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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Although she'd arrived in Orlais with the Inquisition, Gwenaëlle had not remained with them long in Halamshiral; collected from their encampment in a carriage by Guilfoyle, who is both patient and polite but efficient above both of those things and does not permit the wasting of any time. The past few days she's spent in her home in the High Quarter, and when she arrives at the ball it's on her father's arm, his mood a determined pleasantness in the face of the blank wall of his daughter's indifference to making conversation with him. Acknowledging murmurs, the occasional thoughtful hum; it isn't terribly encouraging, but Emeric has done this dance before and he doesn't require much encouragement. All the same:

Her eyes track the gardens more attentively than the half an ear she attends her father with; looking for those she knows from Skyhold, who she might use as an excuse to slip away from him -

Not that he's keeping her terribly close, given the unique gown that she's opted for. It is not a dress that invites anyone to her dance card.

Gowned in dove grey, Benevenuta is neither plain nor retiring - not in that dress, and not on the arm of Dorian Pavus, dark heads bent together in probably not openly conspiratorial fashion. It isn't difficult to draw her away to dance, however, and she is a shimmering swirl of silver in the center of the ball, changing partners, making new acquaintances, touching on those she'd met in Val Royeaux when the Inquisition first expanded there--

The occasional inquiries as to how she can be comfortable with the Tevinter receive gentle laughs and the lightly-delivered intelligence that her mother is Tevene and isn't it lovely to be able to share one's heritage with one's friends? Benevenuta's meaningful glances do not necessitate pointing out aloud the preference of Orlesians for Orlesians.

Despite tending to need to introduce himself as the cousin of the Rifter whom Gwenaëlle Vauquelin included an illustration of in her newsletters, Thranduil seems wholly at ease within the party. He has claimed a small portion of the railing overlooking the dance floor for himself, dressed in an outfit much like one he would have worn in Arda. There is no crown upon his brown, nor a mask-- the bright shard in his hand, glittering off his rings (silver, gold, one black and carven) should excuse most of his odd behavior, if he cannot talk himself out of it.

He knows how this is. He called is an elf when it is convenient, and then called a Rifter when it is not.

But most of all, he is himself-- and what Thranduil most likes about this night is the chance to dance, and mingle so freely. He has accepted exactly three partners so far, the epitome of a perfect gentleman (but for the shard and his ears) and an excellent dancer, easy to rely upon to know the steps to whatever the band calls out for. The height helps. There's very few here who would have the stature to successfully lead, dancing with him.

Now, he waits between songs. He has acquired a glass of wine and leans comfortably against that railing, watching, waiting. Things are happening tonight, and he needn't do more than watch and be watched. And perhaps dance a bit more-- he does quite enough it.

It takes perhaps an hour after the first dance for Thranduil to approach, all silver and white and confidence. She had not returned his gift, and that is a very bare something. The absence of her company is something he notices enough to miss it. It is something he cares about enough to try and mend.

Gwenaëlle's life will be snuffed out like the candles on her dress, in what will be no more than a blink of the eye to him. It would be a terrible shame not to enjoy her company for as much of it as he might have.

He smiles at her father, first, gives that polite little nod that means acknowledging an equal, and once that's done, to Gwenaëlle:

"Might I steal you away for a dance, my lady?"

Quite certain she would be unwelcome in the ballroom and having no real desire to be there anyway, Inessa is nowhere near that area of the Winter Palace tonight. Instead, she lingers elsewhere, certain there will be trouble tonight and wanting to remain alert for when her aid might be needed. Plus, the servants are always far more interesting to speak with than their masters, and it's their perspective she'll desire tonight.

For a good portion of the night, she'll be on guard duty at the Outer Gardens, her immaculate mabari by her side. Garahel is not running around and begging for food or attention, not in this setting. His elven mistress has impressed on him the importance of his task and so the war hound will remain as alert as Inessa. Perhaps his senses can pick up what she alone cannot. In any case, she ignores the usual 'dog lord' comments in favor of perhaps teaming up with a familiar face or speaking with anyone who seems friendly. She will not truly let down her guard here, though, remembering what she's heard about the Game and how it affects all.

In the servant's quarters, she's a bit less guarded and more friendly, enjoying the music and taking the time to socialize with those present. Garahel is absent for this portion of the night, as Inessa was quietly told that his presence would be disruptive. Thus he is being spoiled elsewhere, taking a much-needed break from guard duty. For her part, Inessa remains lightly engaged, approachable but not engrossed in any particular aspect of the events and ready to remove herself if need be.

Bedecked in a modest and delicate yet formidable gown of blue and silver, and nigh-unrecognizable with a deftly made up face and graceful updo of her thick black hair, Teren is doing her rusty best to appear a woman of status. Which, to be fair, she is: as the Inquisition's Warden liaison, she holds quite a bit of responsibility, loathe as she is to interact with the majority of the party's guests.
Most of the wealthy Orlesians are likely to find her forward and crass, an unfortunate side effect despite her efforts to rein in her usual... Teren-ness. She goes maskless, and the toll the evening is taking shows periodically on her face in the form of a long, exasperated blink or a pinched bridge of the nose.

She used to know this life. But society, such as it is, has moved on without her.

Edited 2016-11-16 05:15 (UTC)

Early on in the night, a light touch of fingertips on her upper arm indicates that someone is behind Benevenuta, and that someone is none other than her... whatever Teren is. She's almost unrecognizable from the stark and unpolished Senior Warden that most are used to, and manages to look a good decade younger with a painted-up face and done-up hair to boot.
But what betrays her is her ever-present look of impatience, tempered only by the sight of Benny's face as she looks her over.
"You've cleaned up well," she quips, giving the girl a little tug on one strand of hair, "try not to accept too many marriage proposals tonight. Your mother would have my head."

Finding herself between the proverbial rock (Thranduil, smiling) and hard place (her father; returning the smile gracious but not the nod, neatly reframing it his due deference rather than validating Thranduil's assertion of equality) -

Gwenaëlle says, "Fine," with brisk unenthusiasm, before Emeric can make some sort of clever remark on the subject of how many people have ever asked her to dance vs how many she's ever accepted. She shakes him off her elbow and allows herself to be led forward, only:

She drops Thranduil's hand, too, before they ever reach the ballroom.

"I don't dance."

But she did want to get away from her father, so, job done.

"She might find it in her to forgive you, were it the right proposal," Benevenuta says, turning very slightly with the pull of her hair - much of it gathered up elaborately and fixed in place with pearl pins, but curls enough tumbling down one shoulder to be played with and pulled on as pleases. "Is Gaspard married, do you think?"

She isn't actually serious, although she would, if called upon to.

Teren narrows her eyes, considering the question at face value, even if it was asked in jest. "That all depends," she asks, still lightly twisting the strand of hair between her thumb and forefinger, "how much older than you is he?" Or, 'how soon until a convenient death of old age becomes feasible'? "What a scandal." She tucks the strand back amidst its fellows and pats it lightly as she draws her hand away.

"There isn't enough wine in Thedas to make this night bearable."

"Almost old enough to please you, Teren."

Gaspard's in his sixties - athletically kept, she imagines, war-mongering old bastard that he is, but younger men than he have accidents, and a carefully managed decline would not be out of the question did they have the kind of time to allow for some sort of plot to slip Benevenuta into his marriage-bed.

But he might well be dead before the night is through, and so she considers it only in the realm of a sort of thought puzzle.

A raised hand and a click of her fingers bring a server with a tray of glasses past them, and she takes two. Glibly, "Did you want one as well?"

(She is absolutely not double-fisting the wine. At least, not this early in the night, Dorian hasn't even offended anyone yet.)

As one of the guards, Jamie has deliberately dressed to blend in. For once his kilt is not in evidence. In fact, nary a scrap of tartan or anything resembling plaidweave is anywhere to be seen. Instead he wears the uniform assigned to the Inquisition and keeps his hands covered with a pair of gloves, neatly hiding the shard in his hand. With an accent that's easily mistaken belonging to someone from Starkhaven, so long as he doesn't start talking about robots or spaceships or things that don't exist in Thedas, he shouldn't have a problem...unless, of course, he happens to run into someone who doesn't seem to care much for Starkhavenites.

Apart from that, however, the fact that he's been here as long as he has and played this role before more than once in the past makes it easy to play the role he's been assigned to. As he goes about his patrols, he obediently stops when directed to, goes to resolve any issues that might crop up and has no problems with responding to the banter that's occasionally sent his way - but all the while he's keeping his eyes and ears open, listening for signs of trouble as well as seeing what bits of gossip and information are out there that might be useful to pass along.

When he's allowed to take a break, he does so willingly, tugging at his collar a bit to loosen it as he joins the crowds in the servant's quarters. He's more at ease here, a friendly and affable smile coming to his face as he strikes up conversations with anyone who's willing to talk or sneaks in a dance or two with a pretty lass. He's still listening, though, and paying attention to what's going on, because he knows full well that there's information to be had here, too. And if it comes along with a couple of wee cakes that don't taste like star anise and deep mushrooms, well, that's just fine by him.

"Did you?" Teren retorts, and takes one of them with a smirk. "And they're never old enough to please me. Old enough to please me is crumbling bones in the ground." She sips from the wine, rolls her eyes minutely, then sips again. It tastes like the swill from the barrels down at the warden camp, but she assumes this cost a fortune and some. All the more reason to drink more of it.

"I shall be expected to walk about all manner of Warden things tonight," she sighs, "I'm certain the Inquisition is regretting their choice of liaison now, appointing a bitter old shrew as the face of the organization." She sips again. "Or perhaps it was intentional. Keeps people from asking questions."

"Limited options," Benevenuta suggests, charitably, holding her glass rather than immediately drinking from it; too much that way lies tossing dirty old blankets over half-dressed Wardens.

(But there aren't any half-dressed Wardens! Yet.)

"Your lot are notoriously secretive, of course, I imagine no one truly expects you to answer them."

Fortunately there won't be too many Wardens to be half-dressed at least this early in the evening, though if Teren doesn't keep an eye on Alistair and Bethany in their respective circles...
Well, she will.
"Then their expectations are realistic," she intones, "something I never thought I'd say in the home of a wealthy Orlesian."

Alan slings an arm around his neck, face split into a wide grin beneath a lop-sided, half-moon mask. He is very obviously very drunk.

"Do you speak Orlesian?" His grip tightens — holding to Jamie like a rock in the current. "I have no idea what's going on."

He sounds a bit bewildered, but pleased all the same.

WHEREVER IT IS THAT THE DOGS ARE BEING KEPT

That’s not a dog.

Sitting a polite distance from the attending Mabari and more common hounds, a lean black wolf rests in still, stately position. Clearly a pet — it’s far too well-behaved (and the Mabari far too quiet about it) to be some wild intruder. The scrap of cloth wound about its neck just seals the deal.

Wolves. Fucking Inquisition. Like the Fereldens weren't enough?

It turns an observant stare slowly over the courtyard proceedings, at silent, alert ease. Anyone approaching will cause its tail to wag.

SERVANT'S QUARTERS

Celebrations are in full swing — and it’s all a little too much.

Alan hunts desperately for something quiet to be doing, and comes up thin. No potatoes need to be peeled, nothing needs to be washed, and at this point he’s just getting in the way. It’s a short while before he’s kindly but sternly tugged aside, and assigned the stationary task of actually attending the fucking party.

He’s at it for a while, listening, asking slow questions and straining to pick topics from the chatter. As a small young man, in someone else’s shabby best, without a word of the language… he’s more of a curiousity than an eavesdropping risk.

A few drinks later, and he’ll be in far better spirits, quick to embrace a stranger, or switch masks with passerby. Eventually, he ends up in the courtyard, earnestly nodding along to the talk of fashion, and trying to make some sort of ill-founded metaphor about camouflage.

OUTER GARDENS

Alan leans against a topiary wyvern, watching the gardens with a tired eye.

His head is pounding, and he hasn’t dared return inside; his brief, rat-shaped foray was a whirl of people and noise, utterly overwhelming. Too much light, too many lies. It screamed at every sense, and he’d ducked back into the cracks as quickly as he came, terrified of discovery.

This place demands attention, for oneself as surely as the threats of others. It’s exhausting, like the shadow of an owl hanging overhead. He rubs his face, and it’s a long moment before he notices —

“Ah, I.” He turns, searching his memory for a fitting phrase to parrot: “Forgive me, the night has been long.”

It sounds fake, but so do most words exchanged tonight.

Edited (i remembered there was a word for "dog stable") 2016-11-16 08:36 (UTC)

"Tonight, you are a novelty like the rest of us." A novelty prepared for trouble, Benevenuta expects; no one believes that the Inquisition is attending because Leliana really just has a hankering for Orlesian wine and fashion critique. Such a novel use of resources is behaviour reserved for outfits more explicitly Orlesian than one that merely has dubious ties to the Chantry and a charmingly international leadership. "At least for now."

She tastes the wine. Mm. She might not choose the vintage herself, but it's perfectly drinkable.

And Dorian is there.

Dorian, currently cornered by a woman who has not only dared to venture into conversations with with an infamous figure of Tevinter, but has insisted on it. There's a lot of magique does not frightenne mee, or that is how Dorian will repeat it later to others, and many very pointed mentions of her most attractive daughter who Dorian seemply muhst meet. For a while, morbid curiousity has fixed him in place, but it's getting, now, to the point where he ought to find an opportunity for polite evacuation.

Not that he is above an impolite evacuation, but he'll behave if he can help it. Blackly lined eyes dart this way and that for a face he recognises. Unfortunately, his date for the evening in the form of Benevenuta has escaped the room for the moment, and Dorian considers the subtlety of draining his fully charged wine glass and leaving to get another.

It's tempting for more reasons than only one.

He is striking, anyway, in lavish reds, cut into the Tevinter fondness of generous skirts and asymmetry and hints of bare, brown skin about the shoulders. His nails are painted black, glossy as beetle backs as he raises his wine to drink from.

Ballroom

Sigh. Kain really doesn't want to be here, but he'd been given the "you're a soldier so do your duty" talk, so he couldn't really refuse. He grew up with this culture, these people, which means he has to play the part, like it or not. And he doesn't like it. At all.

He's traded his favored Grey Warden armor for some of his Orlesian finery, all shades of blue, with dark blue gloves to cover his shard, alongside one of his fancier dragon-shaped masks. He'll mingle as much as he absolutely has to, and even dance if asked. But he does spend a great deal of the time standing and sipping wine, as he keeps an eye on what's going on, who's here and so on. There's a lot of tension in the room, that much is certain.

Outer Gardens

Finally, he finds a chance to escape. Loosening his cravat some, Kain heads outside, taking in a much-needed breath of fresh air. He would much rather be doing guard duty than attending the actual ball. He takes a look around then gets to walking, deciding that a little stroll is in order. He sincerely doubts he'll be needed back in there anyway... there are others who are far better and more interested in the diplomacy sort of situations.

Edited 2016-11-16 15:58 (UTC)

While Kain has had to trade in his armor for finery, Inessa has clung all the more ardently to her status as a Grey Warden for this event. As one not expected to enter the ballroom, she has the freedom to wear what she pleases, as long as it's appropriate. For this portion of the evening, a freshly groomed Garahel is at her side, as they take their part in guard duty. Far more behaved than usual, the mabari nonetheless wags his tail upon seeing Kain. Keeping a hand on his head so Garahel knows not to bark, Inessa smirks.

"What, Baron Ventfort's son has tired of the spectacle indoors? Scandalous." And completely expected. Kain was never one to tolerate such things for long.

servant's quarters.

Bellamy wears his mask uneasily, pushes it askew more often than not to scratch at his hairline or his cheek, rub at his nose with a faint scowl. The mask is a simple design, without embellishments, but he still doesn't like it.

He is, admittedly, more comfortable among the servants than he is the Orlesian nobility, which is why he has opted to find his food down here instead of among the glittering finery found elsewhere at Halamshiral. His eagerness to extract himself from the press of people isn't really an eagerness to get back to the work of patrolling, though of course he prefers duty to idleness, if only because duty gives him something useful to do. If given the choice, he would like to go home, back to camp at Skyhold instead of the camp outside Halamshiral--but duty has put him here, with a bundle of bread and cheese to take with him outside.

One of the maids has attached herself to him, and hangs off his arm as he ducks around the dice game. Either Bellamy doesn't have the heart or the room to detatch her; either way he's putting up with her presence for now. There's a door in sight, but before he can get to it, a giddy servant boy snatches his mask off his face and presses a glittery one into his hand instead. Dark blue, feathered, bejeweled, absolutely not his style.

"Hey--" Short, sharp, Bellamy shrugs off the girl at last and tries to pursue the thief. The boy wriggles past a kissing couple and disappears from sight, leaving Bellamy holding the fancier mask, which is probably stolen. Amid the pressing crowd in the narrow hallway, Bellamy takes the time to frown down at the offending object.

Great.

outer gardens.

The gardens need patrolling. This is far more Bellamy's scene, even if patrol carries with it an extra obligation at Halamshiral. The more conversations that are overheard, the greater chances the Inquisition has at learning some extra tidbit of information. Eavesdropping is lazy spying, but if it gets results, who cares.

Bellamy mostly walks his beat around the perimeter of the gardens, obviously foreign in both dress and carriage. His mask is in his hand, in favor of the cool night air, a refreshing change from the raucous activity inside the palace. Occasionally he frowns down at the mask, personally offended by its presence--incongruously fancy in contrast with his simple armor and clothing. Way too many feathers.

Occasionally, too, he stops to scan the gardens, surreptitiously listening in on quiet murmured conversations as he does his best to imitate the topiary stood around him.

Edited (oops) 2016-11-16 16:46 (UTC)

But it's Bellamy who spots Gwen first. Perhaps this can be credited to his attempts at being largely inconspicuous in the garden, as is fitting a Templar of the Inquisition tasked with patrol and a casual ear toward spying, More likely this can be credited to the fact that Gwen is absolutely not trying for inconspicuous, is in fact largely the opposite of inconspicuous, in a--

Well, perhaps it's a gown. Bellamy cracks a smile when he sees it, not that he can help seeing it. Come on.

He lets his path follow theirs, Gwen and the man he recognizes as her father. Waits for his moment, which he finds arbitrarily. They come upon an overlarge topiary cut in the shape of a griffon; Gwen and her candles and her father go right, Bellamy cuts left, circles around so their paths meet face-to-face on the other side.

"My lord," polite, and a more pointed, "my lady." It's even harder not to smirk at her gown when he's facing her down. It's Gwen he's here for anyways. "I have a message for you."

Or something.

Jamie's first, instinctive reaction is to help steady the man, a arm looping around the other's waist to provide some extra support that probably won't hurt, given the man's inebriated state. It's not as though he minds being clung on to on an normal day anyway, so he's alright with the situation - if a little sorry that he's not going to be able to answer the question in a way that'll help all that much.

"Can't say as I'm all that familiar with it, no, other than a few words I've picked up here and there." The interesting ones, mostly. But the rest of it...well, it's more or less French to him. He doesn't say that, or even comment about how it's a wee bit odd that that's changed a bit since he's come here, because he's trying to not stick out like a sore thumb for a change. Instead, he goes with something slightly different. "I can tell you a few things, mind. Like I'd wager those two over there are gossiping about what everyone's wearing. See how they keep looking at the different outfits and then making comments to one another? It's only when they see a new one, too."

Ballroom
To say that Eirlys feels out of her depth is something of an understatement. Her dress is far nicer than anything she's ever owned and she keeps shifting the bodice and smoothing out the skirts, partly out of a nervous habit and partly because the fabric feels so luxurious under her fingers. She's made sure to style her hair to make her elven ears as prominent as she can, remembering Anders' advice that she needs to make sure they're as visible as possible within the Inquisition.

The sight of an alienage elf dressed up in such finery has provoked a few comments from the Orlesian nobility, and more than once she's been handed an empty glass under the assumption she's a servant, but she tries not to let it faze her. Mostly she's treated as a novelty - as the dwarves and Qunari and rifters must be too, she supposes - an oddity for the nobles to gawk at and gossip about for a moment - rather than feeling she's making any lasting bold statement about the place of her people both in the Inquisition and in society as a whole.

Servants' Quarters
This is more the party atmosphere she's used to, and when she does manage to break away from the ballroom she feels quite at home -- though the suspicious glances of the elven servants sting her in a way that those of the nobles couldn't, sizing her up in her finery and deciding that she didn't truly belong among them. She tries her best to throw herself into the swing of things nonetheless, recognising the dice game as one she was taught in her teens and quickly winning a sizeable sum of coins. She listens to the music with rapt attention, and when it quiets a little, offers a song from her own alienage in exchange.

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Page 1 of 24

OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART I

gwenaëlle vauquelin | the outer gardens

benevenuta thevenet | the ballroom

thranduil | the ballroom

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Inessa Serra | Outer Gardens/Servant's Quarters

Teren von Skraedder | the ballroom

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Jamie McCrimmon | Patrol or Servants Quarters

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Re: Jamie McCrimmon | Patrol or Servants Quarters

Kennels-y Areas/Servant's Quarters/Outer Gardens

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Kain | Ballroom or Outer Gardens

Outer Gardens

bellamy | servant's quarters, outer gardens

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Eirlys Ancarrow | Ballroom and Servants' Quarters