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!

Threaded | Flat

All night, the small parlor has been the exclusive domain of The Dowager, Lady Mantillon, perhaps the most influential member of the Council of Heralds. Perhaps her attendants "invited" you in for an audience just before the ball devolved into chaos, or maybe you jumped in to try to hide from the madness of the attack. Either way, this antechamber is now your refuge, along with a handful of other Inquisition personnel, two of the Dowager's personal guard, and the imperious old lady herself, currently sheltered behind two maids, who to their credit have not yet devolved into hysterics as many guests have done.

There are only two ways in or out. The door, which is actually double doors, to be precise. The wood is delicately gilded in an elaborate pattern and the knobs are lion heads, but it is perhaps not the sturdiest, and its lock is more ornamental than functional, a token obstacle at best. On the whole the door is unlikely to delay attackers very long. Luckily, there are several large pieces of furniture about the room that might be formed into a makeshift barricade if anyone feels so inclined.

Or, on the other hand, there is the window. Three stories up it is safe from the attention of those marauding the grounds, but also provides limited escape options. There are vines and stonework that one could climb down, but it is a dangerous path. If one reaches the bottom safely, the hazards do not end there: out in the courtyard marauding bands of Freemen can be seen, setting fire to elaborate topiary lions, tearing down a statue, assailing a gate, chasing screaming packs of nobles and rounding them up for slaughter or ransom. Nearest the window, a group of attackers can be seen attempting to force their way into a small, walled section of the garden, which is being defended by what looks to be a group of mostly servants and mostly elves. They are making a valiant stand to hold the barred gate, but they look barely armed, and unlikely to last very long.

From outside the parlor, heavy footfalls come closer, the doorknob is jiggled, and then a shoulder thumps into the wood. The man trying the door shouts to his comrades to come help see what's in here, and a clamor of boots can be heard approaching. What are you going to do?

The idea of a force as small and ragtag as the Freemen of the Dales mounting a concerted attack on the gates of Halamshiral is almost unthinkable. And yet here they are, the area around the South Gate engulfed in the chaos of their assault. The air is thick and dark, some sort of explosion having thrown up a cloud of smoke and dust that burns the eyes and chokes the lungs. Swords clang, arrows zip, men shout direction and scream in pain.

The most consistent cries are those of the young Duke Cyril de Montfort, shouting orders and oaths in equal measure as he attempts to rally the defense. The bright gold of his tunic is visible even through the dusk and debris, stationed just inside the wide-open gate, slashing and parrying as he attempts to stem the tide of Freemen streaming into the palace to aid their fellows in wreaking havoc within. With him, a pair of palace guards, one's face already streaked with blood from a nasty dent in his helmet, another forced to abandon his shield, one arm hanging limp at his side. Several other guards lie dead nearby, and many Freemen as well, but those that yet live are pressing hard, threatening to outflank Cyril and his comrades and overwhelm the gate entirely.

Shouts ring back and forth between the Duke and a pair of guardsmen in one of the gatehouses, a great hole blown in its side. Within, the two guards are trying frantically to repair the mechanism that controls the portcullis, damaged by a blast and currently jammed open, allowing the attackers to stream inside unchecked except by Cyril himself. Arrows ping off the stones around them, and one is forced the hold the gap against attack while the other fumbles with a mess of chains and ropes and gears.

At some point in the battle, a few Inquisition soldiers on horseback charge through and out the gate, squeezing around the edge of the crowd of Freemen to harry them from the rear. It adds to the general chaos and distracts the enemy, forcing them to divide their attention rather than focus solely on taking the gate. Their heroic assistance will unfortunately leave them still outside the gate when the portcullis is finally repaired. Save your own or aid the Duke - you can't do both.

Not expecting the night to go smoothly, Korrin is ready and able the moment screams reach her ears. Blurring forward on waves of magic, the Vashoth woman shows similar disregard for the meticulously-crafted surroundings in favor of stopping the source of the chaos...or at least mitigating it somewhat. Peering around, she narrows her eyes as spreading flames block the path of a small group of civilians whose only other route is cut off by emerging Freemen and Red Templars. They're the last people she expected to see in the Winter Palace, but there's no time to stand around slack-jawed.

Brandishing her staff, Korrin sends a powerful blast of ice to put out the flames, gesturing emphatically for the party-goers to flee. "Move, now!" Fortunately, they don't need to be told twice, and she turns her attention to the forces spreading out to encircle her. While that they do that, she casts a barrier over herself and sneers. "Hurry up, I haven't got all night!"

And then she spots movement out of the corner of her eye that she can only hope isn't an ally of theirs. "I could use a little help over here!"

Malcolm is in conversation with Duchess Trellier, her loud and unfortunate gaggle in tow, speaking around her blatant support of Celene. She's a charming enough woman who keeps wondering, agape, at the idea that the Inquisition doesn't have dedicated artists to write of, sing of, or draw the exploits of their deeds, and he's about to suggest that they haven't quite those kind of funds (hint hint) when there's a disruption through the hall. Almost out of nowhere come Freemen, out of the woodwork and out of the servants. They slam shut doors to the ballroom, and his breath catches in his throat when he sees the glint of Red Templar armor marching in. The artists recoil in horror when the screaming starts, and the Duchess takes a shaky step back, her hands over her mouth.

"Stay down," is his only quiet warning to the Duchess and her entourage before he hurls the glass of wine in his hand at the nearest Freeman and doesn't stay still enough to see it hit him across the face with a shatter of glass and a grunt of pain from the shards and the alcohol in his eyes. Malcolm launches himself for a candelabra nearly as tall as himself, bringing it up candles-first at a woman with a sword apparently trying to make up for her compatriot's distraction. She leans back, nearly falling down the stairs to avoid the flames jabbing at her, and he takes that moment to swing around the heavy base into her, knocking her into her companion in a heap.

Letting the candelabra drop, he unhooks the tuft of leather around his neck and shoulders, diving for the downed Freemen, picking up the woman's sword and sticking them both without hesitation. The leather he hefts up in his off hand as a makeshift shield. It won't do much against swords, but when a couple arrows are let loose, two thunk into the leather, the tips of them edging through the fur lining and biting into the flesh of his arm, but he can deal with that later.

These Freemen, and more importantly the Templars, need dispatching before attention can be turned to rescuing those trapped inside, and he can't do it alone.

At first Teren thinks she's imagining it, that she's had a bit too much to drink and her ears are becoming more sensitive to the noise: but no, she slowly begins to realize, the energy level of the room has just skyrocketed and people are shouting. She looks around in quiet dismay as the panic begins, casting about for Benevenuta or Kaisa, then proceeds to push her way through the crowd, her heartbeat seeming to quicken more with every second.
Flaming arrows hit the curtains and the room begins to smoke, the walls to burn; everything is mayhem and Teren has to grab onto a banister to keep from being jostled about and knocked over and trampled.
"Be still, you fools," she groans to no one in particular, cupping a hand over her mouth and edging along above the dance floor.

Don't lose your head, von Skraedder. This isn't the way you go out, not trapped in a palatial oven with a thousand shrieking Orlesian nobles.
The fire must go out. The doors must be opened. Order must be restored, somehow.
...somehow.

It's been a nice dance. So nice that Cade has almost begun to relax, to enjoy the brisk night air and the clear sky and the warm light emanating from the Winter Palace as he and Beleth go about their secluded steps on a balcony off the side hall. They've been quiet for a while, just thinking and letting the faint music from the ballroom guide them, and then it stops. Cade steps back and is mid-bow when the first scream pierces the night, followed then by others in quick succession, and a rapid descent into what sounds like total panic back toward the main party.

Shooting Beleth a look both confused and abruptly on-guard, Cade moves past her to open the balcony door and enter the now-deserted smaller parlor, across which extends a brand new path of bloodstains leading out into the red-flickering hallway.

Once Cade had seen Seeker Reed, he'd dashed off to go aid him--leaving Beleth with very little in the way of weapons, defense, or even a human meatshield. Thanks. Malcolm can have fun talking him down after the fight, see if she cares! It had, however, left Beleth in a precarious position.

One that had lead to her current predicament, perched on top of a bookcase, with several Freemen baring down--up--at her. Luckily, they don't appear to be much for climbing, but they were certainly trying. Whenever one gets both hands occupied with the bookcase, Beleth grabs one of the books and drops it down on his face. It's not the best strategy, but her options are somewhat limited. At least there's conversation to be had.

"The Dales do not belong to you!" She hisses as she lobs a particularly heavy book at one. "It belongs to the Dalish, that's why we're called Dalish."

It's around this time they drag a table over and start stacking chairs on it. Well. Shit.

The Marquise Bernadette Charbonnier and the Lady Odette Charbonnier are incredibly difficult to tell apart.

So it’s not immediately clear which one of them is upright, and which is leaking blood all over the very expensive rug. Neither has the shriek that rang out from the chamber just a few seconds prior lent any particular clues. But the one still standing is shaking with — fear? Rage? The Rhythm in her Soul? It’s just so hard to tell.

There’s a young man crouched over the body, looking for all the world, well. Troubled and slightly drunk, mostly.

“She’s hurt,”

He announces, voice strained. That was probably apparent from the stab wounds. There’s a discarded steak knife, not two feet away. Alan lifts his hand, faint heat rising between his fingers, and the woman in the corner screams again:

“Help! Help me, assassin!”

Shouting about the Freemen might have been a smarter play, but the Lady Odette has never had her sister’s wits.

Edited 2017-01-10 07:58 (UTC)

ANDERS.

"And--" Alistair begins to say when he sees the mage in the gardens, before he realizes that shouting that name in a crowd may not be wise, unless his strategy is to see if the Freemen and Orlesian nobility would be willing to put aside their differences and gang up on one man. That would be one way to solve things. But not a way Alistair would like, personally, so no go on the shouting.

He lets whatever he was going to say die after that one syllable and makes his way over bodily, pausing on the way to stoop down and steal a hand ax off a body. What should have been a smooth grab makes him lurch and nearly topple over. But he makes it back up straight on his feet without incident, and two steps later grabs a grizzled man by the shoulder to hold both of them steady while Alistair cuts his throat, and then. Then Anders.

"Are you all right?" Whatever Anders is doing, however important it is, Alistair puts a hand on his shoulder, too, because he is not all right. He has blood matted in his hair that's too thick and concentrated to be someone else's, and also blood staining one of his eyes, and--most problematic--blood streaking the watery fluid that's beginning to leak out of one of his ears. But he grins with minimal grimacing, because adrenaline, and because finding Anders means he's probably not going to keel over and die. "Did you see that statue?"

SABINE.

He's not looking for her. He's just--looking for her. But while doing other helpful things! Like swinging the flat side of a stolen ax at a spotty teenaged Freeman's exposed head hard enough to drop him for a while, if not permanently, or catching a panicked man in finery by the waist and swinging him around to redirect his panicked run in a direction that won't result in his immediate death. Je vous en prie.

Maybe Alistair should be looking for the Empress or the Grand Duke, but other people are already doing that. Probably. They might even already have been recovered; the tide has clearly turned, the surrenders are kicking in. They just haven't spready this far, yet, and now someone's lit the draperies in the corridors on fire as well. Maybe not even intentionally. All these mages--

He doesn't recognize her by her hair, because the fire's making everything firey. He knows her by her build now. (Progress.) There are already people--mages, possibly undoing their own damage--putting out the fire, so there's no dishonor in darting after her, pushing through people who are trying to go the opposite direction, around a corner and back into the thinning fray. Someone's trying to loot a bedroom. He doesn't care enough to stop them.

"Sabine," he calls after her when he's close, and then, immediately sheepishly fake-defensive: "I wasn't looking for you."

ANYONE ELSE.

Find him in the fighting, trying to tank without armor or a shield! Or afterwards, covered in blood and coughing from the smoke.

i. The room explodes all at once and Thranduil sets his wine glass down neatly on a nearby table. Over the shrieking, the yelling, the smell of fear and the crackle of fire starting to consume the hangings. None of those running are mages he recognizes—they ought to freeze the hangings. He spares a thought to the beautiful libraries throughout the palace, and supposes it is for the best that the palace is mostly stone.

(It’s elven land, after all.)

He knows where he last saw Galadriel in the room, and the crowd parts for him because he calls the full weight of the glamour to bear, shifts their sight, lets the screaming herd part for him. She looks resplendent in white, finally freed from the awful trousers and tunic she seems to end up whenever they’re at Skyhold. He offers her his arm, the mannerisms of Doriath still innate.

“My lady. I assume you won’t need my assistance to find a way out?” He has others to locate—Gwenaelle, for one, Beleth—he ought to find himself a sword. There’s a thin dagger in his boot, but he ought to keep that secret until he really needs it.

ii. He’d made jokes to Obi-Wan earlier, about plans, and there had been a conversation a few weeks before about his behavior and the way he ought to be considering his actions, but—this? Not his fault. Not his fault in the least, and Galadriel was innocent as well.

He’s found a sword, somewhere along the way (off a dead body) and the carefully tailored robe has been cut off at the knee. It suits him, oddly enough—there’s an artful smear of blood on his forehead, his hair is immaculate—in other words, he’s as infuriating as ever when he spots Obi-Wan in the long hallway, also presumably hiding for a few moments to catch his breath. The main hall is burning, but the smoke hasn’t reached the balcony yet.

“Have you seen Cassandra?” he asks, speaking low, sheathing the sword and reaching back to braid his hair. It’s the only pause he’s gotten in the past few hours, and with no one in sight trying to kill them, he’s going to use it.

iii. He’s never been able to forget how young she is. Someone her age should still be with the scholars, learning how to form Tengwar, studying history, learning the bow—but Thedas isn’t fair. She’s still a fighter, in training to become a bard—and he is inescapably proud of her when her dagger finds its mark in the neck of a Freeman sulking around in the room.

“Beleth,” he says, very careful to announce himself, slipping out from glamour and shadow both. He waits until she relaxes, and then he smiles, warm and glad to see her whole. “Are you injured?”

He suspects he won’t be able to persuade her to leave—they both have friends here, and she won’t leave them behind. Not until she’s sure all of them are safe. They have a moment, though, and he intends to take advantage of it.

iv. He'll be in the ballroom/main hall for most of the night, and then disappear into the night to deal with the situation at the gate. Go bother him in the middle of it.

Edited 2017-01-16 03:42 (UTC)

obi-wan in the parlor with the lightsabers

This isn't Rey's fight. And yet, like other fights that weren't hers, she has found herself right in the middle of it. Woefully unarmed, as weapons weren't allowed into the palace and her staff was quite obvious. When the commotion starts she's quick to duck down a hall, avoiding being seen mostly by luck and the darker color of the tunic she's wearing. She makes her way to the last place she saw Obi-Wan, hoping he might still be nearby, or looking for her.

She doesn't notice the elves following after her. Not until one of them grabs her just as she comes upon a small skirmish in the galleria, the distinct hum of a lightsaber distracting her. She lets out a yelp as she's dragged back in the hallway, and a blade is held unceremoniously to her throat. This lasts all of two seconds, however, as she gets her knee up between her and her assailant and kicks out, pushing with the Force to give her a head start. She pushes away from the wall and runs out into the hall again, dodging swords and fleeing dignitaries as she searches for her master. The elves pursue her, more out of personal annoyance now than an actual desire to capture her.

the palace halls

After she has her lightsaber, Rey is emboldened to strike out on her own, to help where needed. It's a weapon that makes it almost too easy when fighting those with knives and swords, though the Red Templars provide more of a challenge. Dodging their strange magic and the fact that they don't seem to feel pain meant just the threat of death wasn't necessarily enough.

So Rey is fighting her way through a hall, when she spots someone else doing much the same. Taking the head off a Red Templar with the sweep of her lightsaber she calls out to them.

"Have you seen anyone in trouble who can't fight?"

The tides are turning. The Inquisition and those of Orlais who had decided to fight back have managed, somehow, to actually get ahead. The Red Templars and the Freemen weren't, apparently, expecting this much resistance; they almost certainly weren't expecting what some of the Rifters can do with their shards and the number of mages that no longer need a staff to use their magic. The edge toward winning means Merrill is moving through the bodies, trying to find those still able to be saved and fighting off those who would end their lives instead. There is magic crackling at her fingertips, ready to be released at a moments notice. She is expecting a fight.

She is not expecting to find Martel, covered in blood and not breathing. She is not expecting to find her brother, dead among several minor nobles and Freemen and Red Templars.

A Red Templar turns, sees her standing there. He's about to shout when Merrill screams, a cry of agony and of rage. Lightning shoots out from her hands in an arc, hitting the man in the chest and spiraling off to electrocute any other enemies nearby as well. One of their own killed her brother, but Merrill doesn't follow through just yet. She drops to her knees, hands going to haul Martel's lifeless body up to her chest. He feels heavier than he did in life, still recovering from being tortured; it makes her sob, tears falling and mixing with his blood, hands desperately gripping at his clothes.

She has lost another member of her Clan, another member of her family. Martel is gone and Merrill, for the moment, is lost with him.

Threaded | Flat

SCENARIO 1: Dance with Abandon

SCENARIO 2: Dukes Up

The Gardens

outside the ballroom

The Ballroom

with Beleth

Library

Small Room off the Main Hall

various.