faderift | OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART II

OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART II

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. Set following the events of Part I, located here.
WHERE: The Winter Palace, Halamshiral, Orlais.
NOTES: Please make sure to read the OOC post for more info!

It is a wonderful night, isn’t it? A beautiful party. The Empress has outdone herself. The entire evening has been remarkable, whether from the perspective of one enjoying the spectacles provided by the Inquisition, or the nuances of the Game, or even the more superficial entertainments of the evening - the music, the food, the dancing. All of it is wound together into an evening that will surely be memorable for some time to come.

And then everything begins to become rather more complicated, although admittedly still very memorable.

The first sign that things might not be as they should be comes when the doors to the main hall slam shut, and are rapidly sealed. The realization that all is not well might not spread through all areas of the Palace with equal speed, but it cannot be said that the element of surprise is neglected throughout. The Freemen of the Dales have come, and the Freemen will see to it that they finally claim what is theirs.

THE MAIN HALL.

Two things become rapidly apparent. First, the evening is not going how Celene had intended. Equally apparent is that this is not what Gaspard planned, either.

They both of them find themselves in close quarters with men and women that are armed - human, elf and dwarf alike, though the latter are in small numbers and the humans dominate the group. There are a good many elves, though, more than one might expect to find in the company of former chevaliers. Some of the invading party have slipped from the guise of servants, others are more obviously marked as Freemen of the Dales who have only just arrived.

In terms of numbers, armor and weapons, the arrival is alarming, and nervousness is palpable in the hall. Worse still, they are not alone. The apparent leader of the Freemen, a man with mustachios that would make a walrus weep, stands shoulder to shoulder with Red Templars, the red lyrium glow seeming all the more strange in the ambient light of the party. There are cries of panic from some, the gasps and outrage of many as they realize what is unfolding, and the sickening realization that despite there being a good many skilled warriors in the room in the form of noble men and woman from across Orlais, they have no weapons to retaliate with, as per the rules of entering the Winter Palace. The atmosphere is one of sickening dread. (And at least one noble is stress eating every lemon tart in sight. Can you really blame them?)

Celene, for her part, issues an order for her people to remain calm, before an elven man turns to hold the point of his sword to her throat. She does not speak further, but continues to hold her head high.

Walrusface - or, more correctly, Charles Walthier, a man of some sixty years and considerable reputation before he departed for the Freemen, steps forward. There is a ripple of chatter, and one of Gaspard’s men approaches in indignant protest, an outburst in Orlesian about conduct not befitting a chevalier. The man is cut down by a red templar before he can draw breath to continue his tirade.

Before any further heroics or speeches can be attempted, Celene and Gaspard are both swept out of the ballroom. It may be tempting to follow. But most of the doors are now barred, and the last four Freemen to leave behind the Empress and Pretender turn to fire flaming arrows at high draperies scattered throughout the hall. The only open doors lead to balconies with drop-offs that range from dangerous to suicidal, but they're nonetheless swarmed by the best-dressed frantic mob you've ever seen.

SERVANT QUARTERS.

From further away, a regular chant can be heard from the main hall: Freemen, Freemen, Freemen. At a signal, some servants are casting aside their disguises, and clusters of armed men and Red Templars are entering, some from rooms, others from hidden passages. They're ready to fight those who try to get between them and the nobility. Some of them are also willing to talk to those who seem willing to listen - about casting off the yoke of the Orlesian nobility, about reclaiming the Dales for the common man and elf alike. But none are particularly willing to let the servants and guests in the common room mount a rescue of the screaming nobility in the ballroom and gardens. If you want to try, you'll have to sneak out.

Or you can barricade yourself in a room and let the nobility look out for themselves. No one will know.

THE GARDENS.

The scents of jasmine and roses fill the air. So do screams. Evidently the Freemen and their corrupted Templar assistants have no concern about lawn preservation, hedge maintenance, or making sure exquisite fountains aren't ruined. What isn't trampled might be torn down or lit on fire. And in the midst of the chaos, an elf climbs up onto a pedestal alongside a statue of embracing lovers - lovers with oddly familiar noses - and holds a marble should for balance while he interrupts the common rallying cries of Freemen! with For Calpernia!

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Magic congeals, smooths itself into the shape of a man.

A look of numb, dulled horror slides into place just after. Alan crouches over one of the dead men, fingers brushing through the rictus of his throat. It's only half a moment; when he pushes himself to his feet, he's too swallowed the shock in his expression.

Some things are kill or be killed. He knows that's the way of it — has been hunter and hunted alike. But some nagging piece of him thinks (hopes?) there might have been another way out.

Too many people are going to die tonight.

“It’s alright,” His breath’s ragged, despite himself, and he turns aside to cough up a feather. With a distance absent from their previous encounter, he slumps on the floor against the opposite shelf. The words are steadier than before, more present. “It’s still pretty.”

He forms a peculiar little sign over his chest, and peers around the shelf: No one coming, good. They’ll need to move, and soon, but they’ve a moment now. Enough time to get their bearings. To get Beleth back on her feet.

“You can make it into something new.”

Or, her old buddy, if old can be construed as 'known before this very moment' and buddy as 'the weirdo who kept touching my hands'. Of course, now she's the weirdo who slits people's throats, so. There's one up on him.

Fingers entwine in hair that had been perfectly maintained just a few hours ago, and she grips down. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don't think about how many more enemies there are out there, prowling around, hunting her down. And the relative uselessness of being a primary archer without a bow is still a very real concern. Another breath is slowly sucked in, the panic willed to fade. The last thing she wants is to break down into a fit in front of a man who'd already done so much to help her.

She closes her eyes for a few moments, then slowly lowers her hands and turns to look at Alan. He looks about as shaken as her, which is...comforting. At least she's not just being unreasonable in being a nervous wreck. "Thank you. For helping me. And--about the dress. Um--not that they're the same level of importance, not dying is better than...a dress being pretty." Nervous chatter. Time to change the subject.

"You're a shapeshifter." Her tone is commending rather than condemning. "That's old magic. And complicated, to boot. From what I've been told." She glances to the side, shrugging. "I'm obviously not a mage, or I wouldn't have been stuck on top of a bookcase."

“It was my grandmother’s. She brought it with her, from the holds.”

He turns his eyes back to her, assessing.

“I got stuck on a bookcase last week.” He could’ve gotten down, of course, and did — but that’s not the point. The point’s talking themselves into something resembling normal. “The ladder fell.”

The implication: So we’re even.

“There are more of them out there. But there are two of us.” So long as they avoid literally any red templar, they might yet make it out alive. He glances deeper into the stacks, full of gloom. Barricading a chamber won’t do them any good if the Freemen carry the night. They’ll only be sitting targets, without any way of guessing at the state of things outside. But it all has to lead somewhere. “And we’re good at this.”

At surviving. He thinks he knows her voice now, and what it was they spoke of, the first time that they spoke.

"For the Inquisition?"

The holds. Was he an avvar? It'd explain the old magic, but--She always picked avvar as a little more...bulky. And taller. All the avvar she'd seen (which was about one. RIFP Asher) were big, hulking warriors. Well, she was aware of her own lack of knowledge of the shemlen world, so. Who knew.

There's a part of her that just wants to find a safe hole to crawl into and hunker down until everything stops but--Alan reminds her why she can't do that. Now she remembers, all those lofty things she said about the Dalish surviving, feeling very noble while safe and not being hunted down by crazed Orlesians. But being hunted down by crazed Orlesians is the exactly right time to remember how to act like an appropriate Dalish, which does not involve cowering.

With that conviction repeating in her head, she slowly rises to her feet, peering around. "For the Inquisition, I suppose. I guess we'll have to see how lucky that coin was." She starts to walk, then stops, glancing at Alan with a strained smile. "Though, you coming to help me was already pretty lucky. For me, at least." Maybe not so lucky for Alan, who's now stuck with her.

Cautiously, keeping an eye out on anyone else wandering in, she steps over to the balcony overlooking the Hall of Heroes. "But, ah. Where should we go? I just came from the guest wing, and I've seen the vestibule--there's a lot of fighting going on in there."

Aren't you a little short for an Avvar? is going to be carved on his tombstone, at this rate.

"For me too," Alan admits, moving to protect her back as she searches the hall below. "I don't think anyone's making it out tonight on their own."

He could get off the grounds, certainly, but what then? Half the Inquisition's leadership are here tonight. There wouldn't be much to escape to.

"Is there an outer balcony anywhere near? Anything overlooking the Gardens?" It's got to be chaos out there, but it's also the closest they're going to get to the Inquisition's patrols — to people actually allowed weapons. And it's easier to disappear (or stab, he thinks darkly) in a crowd. "If we can find something for you to climb, I can keep the path clear."

He really, really hopes.

Beleth will give a moving eulogy about how he was kind of scrawny, too.

A few moments of thoughtful contemplation--she's not sure what Alan is thinking, or if his idea is good, but...it's better than anything she's thought up. "There are the guest gardens, and balconies overlooking them. But if you mean the gardens proper, the closest route would be..." She thinks for a moment--Then looks over the balcony, and points to a door on the far end of the Hall of Heroes. "We'd need to go through the servant's quarters, there."

Beyond the lower area of the Hall, in the raised section that connected the vestibule to the guest apartments, people were occasionally dashing through, guest and enemies alike. But the lower area was clear enough, and after a quick check around, Beleth simply scaled the balcony handrail. Here, Orlesians' tendency to stick statues every five feet finally came in use. It wasn't too hard to jump from there, onto one of those ridiculous lion statues. It'd have been even easier in her normal clothes, but--Well. Unless she felt like trying to strip the dead, she'd have to deal.

The statue isn't as easy to get down. It's metal and slippery, but Beleth manages to get far enough before she falls to avoid serious injury. She manages to keep her mouth closed, at least, until impact with the ground. There's a soft grunt of pain, and she's up again, brushing herself off and tugging her dress back into place. If this is what she's going to wear, she might as well make sure it stays in decent shape.

Alan leans over the rail to peer along the path, and quietly swears.

The servant's quarters. They're going to stand out more than he'd like: Her ears are only an advantage until paired alongside his own, and neither's wearing what could be mistaken for a uniform by anyone actually required to.

But pessimism won't get them out of this. He waits until she's down (ouch) to flap after, before slipping back into human shape.

"I'll run ahead and look," He whispers, and moves towards the doorway. He reaches out, magic ripples with the beginnings of a spell, and —

— A stout young woman comes barreling out, knocks him aside. She stares miserably at Beleth, pulling at the thick braids on her mask.

"My lady! You must come at once!" Alright, so maybe not everyone's noticed the ears. "They've gone mad! Come, follow me in, quick before ..."

A thump of impact, a rattling wheeze, and two new arrows sprout from her chest. Someone above has noticed the commotion. Alan drags her body aside, eyes shot wide. Lightning crackles in his hand, and as abruptly winks itself out. He sags, breathing hard, and another arrow punches through a landscape of the Dales.

"We have to go!"

Beleth would like to believe that she has some amount of grace and poise. However, as a woman emerges from the servant's quarters, yells at her, and promptly gets shot, the only thing the Dalish can do is stare, mouth gaping. This is all happening very fast and it's all very alarming, and Beleth would like a few moments to sort it all out. However, there are now arrows shooting at her, and it is an uncomfortable turn of the tables for the archer.

She sinks down to her hands and knees, and quickly slides past the door, before reaching and grabbing Alan, all but bodily dragging him along with her, right as another arrow goes shooting by, thunking solidly into the door. Beleth slams it shut behind the two of them, and prays that the mysterious archer is smart enough to realize that they had the advantage now, and leave them alone.

Breathing hard, Beleth sits against the door, in the vain hope that her weight could do...something. "We need some proper weapons. Like--Like, I need a bow. I really need a bow."

"I know where you can get the arrows."

An absent sort of agreement. He turns, teeth gritted, to begin laying ice thick as he can over the frame. Stray flakes of frost drop delicately to the pooling blood below.

But his head's pounding, chest tight, and Alan knows it isn't only nerves. He's overextended himself: needs time or assistance if his spellwork's going to be of much further use. He shouldn't have spent it so early in the night, finding that girl's cat, satisfying his own curiousity. He shouldn't, and yet —

A warbling mew from the darkness, and a fat, furry shape butts itself against Beleth's hands.

"Arise, Aegis of the Faith. You are not forgotten." Alan murmurs, mostly to himself. "Hello Stripes."

As he reaches out, the tabby hisses, and launches himself down the hall into the gloom. Alan's hand drops to pull Beleth up.

"Come on. He wouldn't run towards danger."

Honestly, he might. Cats aren't bright. But it's not like they've got another option.

Edited 2017-01-17 07:52 (UTC)

"Arrows aren't much good without a bow." Beleth replies dryly. Well, she's killed someone by shoving an arrow through their eye, but--that isn't an act she really wants to replace.

Then suddenly there's a cat, and you have to have a heart harder than Beleth's to not be pleased to have a cat headbutting you for attention. But apparently, the cat is even smarter than the average cat, running off as soon as it's approached by a human. Same. Beleth thinks sardonically, even as she's taking Alan's hand and pulling herself up.

There's a moment before she pulls away where she squints at Alan, inspecting him. Then her hand reaches out, pressing against his forehead. "Did you get hurt? Do you need to sit down for a moment? I mean--it's not a great place to rest, but if you aren't doing well..." Ya look like shit, bro.

Even so, she begins following the cat, keeping an eye on Alan like he might keel over at any moment. There are sounds of battle throughout the garden, and Beleth freezes every time she hears a particularly loud sound, but...so far, no one.

"I'll be fine." His skin's clammy with cold sweat. Gross. "But we're running out of tricks."

Wizard needs food badly, etc. He tags close to her heels as they emerge; for the time being he's trapped in this shape, behind a human pair of eyes. She'll do better in the darkness of the Garden, lit irregularly by patches of spreading fire and deep shade.

It's eerie, the stillness of the space around them — an eye in the center of the storm. Stripes leaps effortlessly up to a birdbath, and settles to regard them both.

"We can go up," He whispers, pointing to the trellis. The climb's a short one, but if anyone spots them, well. "Or we can take our chances on the stairs."

Closer to the thick of the fighting, in more open view. But perhaps it might give them time to run. To plunge ahead, deeper into the green, lies only certain danger.

For a moment, Beleth contemplates seeing if any of the downed Templars have lyrium, than quickly remembers why that would be a horrible idea. And there's no signs of any Venatori who might have it. Well, now they're both equally Fucked.

But not quite as Fucked as previously estimated. When Alan points out the trellis, Beleth cautiously approaches it, glancing around for any enemies. Then she gives it a quick shake, to judge it's sturdiness. Apparently deeming it satisfactory, she turns and mutters some apology about indiscretion to Alan, and proceeds to hike her skirt to her knees, tying the extra material in a knot. Whoa there.

From there, it takes little time for Beleth to scale the trellis like a particularly well dressed squirrel, perching at the top and staring down at Alan, purple eyes glowing in what is not a specifically sinister look but wouldn't be out of place for a gargoyle. Climbing was one of the few things she could do here--it was, after all, what lead her to finding shelter on the top of a bookshelf.

"Your turn."

Edited 2017-01-22 00:41 (UTC)

Knees. It's scandalous — or it would be if he generally laid more importance on the whole concept of exposed skin. Not that it's a bad view, just, nice legs are more important when you're not potentially all about to die.

He starts up with another mumbled line of scripture, and leaps to grab the the framework. Alan can climb, sure, it's just that it's hard to remember the last time he climbed on his own arms and legs. It slows him down a beat, that disconnect between how it should be, and how it is now.

It's just long enough for the cat to put up his hackles and yowl loudly into the dark.

The first red templar closes the distance at a sprint. Alan throws an arm up, Lion King-style, desperately trying to scrabble over the top of the ledge. There's a bellow from below, they've been sighted.

Wow, Alan, how dare you pay more attention to not getting murdered than Beleth's bangin' body? Just for that, she might pull a Scar on Alanfasa. Long live the King.

OR: Not.

Unaware of any SLIGHTS against her legs, Beleth looks at the Templars, than looks at Alan, and edges her legs into the room, to brace against the wall while she grabs onto his arm with both hands. While she's never been exactly muscular, years of archery tends to leave one with arms that have a decent amount of strength. That is to say, she may not be winning any arm wrestling tournaments any time soon, but at the least, she can help pull a scrawny supposed Avvar over a ledge.

Of course, pulling him over the ledge can also result in her falling back once he gets into the room, leaving them crumpled in an undignified heap on the floor. It remains, however, a step up from having to deal with the red templars that are still shouting and carrying on beneath the window. Beleth heaves a sigh, while generously removing her elbow from Alan's ribs.

"Well. That could have gone worse."

"Thank you."

If they weren’t even before, they certainly are now. Alan coughs, rattling for breath. It’s a very nice elbow that Beleth's got, too. It’ll leave a very ladylike set of bruises. Quite refined.

The rooms around them are lavishly-appointed, barely touched by the fury of the night. Silk brocade flows in plush font wherever fur and velvet end. Priceless little objets d’art seem to glint from every corner — and it’s difficult to miss the blunter nooks by their entrance point, where on any other day a bodyguard might stand to nock a crossbow.

The rug they’re lying on might be woven with the finest care, but in its pattern lie a number of blood-repelling enchantments.

A grand arching doorway takes up nearly the whole of an interior wall. Its massive doors are too thick to budge or blast through, marked deeply with the signs of locks both magical and mundane. There’s an odd hollow in the marble column beside it, into which someone’s jammed a dozen or so little deer statuettes with distinctive curving horns. They’re chipped, charred, and generally look as though they’ve had a worse time of the night than anyone still living below.

What they're doing here… well, who knows?

And who cares, because someone’s left the doors ajar. Alan eyes them from the ground, as he considers the possibility of just lying here for the rest of forever. There are worse places to be: No one’s bothering him at the moment, and now that she’s not busy crushing his lungs, Beleth’s pretty decent company.

But even in their state, it’s probably only a matter of time before the templars figure out stairs. He staggers to his feet. Broken shards of bottle mingle with pulp from a carelessly overturned fruitbowl by the bookcase.

One small vial, miraculously intact, gleams with a heady blue light — another seems to be some sort of elfroot tincture. He eyes both hungrily. Alan’s always been told to avoid lyrium, but tonight presents something of an exception.

"Here," He waits until he has her eye to toss the elfroot. Come on Beleth. Let’s get fuckin lit. "Just in case."

All of Beleth is ladylike and trained to leave only the most refined of bruises, goodness, Alan.

She stays on the rug as Alan stands, watching him stand and move around the room, upside-down. "Those are halla." In response to the little statuettes. Because that might be useful, somehow. It does make her roll over and get to her feet, so she can inspect them closer. "...Odd." They were well-carved, too, though it was hard to tell with the wear and tear on some of them. After she's looked them all over, she picks out the one that looks the best and tucks it away. Git rekt, Celene.

Speaking of stealing shit from Celene, Beleth turns when Alan calls, and just manages to catch the vial before it conks her in the head. At least she would be healed from the broken glass in short order. Luckily, that's been avoided, and she pockets it, as well. "Thank you, Alan."

Looking around the room, it dawns on Beleth that there is more here than just flying vials and halla statuettes. There's some paintings, bigger statues, other uninteresting things that nobles like, as well as some chests. Beleth is not usually one to condone robbing an Empress--that tends to end, ah. Bloodily. However, there's already more than enough blood being spilled tonight, and it can't hurt to see if there's anything that will help.

She moves from chest to chest, peeking in them, until one causes her to gasp softly. From the chest, she pulls out a rather pretty bow, and a quiver of arrows along with it. There's a moment spent inspecting the bow with her eyes, than with her fingers. "This is Elvhen," She pronounces, and instantly decides that it's hers, now. Even if they weren't nearly unarmed in the middle of a bloody attempted coup, no shemlen deserved to carry a relic of the ancient elves, not while treating their descendants so poorly.

Alan doesn't need to hear her lecture, however. Instead, she stands up, slinging the quiver on her back, the bow around an arm. Now she doesn't feel quite as helpless. She has a weapon, a weapon that she's good at. Maybe they'll survive after all.

The rest of it moves in quick succession:

A few shots of lyrium (his), a few shots of lightning off the balcony (hers), a few small and valuable tokens slipped into a coat (mine).

None of it's so noticeable as Beleth's new prize, nor half so deadly. But the slight new weight of his pockets is a comfort — as though a small tangible shield against the horror of events unfolding.

Yes, they'll survive after all.

Edited 2017-01-31 06:23 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART II

his ears are literally bleeding. well. throat. that's near the ears

i can get his ears too if you want

ear collecting is gauche, bels

#yolo

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