faderift | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"That an Inquisition guard from Sc...er, Starkhaven has no business getting mixed up with people who think they're his betters."

He's not the most muscular man, but he is solid enough and stubborn enough that he's not going to be dragged easily - especially when he's making an attempt to pull Alan in the completely opposite direction. He's still trying to keep the man from falling over, though, so that might not work as well as he might like.

"Either that or they'll assume things like that dwarf was assuming, and unless you're secretly a lassie I think they'd be pretty far off. Look, if you'll not sit down will you at least go over by the wall over here so you don't wind up pitching over the railing?"

"What would he assume? I don't even know you." Alan pats him on the shoulder, sympathetically, finally stops tugging at his arms. "We can go to the wall. Anything you want. It's your party."

It's not Jamie's party, or the Inquisition's, or Starkhaven's, or any of it. But the wall has an interesting little tiled pattern of snoufleurs and hyenas that he's happy enough to inspect. It's quite delicate work.

A young human woman — blonde, round, with a smattering of pox scars half-hidden under powder — titters excitedly and sweeps her way over towards them both. She's dressed in the golden cloth of a serving girl, fancy against the kitchen staff's uniforms, but plain enough to blend into the wallpaper whenever someone important comes along. The two of them don't qualify.

She extends a hand theatrically to Jamie, batting her eyes. Her nails are filed sharp.

"Didn't hear you say Starkhaven, did I, lad?" It's a terrible impression of the accent, but as it drops away her voice is high and sweet; the joke's clearly meant at her own expense. "My cousin lives there now, her and her fancy new husband. Ooh, but it sounds so grand, is there really marble in the streets?"

Maybe he'll explain about that assumption later, but for now his train of thought is derailed a bit by the arrival of the serving girl - and the hand that's extended to him, which for a moment looks like something he's not sure to do with. As his eyes flick back and forth between her and Alan for a moment before he shifts his position enough to take her hand and bow over it in as courtly way as he can manage, given the situation. When he straightens up again, it's with an apologetic tilt of his head - and a renewed effort to support Alan, which might not be strictly necessary but might help to keep the lass from expecting too much apart from conversation.

"Well, to be fair, I've, ah, not been there..."

Ever, actually, and he glances over . The only things he knows about Starkhaven are the things he's asked about since he's been here - but it's been over a year since he'd fallen through the rift. There's been time enough to find out about the city, and hopefully that'll be enough to satisfy her curiosity.

"For a wee bit now. But there's plenty of marble just to be had around the streets. Last I checked, though, the streets were made of granite. Isn't that right, ser?"

That 'ser' is directed right at Alan, along with a small nudge to his new friend's side, although he makes sure to do that out of sight of the lassie. With luck, Alan'll be able to help him out here. Or at least pretend to agree with him, but he'll take what he can get.

After a moment, Alan remembers to turn around and stop looking at the mosaic. He beams, and nods animatedly:

"They take it for granite."

He's got no idea what they're talking about, though he nudges Jamie back. Apparently, they're nudging people now? Sure. He'll go along with that.

The girl titters a laugh, and waves a hand away, psh.

"Oh, you are both just terrible —" It's not clear what Jamie's done on that account. Still, no time like the present for an introduction. "— But you can call me Carine, no second name, even though we all ought to have one tonight, don't you think? Primp ourselves all nice and posh."

She shoots a conspiratorial glance to the side, and her voice sheds its sun, abruptly pragmatic.

"Of course, I wouldn't be the only one putting on airs."

Edited 2016-12-04 06:54 (UTC)

OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART I

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