. Thranduil begins to speak, pauses, and then acts with a bit more surety. "If a fight breaks out tonight, where do you intend to go?"

"Not at all," he demures. "Have you seen Maia this night? Another Rifter? He shines. You ought to meet him, my dear, if you have not already."

Thranduil listens to her speech, then lays his hand over hers on the rail, giving it a small squeeze before withdrawing. He considers reminding her she isn't really a guest at all, calling her attention to the name of the city. She's already running hot enough tonight, and he does not want her to make mistakes. She wants to be a bard-- she is a bard. He cannot tell her anything she does not already know.

"I wish you well, Beleth. I will be close at hand tonight-- take no risks without notifying someone of what you intend to do. Too many elves disappear, and I would not lose you."

He would be happy to discuss the cut of her gown if she asked, he's shocked to find that she may indeed feel the cold-- as evidenced by this rising neckline as temperatures drop, but most of the wit cools off his tongue once she makes clear her mood.

"Four," he says, and flags down a server, a Man, who does his best to avoid Thranduil's attentive stare until it sharpens. He plucks a glass of whatever it is off the tray and offers it to Morrigan, the consummate gentleman. "But is is not as if I have been doing the approaching-- why, my lady? Has someone offended you?"

It's hard for the delight not to spark in his eyes at that. It's always such a delight to see another getting a tongue lashing rather than yourself.

He closes his eyes, exhales, pleads with Iluvatar for patience beyond the measure normally allotted to him, and turns to follow Gwenaëlle after allowing her enough of a head start. Thranduil comes from behind, steps to her right, following along sedately, hands folded behind his back.

"Am I truly so offensive, my lady? What about me is so repugnant?" Thranduil's voice is soft, genuine. He can guess a few of them, but she won't give voice to them, he thinks.

There is something she has to like about him. Occasionally, he sees it. She hasn't wholly avoided him; at times she's seemed to like him, and it's that which he pursues.

Sansa has a rather nice dress that she's altered from one she's bought secondhand, a rich red trimmed in gold. It's a bit much for someone meant to be a servant, it's true, but Sansa has consoled herself with the thought that a servant meant to serve drinks to lords should be dressed in fine clothes.

"Tyrion? Might you have a moment to share a drink with your wife?"

"We've simply run out of things to discuss," she says, her own hands clasped in front of her, walking through the gardens as if she hopes to discover where she's going when she gets there. "I haven't got anything left to say to you."

It isn't a lie, is the problem.

The things she can't say hang ugly and uncomfortable in the silences between them, and Gwenaëlle doesn't have it in her to pretend that they don't, that she can just ignore them and smile when he speaks to her of other things. It will always be there, a shadow underneath everything else, and she can't do it. Speaking with him in the manor after Guenievre had shown her that; being expected to pretend all was well and speak of inconsequential things had only made her feel sick and lonely.

She has been angry with him, that's true, but also true is that a part of her is angry with him for things that are no fault of his own - she had taken comfort in his company, once, and now she can't, now the ways he tries to offer can only hurt her. The unfairness of it lodges too deeply to make him anything but a sharp reminder that she's always going to have failed someone.

"Wrought," she concedes, with a shrug for whether or not she's done much sitting - no, naturally not. It isn't a comfortable dress to wear; the gown beneath the exterior is tightly corseted, and the exquisitely designed fire-hazard attaches in several interlocking places to the waist of said corset, bearing its weight down on her hips and leaving bruises to find when she finally takes the entire mess of it off.

It isn't as difficult to take off as it is complicated to put on, which is a small mercy. It certainly makes the prospect of undressing for bed probably the most appealing thing she's looking forward to all night.

"Everything's a tactic tonight, Bellamy."

"Not always," He admits. Pretty can be nice. "But I don't like the practicality here. It's like bright colours on a snake."

And the Inquisition holding each end of its jaws. Alan doesn't understand the complexity behind this conflict — someone tried to explain, on the ride out, but it might as well have been in Tevene for all the sense it made.

He offers the coin out, the side of his mouth crooking a little.

"What would you do with it, if you had one to lose?"

Alan rolls onto his belly quickly, content to let her win. After a few moments of play he shakes himself back up to long legs, sniffs carefully at Malcolm's hands. It's tough to remember all the things that he's supposed to right now, the bits of it that matter, but:

Soap, sweat, the dirt of minor travel. Dogs. Food nearby, torches, A half dozen other things, none of them lyrium, none the sharp acrid tang he's come to associate with shards of the Fade. Safe enough, then.

He barks once — as wild wolves don't — and turns, looking over his shoulder expectantly to Malcolm. He seems to be waiting, paw raised to step further back into the darkness of the kennels beyond. His ears are pricked sharp; If Malcolm listens too, they'll both hear a faint whine from the path ahead.

"The clothes tell them about people?" He doesn't really understand the Game, has worked out enough to realize it isn't dice or cards, and promptly lost a deal of interest. "What do you think they'd say about you?"

He straightens suddenly, whispering conspiratorially.

"We should go find out."

He's trying to drag Jamie. Thankfully, his balance is about shot.

"Did they? Oh, that's good." Alan sags a little, with plain relief. "There were these ladies, talking about that earlier. It seems that it's better if there are a lot of shiny things sewed on. I thought maybe that's what these coins were for,"

He holds up a caprice coin, then offers it out to her.

"But no one else is wearing them, so that can't be it. You ought to have it, it'll match much better. It shines like your eyes."

He smiles, crooked but genuine. Elves are so lucky; they must be seeing so much more of the party.

Nodding, Kain can't help but pout a little at an opportunity missed. Not just because he wants to piss off nobles, but because he'd... really liked the time they'd danced back at Skyhold. He'd like more of that. "Good, then let's go on patrol for a little while, all three of us." He looks at Garahel. "Remind me to sneak back in and bring you some food later."

Not that he's the best at 'sneak' ever, but he'd be able to grab and bring him something, he's sure of it.

"Ah, and perhaps a bottle of the good wine for us to share. I think I could manage that too." That's directed at Inessa, of course.

"Only the one," He notes, with unexpected gravity. That probably means it's a joke. Maybe. "You've got good eyes too. My grandmother, she used to tell stories, about people with eyes like that."

Yellow eyes, wolf eyes. Witch eyes. He really is in his cups.

"Have you tried stacking them, yet? The breadsticks, with the, the yellow fish stuff in between."

"My grandmother," He begins, ponderously. "Had something like that. She burned it when she came to us."

Elene drew the staff for him once, a mass of curving lines in the dirt, branches twisted up as though alive. Alan shakes his head.

"If the elves of old were watching, I'm sure they wouldn't mind. It's sad. But it's a beautiful song. It became that song, too."

The slight crook of a smile.

"And maybe that will plant something in them." He gestures loosely to the room beyond. "Another sort of connection."

"I should dye mine," He reflects, as though his ears, skin, or gender wouldn't give him away. "I didn't think I'd be drunk, I just..."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, and winces. After a moment, he blinks it away. Two years of avoiding civilization, and your tolerance goes to total shit.

"You've been here before, though? You know this place?"

Alan sounds a little surprised, despite himself. Pam's been so easy to talk to, it's easier still to forget she didn't just spring into being.

Yellow eyes, like the girl before. It catches him off-guard. His grandmother told stories about eyes like that — fables far out of place now, bathed in lowland finery. Alan blinks.

"They put the sun on everything," He comments, regaining himself with a hesitant smile. The Chantry's symbols haven't been in as great evidence here as in Skyhold, but that's like saying that there are fewer deep mushrooms in one cave than another. "You'd think they'd heed it."

"If tonight will be as interesting as I suspect, that wine will be needed." Inessa starts them off as Garahel woofs quietly, happy at the thought of more food. "Only after all is secure, of course. I don't know how much you think I can safely put away, but the answer is very little." Being a literal lightweight, Inessa tries to avoid anything alcoholic, especially by itself. But if there's ever a night to drive them to drink, this could be it.

"I can't be held responsible for the unwary," Gwenaëlle says, prompt, warming openly for perhaps the first time this evening - and she is lovely when she does. It softens her father, in turn, as conscious as he is that her ease when Morrigan appears is in spite of his presence and not because of it. It suits him to see her smiling, whatever prompts it, and he knows well he owes this woman gratitude he strongly suspects she wouldn't take from him.

Emeric does not take offense at what many courtiers here no doubt think of as Morrigan's attitude (--as if he has another word for it himself); he is not terribly surprised at being snubbed, for one thing, though they've never so directly crossed paths. She is rather well-known here and it's not for being friendly and approachable and having so much time for the denizens of the court she has deigned to grace with her presence. It isn't a general tendency to soft-hearted tolerance on his part, but a combination of fatherly pride and the inclination to maneuver on his daughter's behalf - it suits him very well for a woman of this caliber to be seen choosing his Gwenaëlle's company over others.

Not a gambit without its risks, granted, but Gwenaëlle moves in increasingly rarefied circles, since her relocation. If this Luthor boy means anything serious by his courtship, she might be well out of Orlais indefinitely before long; if she must leave at all, he'd rather she do it breezily, as if she never needed any of them, perhaps arm in arm with such a stunning creature as this one.

"What terrifying beauty I behold this evening," he says, amused, and when he is sober and sharp it is obvious to the observant from the way that he moves and holds himself to the alert intelligence in his eyes that he is not, in fact, the fool he so tolerantly plays for the audience. (Gwenaëlle and her father have a great deal more in common than she would comfortably care to admit.) "Quite the privilege. My lady."

And it is with all of this in mind that he sketches Morrigan a respectful bow - easily done, no grudged thing forced by the knowledge of at whose elbow she stands. Empress Celene's opinions on her court may or may not much matter by the end of the night, and he doubts very much that that will be a terrible setback for her arcane advisor, should that very worst thing come to pass. Her smile is a terrible thing, but it pleases him no end: of course she would look so at his daughter. Of course she would be so proud of her. She is right to be.

He is.

It is not his fault that Orlesians, for the most part, set his teeth on edge. With all the masks and secrets and the like, it is nearly impossible to know who is being serious - and who is taking the proverbial piss off the side of the battlements.

Right now he's not sure what he finds more distracting, Gwen and her sleeveless, rather ... cumbersome looking gown, or the fact that her father actually seems like a bit of a heckler. "Oh? Am I about to be bored into fashionable shoes and the like? Or is this another round of 'Tweak the Templar'?"

Interceptor snap the treat from mid-air, before puffing out his chest a little. He knows very well he can pass any sort of test - he is his James's Interceptor after all. He lolls his tongue at Garahal, barking in turn, as if in ready agreement.

James shook his head slightly, "You two are incorrigible. Shall we, Inessa?"

He gives her a warm smile, for what it might of lacked in social grace, it was made up for in honest sincerity. He slipped over to her side, effectively boxing them together so they wouldn't be trod upon by some hapless, masked fellow.

"Now that is just ridiculous - you've always been lovely, Eirlys. The gown merely accents that." He stated firmly, one hand folding behind his back,
"In fact, I was going to make sure you hadn't been bothered."

The bright snap of flames atop this spire had caught Bellamy's eye. He had seen it from where he was keeping watch in the courtyard--not that he was keeping watch for this, exactly, but he had watched the flames only for a few moments before he gave in to the wary feeling prickling at the back of his neck. Not large enough to be an accident, and not small enough to be just a torch, and if nothing else, investigating would be better than standing around.

Wariness had only increased when his path had converged with Beleth's, just a few moments ago, also on the way up to investigate. Even the briefest pleasantries had fallen by the wayside in favor of getting to the top of the spire and seeing what had either caught or been set on fire.

And now this: three elves just below the way up. And one elf pinned to the wall. Bellamy's steps slow with a measure of, yes, wariness; his hand strays to his side out of habit, reaching for his sword.

"What's going on?"

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Page 9 of 24

OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART I

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Re: Tyrion Lannister || OTA

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it kills me that they're not playing cards so i can't say AND A GOOD HAND and lay down a flush

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