A Very Official Party

[arlathvhen]

WHO: Division leaders and everyone who signed up
WHAT: The leaders + the viscount are throwing a very fancy party to introduce Inquisition people to Hightown nobles and prove that they aren't demons
WHEN: 29th of Harvestmere (day before Satinalia)
WHERE: Some mansion in hightown
NOTES: OOC post!

The mansion of the hightown noble tasked with hosting the party is tastefully decorated for the event.
There's a few references to the approaching Satinalia here and there, but it is clearly not a costume
party, and none of the nobles are wearing masks. Tomorrow they may done their costumes, but for now,
it's important for the Inquisition for faces to be be seen.

There's plenty of food to be had, either on a table off to a side, or via one of the servants carrying
around trays, filled will little snacks and glasses of wine. Inquisition guests will be forewarned
that while they are not prohibited from drinking--It would, after all, look super sketchy if the
entire Inquisition abstained from drinks--they are under no circumstances to become intoxicated.

The other guests are the nobles, who look like an indecisive mixture of excited, gleeful, and
terrified. There's an air about them as they chatter amongst themselves that they are currently
engaged in something quite thrilling, if dangerous. Talking to the rifters! Possible demons, right
before their eyes! They clump into their own groups for the most part, but as the party starts in
earnest, braver souls will begin to peel off from the others to go inspect the guests and speak to
them. As the party winds on, the groups will slowly begin to disperse and mix with the Inquisition
freely.

Inquisition guests are, naturally, encouraged to approach these groups or individuals directly.

Closer to the end of the night, the division leaders will break off from the rest of the party, and
along with the Viscount, make their way off to a private room to converse on how the affair has gone.

Try to behave while they're gone (and in general) or you might find yourself facing a list of the
worst jobs Petra could concoct the next morning.

Comments

The Meeting With The Viscount

[arlathvhen]

Hopefully, it won't end with everyone getting kicked out of Kirkwall.

[rowancrowned]

Dressed rather sedately in an embroidered tunic and simple trousers, Thranduil has scaled back any intimidation factor by virtue of dressing down and braiding his hair over one shoulder. It will not win hearts and minds, but it lessens the blow of—everything else. He has drank, he has smiled, he has spoken softly and allowed his palm to be examined by any who asked. He wears this skin well, but his polite excuses do not cause him difficulty when the other Heads catch his eye and it comes time to meet the Viscount proper.

He steps away and joins them, following Beleth and Petra to the back room that Bran has chosen, making no move to speak first.

James Norrington | Open

[judgemewhole]

Yes, no worries, Kirkwall nobility, you are not here alone with the rifter-demons and the blood-thirsty elves. James is the personal arm-candy of Division Leader Beleth Ashara tonight, and he is wearing the formal uniform that Vivienne had him have made, in the Inquisition green and gold, with the official marking of his rank hanging off of the gold sash, as well as his sword, which held the cross-hilt of a Templar of the Faith.

He took a single glass of wine, and while Beleth made nice, stood his ground against a parade of nobles who noted the Templar uniform, or had heard of his reputation as 'Short Drop Sudden Stop' Norrington. A Blood mage hunter was quite popular, in a place like Kirkwall.

Still, he does manage to slip away more than once to hide out on a balcony, just to get some fresh air, or behind the curtains by the food table, so he can ruddy well get something to eat without having to worry about speaking with his mouth full.

Either way, he is here to be firm -- but congenial.

[arlathvhen]

Beleth isn't too surprised that she hasn't had much opportunity to speak to her personal arm-candy since the start of the party. This is work, and both of them are busy doing their jobs. Still, when she notices that he's stepped out, right as she's finished up with a noble, she decides to take advantage of the mutual break.

And quite frankly, she could use some air, as well.

"I daresay that you've managed to be more popular than I am, tonight." Her tone is gentle and teasing, as she steps onto the balcony, leaning against the railing. "Hasn't anyone told you that all eyes are supposed to be on the woman? The only eyes I had on me were of jealous ladies." The factual nature of that statement is made all the more suspect by her mischievous smile, though she's aware that it's not entirely untrue. Even among Inquisition agents. But...that'd be rude to point out.

Inessa Serra (Open)

[circleprodigy]

Inessa holds her barely-sipped glass of wine, more to give her hands something to do than anything else. Inwardly, she's wondering if her choice to attend was the right one. An elf mage is never going to be popular with the nobility, though her Grey Warden status might just give enough leeway. At the very least, she can be an example of a well-mannered agent of the Inquisition, and she notes those curious glances. Sooner or later, probably after a drink or two, the nobles will get braver or curiosity will get the better of them. They'll want to know about the 'demons' that came through the rift, along with everything else. When they do, she'll be ready to help clear up some misconceptions.

Until then, she'll glance around and manage a smile whenever her gaze meets that of someone familiar.

Re: Inessa Serra (Open)

[judgemewhole]

Friends help friends - especially at a party with nobles when all you want to do is escape and spend some time with your dog. So when Inessa is standing there, trying to look as respectable as possible, James appears at her elbow with a plate filled with ... whatever odd food this is.

He holds it out, as he looks off at the middle distance. "If you are going to make it through the evening, you are going to have to bolster your strength."

[tactical_alert]

Malcolm is always ready to put on a face and play nice. One must always be ready for such a thing when rolling with diplomats. He doesn't anticipate any incidents; nobles are hardly going to start a fist fight with anyone, even the Rifters. And while he does still hold his own reservations about the people that fall from the sky, they're hardly the demons that he's heard whispers of.

He's never been an outgoing, extroverted sort, but for the sake of this shindig, he's willing to attempt to make the first move with some of the guests. Minor trivialities that will go, usually, either to the Rifters or to the Chantry's stance, although some ask him for personal stories, hunting down maleficar and rogue Templars alike. (None of them directly ask, but there is certainly the question behind some eyes--what took the Seekers so long to act on Meredith? Why did they only show up after everything had already happened? But unless asked directly, he will ignore any and all implications.)

His formal black jacket has seen some wear, though he hasn't bothered to pay for something new tailored. The stitches are difficult to discern at best, and if there is any old blood that didn't manage to get washed out, well, the black certainly blends it in. But he notes he ought to look into getting a replacement. When not forcing himself to socialize, he's standing to the side, back to wall, watching. Anticipating. With a drink in his hand he only barely drinks from now and again.

Geneviève De La Fontaine [open]

[bouclier]

Putting on a pretty face and rubbing elbows with the elite is at least a partial requirement of chevalier. Being Orlesian, even in the uncivilized Free Marches it would be a terrible faux pas for Evie to wear the same dress she'd worn to some other party. Tonight she's dressed in gold, the enamel feather pin identifying her as a chevalier fixed carefully to the top of her bodice.

She looks entirely comfortable with where she is, and moves from group to group with the careful ease of someone who doesn't want to sit still for too long, but lingers long enough so it doesn't look like she would rather be somewhere else.

When she isn't acting as a human sorbet between the nobility and the possibility of working up to speaking with an actual rifter, she can be grabbed for a dance or a drink. She will be more enthusiastic about the latter, but wouldn't refuse the former. Not where people were watching, anyway.

Re: Geneviève De La Fontaine [open]

[judgemewhole]

"Yes, I rather should have figured you would show up in absolutely drenched in frippery." James stated with a completely straight face, as he came up to her elbow as she was chatting with one of the nobles. He dipped his head into a bow, before arching an eyebrow at her with a faint smile on his lips.

"Forgive my intrusion, but the Chevalier has of course, captured the entire room's attention. Of what are we speaking?"

wren coupe | OTA

[limier]

Wren smiles.

Stranger things have happened: There are holes torn through the Veil, an ancient Magister rules a militant cult, and just a few weeks back a monster from the deeps spat acid at everyone.

But she smiles, and laughs quietly; corrals and is corralled. And —



a.) TAKING A BREATHER

— Pours half her wine discreetly into a potted plant. The balcony’s unwatched as she approaches, a hand extended (not so far as to graze an elbow, but perhaps imply it),

"Taking the view?" Breath curls on the chilling air. She’s had enough views from the ballroom for the moment; best to recompose before herding anyone back towards the fray.


b.) STALKER

It would be improper to seek out the servants tonight. That doesn’t mean they may be neglected entire; they’ve as much a picture of the guests as any other present.

"Do not look now," Wren murmurs, slipping forward to take an arm. "But you are being followed."

It lilts with the implication of a joke. A corner glance reveals the cheese plate girl lingering, eyes wide.


c.) WILDCARD

[ hmu ooc if it’s too wild ♥ ]

a

[circleprodigy]

Inessa turns abruptly, her own wine glass barely touched but not relinquished just yet. She smiles to see Wren, not seeing to mind the chill air in the slightest...but then, she is Fereldan and compared to Skyhold, it's not that bad.

"Something like that, yes. It's strange to be anywhere without Garahel, but I know he's being properly spoiled." Ciri wouldn't have it any other way, and that's assuming he hasn't roped others into helping. "How do you fare tonight?"

b;

[foxsays]

An arm in hers doesn't make Araceli jump. For a second her jaw tightens; the woman is tall enough to make her almost uncomfortable. But they're in public without the masks Orlais demanded so she turns her mouth up into a smile. Girlish.

"Isn't that the point of leaving on a good line," Araceli doesn't turn to look, strains the edges of her eyes until it hurts instead. "Leave them wanting more?"

Unless it's the one who wants to talk about tariffs, no one comes to parties to talk tariffs. (Who even invited you Nigel?)

so wild, so card

[arlathvhen]

Approaching someone who might not want to approach you in the middle of a party is not too different from sneaking up on prey while on the hunt. It takes practice, to learn to wind your way around to out of the target's vision. She doesn't have trees to hide behind, but groups of tittering nobles provide just as good of cover. Maybe better.

It's simple enough to move quietly in soft slippers--there's a reason Beleth prefers them to any shoes that would be more difficult to maneuver in. And so it is that as a noble passes Wren, she all but appears at the Templar's elbow, a glass of wine in her hand.

"I hope it's not too early to assess the evening as going well." She says lightly, and takes a sip of the wine, staring at the party rather than her involuntary companion. "But nothing is on fire yet, and I've not seen a single fistfight. So, not as bad as it could be."

[misdirection_hex]

If ever Vandelin has considered forgoing robes in favor of trousers, his conversation with Nell has put an immediate end to that consideration. Bad enough to be thought unsteady in his convictions, or lacking in the mage pride he advocates, or too afraid of repercussion to be open about his magic--it would be positively unbearable to look like he's changed his mind because someone told him he should.

But neither does he want to be counterproductive to the goal of diplomacy here, and upon receiving the invitation to attend the party as Madame de Cedoux's attache, he had grudgingly accepted that the time had come to obtain an outfit that wouldn't make him look like The Littlest Magister. There is no such thing as a set of mage robes that can be truly neutral in design; the garments are themselves inherently political, and he means them to be--but the ones he wears now, silver-accented green and vaguely reminiscent of the style once worn in the Gallows, evoke Tevinter only in the barest details. He's here to set wealthy minds at ease, not put them on edge.

(As if he can any more avoid that than his original robes could avoid calling slavery and blood magic to mind; as if an elven mage walking into the party on the arm of a casteless dwarven Legionnaire won't raise noble eyebrows. But the nobles wouldn't be here, would they, if they weren't open to being convinced of the Inquisition's usefulness. It's a foothold.)

He wanders the room with an untouched glass of champagne, his curiosity about the taste of it outweighed by his desire to remain in the starkest, clearest control of his faculties. Mostly, for now, he listens.

[ragweed]

It's possible someone else, in the history of unhappy attendees of fancy galas, has looked more uncomfortable than Kit does in his starchily pressed attire, hobnobbing with the rich and schmoozing with the influential. Possible, but not likely.

"Ancestors," he mutters under his breath once he's finished speaking to some Kirkwaller with more money than sense, stiffly holding a glass of champagne in one hand, "I think these pants could stand up on their own, if I weren't wearing them. This is worse than plate mail. Is my shirt on straight? I feel like it's not on straight."

Best get the complaining out of the way early--he's got to make a good impression here.

[foxsays]

The island hadn't been the best of places to try to speak with Vandelin. Too much going on, too swept up (quite literally) in all of it to really speak but since both of them are here, Araceli slips away from the man she'd been slightly trapped with. It's odd to not have Korrin somewhere about at a party - she'd been at the Winter Palace after all - but looking about at the company?

Well it's not Korrin's thing. It's Araceli's old-made-new-and-different thing. There's always a way to find yourself on the back foot as someone watches your hand reaching for a glass on a passing tray as if it's a viper about to go for the throat of the serving girl.

"Enchanter Elris," polite, quiet enough not to draw the attention of everyone else. "You should take a sip before you make them more nervous than they already are, that or someone by the flower arrangements laced themselves so tightly I think they're in danger of fainting." Said behind the cover of her own glass because an elven mage and a rifter reporting to a rifter division head? Plenty of scrutiny to share.

[arlathvhen]

"It's not poisoned, I promise."

Beleth has spent most of her time mingling with the nobles, a warm, sweet smile fixed upon her face as firmly as an Orlesian mask. Even now, she directs it at Vandelin. There's a glass of champagne in her own hand, and with that smile, she holds it up to the other elf, and then takes a sip, as if to prove her own assertion.

Here is a man she has heard a little about (and who hasn't she heard something about? Her job is to know these things), but never met. But he's Petra's attache, and that itself merits an introduction.

The fact that he came with one of her best scouts on his arm is just icing on the cake.

Beleth Ashara | Open

[arlathvhen]

It's taken a lot of work to get here, and it's far from over. But in a strange way, she feels reassured, because this is something that she's good at. Fawning over nobles is something that Beleth's had plenty of practice in, and it's almost a relief to step away from everything else and put on that well-worn mask of amicable subservience.

Wearing a dress fit for nobility, she flits from group to group, chatting, joking, giggling at whatever stupid joke she's told in turn. The only periods where she looks like she's actually here to work is when she's managed to steal a few moments to herself, for food or drink, or simply to breath. Then the coying smile is gone, and her intense gaze falls on whatever members of the Inquisition are within sight, a reminder that the nobles aren't the only ones watching.

you don't actually have to tag this back if you don't want to, just know it occurred

[exequy]

During one of Beleth's stolen moments, when her gaze is all intense and watchful, Kostos catches her eye. He doesn't particularly mean to. He'd be perfectly fine catching no eyes whatsoever, from anyone, all night. But here he is: standing in a corner, dressed all in black (save some subtle patterns, enough to show taste but not to draw attention), wine in hand, eyes caught.

He doesn't blink. He raises his wine glass to his mouth and slowly swallows the entirety of its contents without breaking eye contact.

It won't be a problem. It's his first glass, and he holds his liquor fine. The worse case scenario is that it will lower his inhibitions enough for him to leave his corner and act like a normal person, sort of, maybe. He's just trying to send a message.

It's her fault he's here.

[foxsays]

Araceli takes a breath, smoothes down the skirt of her new gown and doesn't think about the things that try to pull at the mask she's wearing. (Keeping the right smile, the right little concerned frown, the very careful incline of the head; Thedas makes her wield it more than she ever used to.)

She's here as Madame de Cedoux's attache before anything else tonight. Of course everything else comes rushing in before you can shut the door: both of them rifters (so many in positions of power, so many filling the ranks now!) and the gossip that's followed in the wake of the island.

The back of her neck, her jaw, her hands, they all ache when she goes to the balcony for a moment. When her hands don't need to be occupied with the wine, a plate, a careful touch with the right to make a point. (But what isn't making a point tonight? All of it is a statement.)

At least on the balcony she can get away with looking as sick as she feels without someone thinking she's offended by the catering.

[ragweed]

She's got company out here on the balcony. Evidently, Kit had similar ideas, and is out here with a lit cigarette, his eyes turned across the city when Araceli arrives to take a break from the pomp and circumstance.

"A little crowded in there, eh?" He offers her an easy, lopsided smile, a friendly invitation to relaxed conversation if she wants it.

cyril [open]

[samahl]

Cyril appears to the world to be very at ease. He visibly delights in the luxury of the party and vocally compliments the Kirkwall natives for anything that they provided. He wears a carefully tailored and beautiful tunic that is a dark forest green with a black design shaping his form.

He's friendly to any of the nobles that approach him. He smiles and is gracious. He can even be caught very lightly flirting when it's appropriate - and only then. He had promised to be on his best behavior after all.

Re: cyril [open]

[judgemewhole]

From the corner, well where he can't be seen where he is hiding amongst the curtains, James gives Cyril a very polite theater clap. He is impressed. He did not think Cyril could get through an evening without propositioning someone for the fun of it. And yet Cyril is just flirting enough to bring on a blush and nothing else.

Damn impressive, all things considered. Beleth should give him a medal.

The Medicine Seller - OPEN

[meds4sale]

A. The Ball
The Medicine Seller had dressed for the occasion, mindful of the gentle suggestions to not look like a bad acid trip. He'd half a mind to write them off, but free food was free food, and if there was one way to get the Medicine Seller to behave himself, it was the promise of getting to eat his fill of creampuffs.

He'd donned a robe in more subtle shades of sky blue and lavender and in line with the more Thedosian styles (he'd borrowed it from a young lady who frequently bought medicine from him at the Blooming Rose after all). The back neckline still plunged low enough to expose the nape of his neck, and he'd refused to be parted from his red and gold patterned brocade sash, though he'd tied it more formally, albeit elaborately (as he was nothing if not extra when it came to his attire) than the loose and flowing style he tended to favour. He'd foregone the purple head scarf as well, favouring instead a lovely hairpin of dainty blue and purple flowers made of some translucent resin and trimmed with gold. More of the clear flowers dangled down on gold chains, interspersed with freshwater pearls and reminiscent of cascades of wisteria. It was all an odd combination, but by the Medicine Seller's usual standards, it was positively subtle, and considerably more coordinated than his usual explosion of colour.

He had never been a great conversationalist when it came to anything besides medicine and demons, and the latter topic was probably off the table. He stuck to what he knew, carefully avoiding the taboo topics. Fortunately, medicine was reasonably inoffensive so long as one didn't get into the more unpleasant ailments. So far he'd bored five people half to death with a very detailed history of Kampo (almost as though he was there for a good two thirds of it), and made a few others laugh at a deadpan delivery of Very Amusing Anecdotes.


B. Smoke and Sweets Break

He'd slipped out of the party and onto the balcony to have a nice long smoke. His vice was tobacco, not alcohol, which was probably a blessing because the former didn't lead to any long diatribes on what he wanted to do to the next person that called him an elf, or subtly insinuated that he was a demon.

He was having regrets. The creampuffs he'd laden onto his plate were definitely not good enough to spend his evening dodging evasive personal questions and attempting to justify the existence of himself and others to utter strangers who, at best, saw them as peculiar curiosities.

He wasn't angry, per se. It took a lot to actually rile genuine, bona fide emotions out of him. But he was irritated.

He sank his fangs into one of the fat confectioneries, and his frown deepened. Okay maybe they were good enough to spend an evening tolerating Kirkwall's "best and brightest". He wasn't sharing though.

b.

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil, required by role and honor, in that he'd been the one to suggest this little fete as a solution to some of their problems, had been far more social this evening than he cared to be with Men, generally. It served larger purposes, and so he could not complain. And the Kirkwall nobles were not as bad as they may have been, truly. Anders hadn't been mentioned once.

He is talking to Ser so-and-so, who is wealthy because he owns half the dockyards, when he sees the riot of color making his way outdoors. Thranduil makes his excuses a few minutes later, and follows.

It isn't that he doesn't trust the Medicine Seller. Only that he has his own motivations, and if those motivations lead him into a conflict with Thranduil's goals for the party-- well, they ought to discuss it first.

But no. Instead, he finds him with a pile of desserts and a pipe, and Thranduil inclines his head in greeting, keeping his distance on the other side of the balcony.

"How goes your evening?

[exequy]

A. WHILE THERE'S STILL HOPE
(for nell, but someone can interrupt eventually if you want)

If you took Kostos aside and asked him, Do you really think Nell meant it when she agreed to punch you in the face just before the party so your nose would be bleeding and you wouldn't have to go inside? then he would probably say, Of course not; that would be ridiculous.

On the other hand, though: does a woman's word count for nothing?

It's that second hand, that more honorable hand, that hand that still believes in justice and truth, that has him standing outside the doors now, trying to do something with his face that looks pleading instead of annoyed but not. quite. managing. He's still wearing his best clothes (which are not robes) because, on the first one hand, he's probably going to have to go inside after all—and on that second, hopeful idealist of a hand, Nell did say he ought to, because then no one would suspect the bleeding was planned—

Anyway, he's standing outside the doors, dressed up, and looking at Nell in a way that isn't as pleading as he'd like, and saying, "You said you would."

B. WHEN ALL HOPE IS LOST
(open)

—so, you know, the punching doesn't happen, and here he is.

Needless to say, Kostos isn't good at parties. It's a good thing he doesn't need to be quite as good at them tonight as the rifters and the elves do. He's only a Nevarran mage, and if anything he's doing what people expect of Nevarran mages by keeping to himself and looking dour and mysterious and a lot like the sort of person who might think a Necropolis is a cool thing to have. He doesn't look like someone who wants to be spoken to, but if someone approaches he'll do his best. For the Inquisition's sake.

What he is good at is watching people. There's nothing particularly subtle about it, but he is sharp, and if someone puts a toe out of line—even a little one, even accidentally—or looks in over their head with the nobility, there's a decent chance he'll appear at their elbow without warning, looking... like he always looks, but in context it's sort of stern.

[galvanising]

"Don't sulk," Nell chides rather than respond directly, reaching up to straighten Kostos's collar, perhaps unnecessarily. She smooths a hand across his shoulder when she's done that, brushing dust off of dark brocade. It's not intentional (it's not as if they went shopping together), but it's a near-perfect complement to the shimmering blacks and silver-greys of her gown. "It makes you look childish. You knew perfectly well I wasn't serious and still decided to turn up."

She's tall enough that in heeled boots she can look him square in the eye, and she does that now, expression fondly exasperated, but for a deeper twist of amusement around her mouth. "This scoutmaster must be a good influence on you." She squints, joking at a possessiveness that's not entirely put-on. "Or a bad one. I haven't quite decided yet."

shows up three hours late with starbucks

[faithlikeaseed]

A.
A mage is a curiosity--an elven mage doubly so, if he's not being dismissed as part of the help--and a blind elven mage is such downright novelty that he's bound to attract attention once the Hightown nobility loosen up enough to mingle.

He js dressed elegantly enough not to embarrass the Inquisition and without his staff. Perforce, he's pinned to the spot where he'd been left (don't think abandoned, don't think malice--think oversight) by a helpful servant, with no easy escape route to quieter parts of a crowded ballroom. But, so: he's been in worse situations, ones where he had to rely on muscle and magic and cunning rather than his own natural charm. And he is charming, flirting exactly the right amount with all comers and drawing even the most reluctant interlocutor into easy conversation.

Not the sort of conversation he'd come expecting, fortified with Ser Coupe's pep talk on making a proper showing on behalf of the Inquisition. He'd prepared for difficult questions--about rifters, or the Inquisition's heretical reputation, or some insight on the mage-templar conflict that still veined the world with strife. Instead: Requests for alienage gossip, and what's it like being blind, and do elves really--?

One blowzy matron--flushed, talking too loudly, clutching her fifth flute of champagne--demands to know if he's got eyes under the blindfold and if not, would he show her? She hadn't come expecting a freak.

This last makes him turn an appealing look in the direction of a friendly voice, a silent plea for temporary rescue. He didn't sign on to be exhibited.

B.
Slowly, carefully, Myr's managed to work his way from the ballroom floor to the nearest wall to take momentary refuge by a potted plant. A nest of shem vipers, he'd judged Hightown once--and now he's left in the midst of the vipers as punishment for that bit of uncharity. The Maker created them too-- is a pretty, facile platitude when they're biting at your heels, demanding things of you you wouldn't even tell your friends--

Breathe in, breathe out. He laces his hands together before his face, thumbs against his lips as he mouths the Trials--though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide--in a brief prayer for fortitude.

A

[ragweed]

"Hey there, salroka," Kit interjects before Myr is forced to answer the intrusive questions posed to him, "you're the resident expert on Hasmali cuisine, aren't you?"

(No--he knows that's Vandelin, but roll with him on this--)

"Come here a minute--" and here he reaches out to gently touch his hand to his friend's elbow, guiding him away from the noblewoman and her staggeringly inappropriate questions, "--you've got to try some of these, uh, canapés. Someone just said they taste like despair."

He glances once over his shoulder to ensure that the woman isn't following them, then breathes out and shakes his head. "Sodding Paragons," he mutters in an exceedingly quiet voice. "Are you all right?"