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

[glandival]

"No," the elf gasps out, breath short, wiggling all the more as Sabine unrepentently frisks and invades his pockets with the efficiency of someone who has either done this sort of thing before or, alternatively, has been on the other end of it. It's why she's able to divest him of a small blade, no bigger than one's palm, hidden up his sleeve beneath a secret seam, and up the other, a small vial. It's when she takes this that the elf bucks in protest, violent enough to smack his own forehead accidentally off the wall he's squished against.

Sabine is catching her own breath back as she untwists the vial, about to bring it up to smell -- but she doesn't have to. It's semi-sweet, potent-poison scent is almost instantly detectable, and she caps it again in a hurry.

"Don't let him go," she says, snapping a look up to Thranduil, conflict clear in her eyes. It would be best if she were alone. She is, however, smaller than the elf pinned to the wall, as much as she is loathe to ask for help.

[nonsibi]

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?"

[arlathvhen]

This was what a bard was supposed to do, right? Investigate strange fires and strange happenings around the palace. A small part of her wondered if this was some trial that Leliana was putting her through yet again, and she's not sure if she would rather it be that or something more serious, but with far more of a chance of actual consequences.

The fact that she runs into a human who looks just as worried about this as she does not bode well for this being a little diversion Leliana put together. Beleth murmurs something that sounds vaguely like an apology for her indiscretion as she hikes up her dress and pulls a dagger from the voluminous depths of the skirts, all while racing up the spire.

When they arrive at the scene, she stays slightly behind Bellamy, ever willing to let the meatshields do their thing as she takes in the situation that they've quite nearly literally stumbled into. She doesn't say anything yet, as Bellamy has asked the only question that currently needs asking, and instead focuses on the area around them, eyes darting around and behind her to make sure that they're the only interlopers here.

Well, at least she found a situation that bards definitely handle, so. Gold star to her for that, she supposes. Now she just needs to figure out what the heck to do next.

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil doesn't need to lean in to pitch his voice low. "I do not like being lied to, friend."

Sabine's doing a lovely job of stripping him of whatever sharp things he intended on hiding away, and Thranduil feels much safer once she's done her job, but he keeps dandelion pressed again the wall, minding that he doesn't try and yank his arms free of Thranduil's grip. The little vial makes his eyes narrow, and he has a question or two, but at the sound of footsteps he looks in that direction.

His mouth is in a hard line until Beleth also appears, for whom he summons a smile.

"Good evening." Thranduil inclines his head in the direction of the young male. "Merely a friendly discussion. Nothing a shemlen would need to be concerned with."

[glandival]

At the arrival of more footsteps, Sabine-- is extremely conscious of the fact she is holding a knife and some kind of mysterious substance in a secret vial in both of her hands. Her impulse is to throw incriminating items out a window, or into the shadows, but it's necessary to hold onto them, to bring them to--

--and then it's much too late anyway, merely bringing her hands down to disguise the items in the folds of her skirt, lamely, by the time Bellamy shadows in the doorway.

"He--"

Sabine catches herself, uncertain if she's willing to vouch for Bellamy in spite of knowing him a little better than most shems. Something about fighting alongside them instead of fighting against them. Her eyes flicker to Beleth, and the veining Dalish tattoos that curl just visible beyond her mask, and it's not that she distrusts her more. It's just a whole other set of qualifications that have her tense up, wary.

Dandelion, meanwhile, wheezes a protest, struggling, but struggling less than before. It snaps Sabine back to the present, before she points with the little dagger.

"Come in, then. Close that door." Better to handle this rather than have anyone running off, she figures, a glance sideways at Thranduil. Not exactly apology.

[nonsibi]

Given the choice, Bellamy would trust members of the Inquisition over Orlesians any day. Obeying Sabine's order will put him in a roomful of elves: one who he sort of knows, one tall one that Gwen is maybe fond of who's just dismissed him, one with Dalish tattoos, if Beleth follows the command as well. And the last elf still, noticeably, pinned to the wall. Bellamy looks from the captive elf to Tharanduil--then to the knife Sabine is holding, and then at her. It's a quick but methodical round of looking as he weighs out the situation.

Then he steps aside so Beleth can enter the scene proper, and so the door can be closed.

"Seems like the kind of conversation anyone would be interested in." So.

[arlathvhen]

Beleth is, in fact, contemplating running off--not out of any particular fear, but she's fairly sure that whatever is happening is something that Leliana would want to know about. However, she...doesn't know what, exactly, is happening. The idea of going to Leliana with 'Some elves are scrapping' is enough to make her step inside, and close the door as Sabine instructed.

And resist shooting Bellamy a Look, because how dare he argue with Thranduil, and also how dare he assume that she's the one that had to shut the door. Well, she was closer to it--but still. Still. He's saved from any disgruntled looks by Beleth shooting a disgruntled look at Dandelion, who has apparently gotten on Thranduil's bad side.

"What'd he do." That seems like a fairly safe question.

[glandival]

Dandelion, as he has been so christened, twists enough to take a look at Beleth and Bellamy both, and both appear to be equally alarming. At Beleth's question -- not directed at him, but all the same -- he grits his teeth closed and turns away, forehead pressed to the wall.

Sabine tucks the blade into her belt, carefully securing the additional vial into a hidden pocket in the midst of her skirt folds.

"That is what I wish to know," she says. "His name is Rillan, he has-- I was asked to--"

It's strange, being in a room of people she has a modicum of trust for if only through virtue of being Inquisition, but equally, they aren't people she speaks openly to about things she's routinely kept so close to her. Even Alistair, Martel, Herian do not know she is here.

Oh, well. "I was asked to watch him," she states, finally, still habitually evasive, "and I followed him here. He ran when he saw me.

"Why are you here? Have you been followed?" This, for the room, as Sabine moves to peer up the shadows of the stairway leading up the spire.

[rowancrowned]

"I am here because I know you, my lady, and know you to be the type not to dash off for something as silly as a Man asking you for more wine." Also, she bit him once, and he tries to be aware of where she is in a room because of it. "I was not followed. I masked my exit."

Look, it's a joke, because Orlais, though not really.

"Look at me," he says to Rillan, waits to be obeyed- expects to be obeyed- and then looks at him, looks him over, takes in the little details of his face, his clothing. "I do not like being lied to, Rillan. I also dislike harming kin. I suspect my lady is less inclined. If there has been some manner of misunderstanding- if it is the lady who is in the wrong- I suggest you make some effort to explain. Your silence means my lady is telling the undisputed truth."