OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART II

[faderifting]

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!

Comments

[laurenande]

The hall beyond was marked with signs of construction, the closed off corridors were filled with dust and tools but little else; the path between the ballroom and the kitchens was clear of everything save a few stray fires. The doors to the kitchen, unfortunately, were held by the same men who took the ballroom and who had very excitedly set the whole palace ablaze. They were of little consequence, overall, but they barred the path and had to be dealt with.

"We are not dressed for unabashed slaughter, but if I cast them aside as one I shall not be able to open a path through these walls. Are you armed?"

[rowancrowned]

He takes a moment to bend, appears to fuss with his boots—and a small, sharp knife appears in his hands. Elven-made, and nothing particularly fancy—but good enough for hiding in a shoe when the invitation clearly states that there were to be no weapons allowed.

“I will hold the glamour to kill that one—“ he gestures to the man on the left with the knife, apparently unconcerned. “—take his sword,” though it was poorly made. “And handle the one on the right. If the glamour should fail, Galadriel, I assume you will aid me, but I would prefer to keep them from raising the alarm. They may have hostages—and these are not my warfare boots.”

[laurenande]

"Of course I will aid you," Galadriel agrees, as though they were discussing something banal--the state of the weather, perhaps, instead of tactics and killing.

"We cannot, after all, put hostages in danger."

[rowancrowned]

They are not speaking of the death of elves. They are speaking of the death of Men, and Men die every day. He waits for a moment when one looks away from the window, and steps to them, boldly-- they cannot see him, they cannot hear him-- and he slits the throat of the first before kneeing him in the back to send him flying forward. The other turns-- and Thranduil is there with the knife, this time through his eye. It takes a matter of seconds, and their swords hit the floor only after he's done.

He steps over the pooling blood to pick up the sword and the belt, tying it around his waist and pursing his lips at the roughness of the crafting. Brows raised, he offers it to Galadriel, knicks and all-- and then rethinks it to offer another knife instead, pilfered from the Man who had. The noise was negligible-- beyond some gurgling and a choked off scream, lost in the greater noise.

"Nine," Thranduil says, pleased, and then. "I am counting kills for Duinenor. He... requested it of me."

Stiffly. Maybe edging on defensive. "I ought to have left one for you."