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

"Wonder who'd have the gall to tame a wolf, but that doesn't narrow down our pool of suspects, given our fellow agents, hm?" Probably raised from birth or near it to have such dog-like mannerisms.

He can spare some time before the ball is in enough swing for his absence to be...questionable. Besides, Orlesians like 'fashionably late' anyway. The wolf seems to want his attention, and he's been around enough dogs, and mabari certainly, to not immediately dismiss a canine. Milady stills, her body alert despite the dissipating excitement of playtime. He tries to focus over the noise of arrivals, horses being drawn up to the gates, idle chatter--

Perhaps he shouldn't get involved, but he makes a quick motion to indicate Milady stay at his side, and he approaches the wolf, willing to be led, if only to see what the fuss is about and perhaps get a kennelhand here.

He ambles slowly forward, mindful to stay but a few steps ahead of Malcolm and Milady. As they progress past sacks of sawdust and hanging harnesses, the sound grows louder — clearly human. A small, soft weeping.

The light is dim, the sconces half-abandoned in the rush of the party and its sudden need to catalogue and cozy a dozen stranger's pets. A little girl crouches along the back wall, just visible, perhaps four or five. Her plain dress was clearly pressed recently, but some time in the past few hours has acquired a mysterious new coating of dust and mud.

"Maman?"

Alan hangs back, waits in the shadow to settle on his haunches once more. He knows not to come any closer. If Malcolm or Milady do, she'll fling herself to her feet, running to crush their legs into a tight hug.

Not what he thought he'd be finding on his arrival to the Winter Palace. Malcolm spares a glance back at the wolf that keeps its distance, but he can hardly leave a young girl all alone to the care of animals alone.

He makes a surprised noise at the sudden tiny arms around his legs, and Milady takes a chance to snuffle into her hair, lick her cheek. Malcolm's Orlesian is good, if his accent still declares himself as not Orlesian. "Est-ce que tu vas bien? Où sont tes parents?"

Children are not so much his forte, has never had to care for one, was the younger child in his family. But he has nothing against them. He bends down, brushing off her dress, which does little good, and smooths back her hair. "Que faites-vous ici?"

Beneath the tangle of golden curls, her ears taper to small freckled points. Not so human, after all.

"I don't know," She hiccups, even as she pulls her face back to peer at Milady. She sniffles, and sticks out her tongue back at the dog. "I was, I was chasing Stripes. And."

A choked sob. She seems about to work herself up again.

"And maman told me not to, but I love Stripes, and I don't want the Furdans to eat him, and I'm lost and — and Stripes is lost, and it's so dark and maman will be mad!"

If Malcolm looks back again, the wolf is gone, no sign of anything else in its place.

Edited (S0RRY FOR THE LATE EDIT i thought of something i forgot to put in) 2016-11-28 05:17 (UTC)

"Nobody's going to eat Stripes, definitely not Fereldans." No real reason to when there's plenty of food here, but hey, rumors. Malcolm tugs out a handkerchief to dab at her cheeks and nose.

"Here--" He's about to suggest recruiting the help of the wolf, but it's gone. Perhaps back to his owner, now that this situation is somewhat resolved. ...Smart boy. "We can look for your maman. I'm sure she's worried sick. We can keep an eye out for Stripes on the way. Would you like to hold on to my dog? Milady loves attention." Maybe she won't exactly love children clinging on, but hey. It's still attention.

"...Yes." She deliberates, and then grabs for Milady. Her tongue's out again — evidently, trying to mimic the dog's. "She's charming."

It's clearly only a word she's heard other people say before. Towards the front of the kennels, a small young man leans against the wall, picking black fur from the edge of his coat. It's something of a shabby ensemble.

"The kitchens are left," He murmurs in quiet Common. "I'll find the cat."

They're easier than children.

That there's a boy hanging around overhearing is odd--but there's fur, and there are two options. He either owns the wolf, or this is a mage who's learned the dangerous power of shapeshifting. That idea alone makes him wary, but either way, he's helpful. Malcolm levels a squint at him, a look with the slightest tilt of his head that indicates he's suspicious and trying to decide his next course of action.

Eventually nods. "Thank you." Because honestly he probably wouldn't fare any better with a cat than a child. At least a child can speak. He leads the dog and child duo toward the kitchens, and if anyone who sees this scene finds it unusual (and they should), they had better not say anything to his face about it. He's never been good at idle chatter, less so with a child, though children are generally content to chatter on, aren't they? And at the very least a dog can be a good distraction.

Alan stares back impassively, head tipping to match Malcolm's. He shrugs a little — it's no trouble — as they pass.

With the final preparations still hurrying to finish, the attention Malcolm attracts isn't as pronounced as it might be later in the day: for security purposes, the Inquisition's arrived ahead of some certain guests. Still no small number of eyes track his progress. A few attached noble chins bury themselves behind fans to gossip; other, plainer masks trade wary looks, and begin following at a long distance.

"If she's Milady," The girl's fallen silent for a time, consider this very important point, "Does that make you Milord?"

Guilty suspicion: "I'm not supposed to talk to lords." Her fingers loosen their grip, and she takes an uncertain step back.

OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART I

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here's where i give up on french

good that's too much google translate

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