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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"Must I always have an ulterior motive?"

Mustn't he? The correct answer is yes, but the truth is for once much simpler. Obi-Wan curls his arm around hers in a gentlemanly fashion, and offers a genial nod to a passing mask.

"It's been fairly quiet, to my understanding. Oh, all the usual sneaking about behind closed doors, but the most I've sensed or seen is a little scuffle in one of the back hallways. It seemed well in hand, though," He stops, for a moment, long enough that the change in tone, though subtle, is significant, "You seemed like you might want a break, that's all."

"No, but if you're just here to admire my gown - I think I shall put my hand on your brow to make sure you're not ill."

Is her light response, as she sips her wine and dips her head to the mask in question, before she glances over at him. A grateful smile touches her lips, and she nods a silent thanks, before she quips lightly, "Who knew being charming would be so very exhausting? I feel like I've been fighting a battalion of darkspawn."

"It's a very fine mode of dress, I'm sure," This part is quip, but then, quite unconscious of his effect, Obi-Wan smiles in a way that is warm and whole, "You look lovely tonight, Bethany."

She does, after all. Bethany is a lovely person, and if that's more to do with who she is than what she looks like, then it's no backhanded compliment-- rather, she is beautiful as well. But he is capable of sincere appreciation without attachment; one might easily think Bethany's charm were effortless, after all.

"I feel I might be obligated to tell you now, about how things are so much more civilized in the Republic," He begins, high-minded tone and lifted chin spoiled in the next minute by a chuckle, "But I'm afraid it's just the nature of politics that it's almost always something surprisingly petty and underhanded. Darkspawn might be simpler, at least."

"Well, when one is on the arm of one's paramour, one should try to look one's best." Bethany managed a haughty sort of sniff, before she just melted into another warm smile. When he wanted to be, Obi Wan was utterly charming. "I thank you for the compliment, kind serah."

She dimples momentarily, laughter flashing through her brown eyes, "Oh, why am I not surprised that the Republic has us on civilization?" She took another sip of wine, before shaking her head, "They are, honestly. You kill them, they are dead. Here, I don't think anyone really can die in the Game. You're just ... off your feet until you find a new angle to manipulate."

"I have friends who actually enjoy this kind of battle, if you can believe it," He replies, grinning like a shared joke. Is it even possible for this to be enjoyable? The very idea! "To tell you the truth, it really doesn't. It's just... It's bigger, that's all."

Some things get swept away under the tide. So many people, so many places, cities and cities, planets, nations, whole worlds made small by the context. Trillions upon trillions of lives, utterly invisible. As much suffering as joy, and it all seemed so... insurmountable. And now he was here, in so much smaller a universe, but still dealing with the same old political ridiculousness.

In some ways that was as comforting as it was horrifying, really.

"There is no death," Obi-Wan quoted, piously, "That's what my old creche-master used to say."

"...No, I really can't." Bethany let out a laugh, before she shook her head in amazement. She glanced over at him, before she looked thoughtful, "I thought the same of Kirkwall, when I first arrived. It is bigger, but it is really no different than Lothering. Gossip, resentment, politics but all on a much smaller scale. We humans seem to be typical across galaxies, countries, and cities."

She grinned, "I am fairly certain your creche-master has never been to Thedas, then."

"Ah, it's... from the Jedi Code, part of the mantras, the kind of thing children are asked to memorize for meditative purposes," He cleared his throat slightly, waited for a server to pass, and then recited, "There is no Death, there is only the Force."

A shrug for that, or the approximation of one in the sideways nod of his head. The Jedi Order wasn't an evangelical faith, and even had it been, he had no drive to begin converting anyone, let alone randomly chosen Andrastian friends.

"...As they say, old Jedi never truly die, we only fade away."

"I see ... so you continue on, for you are all part of the same ... life force? That sounds rather like the Fade, honestly. We do not fade away, merely become part of the Maker."

A pause, and a faintly wry, "Of course that would say that you believe in the Maker too and I think you are talking about becoming part of everything." She looked at him thoughtfully, "But I would really like to think you'll never fade away."

"Not exactly. More to the point, we already are part of... Everything."

He gestured, to include the party and everyone in it, the gardens beyond, green with their own kind of life. Everything. But not just this, everything, from the deepest fires in the belly of the world up to the highest stars, and the veil, and everything on either side of it. One sweep of the hand was more than merely inadequate to illustrate the point; so, he continued.

"The Force isn't just a source of power, and it's not... Not really like any Maker, or god," He pauses slightly before the last, uncertain of the philosophy. Obi-Wan was a practical man, though his faith ran deeper than most, and he knew that it would be impossible to explain if he somehow offended. No one likes to be told they're wrong, "It's the driving actions of everything and everyone that's ever lived, that's living now, or that will ever come to be alive; we create it, while it also creates us. That's why a Jedi can occasionally know the future, or look deep into lost histories. We truly don't die, we just... cast aside the physical, in a way."

There was a pause, faintly embarrassed.

"...And, I'm lecturing you now. I apologize, it wasn't my intention."

Bethany listened carefully as she sipped her wine. Frowning slightly with confusion - because how could everyone be part of everything without some center of it all? After a moment, she spoke quietly, "... It sounds like ...well. It sounds like the making of history, every moment of every day."

She waves her hand at his embarrassment, "You know me better than that, Obi Wan. I like to learn new things, hear new stories and new ways to see the world. Even if it is a bit above me."

"Experience has taught me that history hinges on the smallest, humblest things, and that certain people," Wealthy, glittering Orlesian nobles, for example, "...They often forget the fact that nothing really important, is above anyone."

Look at Andraste, the slave who had had enough. Look at Anders, the displaced, disaffected man who'd all but singlehandedly sparked a war. Look at The Hero of Ferelden, or Bethany's own sister, the Champion, or the late Herald, who might have been Inquisitor. He let the point drop silently; it needed no elaboration. Midichlorians in the blood to herald an otherwise invisible presence, and the world turned on the opinion of microbes. Who knew what else they were missing?

The physical world has no center, no edge, and time is no different.

"I appreciate your indulgence, then. I find myself more in the mode of a teacher than I've been in years; Rey is a good student."

"....Yes, I suppose you are right." Which made her wonder what was the fabric of the universe. Whether or not if it was already weaved together like Obi Wan had said. Which meant everything that happened was somehow fated to happen ...

Something flicked across her expression, something close to fear and sorrow before she focused back in on what Obi Wan poked his head.

"Ah! Yes! Rey, the young Jedi who arrived. You are teaching her how to be a Jedi Knight?"

"As best I can, I'm teaching her to be some form of Jedi. Whether or not the council would approve of my decision to train her, I can only imagine."

They would have hated the idea. If Anakin was too old at not-yet-ten, then Rey was more than a decade and a half too late for her own awakening. But, like his master before him, Obi-Wan had felt the rising surge of fate in Rey's presence in his life, and had risen in turn to face the challenge.

Hopefully, he would be able to navigate the pitfalls better than Qui-Gon. Hopefully, he wouldn't fail her, as he had failed his own master.

"She is... very powerful in the Force. To hear her speak, she comes from nothing, no family, not even a home-settlement. Jakku is little more than a wasteland of a world, and yet-- I'm sure, when I look at her, that I'm seeing the beginnings of something utterly remarkable. It's an honor to be present for her."

Bethany took another sip of her wine, before a quiet smile touched her lips. She arched an eyebrow at Obi Wan, before stating simply, "The most unremarkable beginnings often lead that way. My sister is living proof of that. She was lucky to have a teacher like my father, to show her the way to focus those gifts."

She squeezed Obi Wan's arm. "And Rey? Is lucky to have you."

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OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART I

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