faderift | A Very Official Party

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A Very Official Party

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.

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She doesn’t jump.

It’s a near thing; the sudden motion displaces her glass — mercifully half-empty — and a spray of wine spatters Beleth’s dress in red. Wren sets it upon a side table, moves to unhook her coat in offer. It’d swim on the girl, but it’s dark enough to soak up some of the stain.

"I'd not heard the prohibition on arson," A low, idle dryness, to cover how very close that elbow had come to smashing for a face (there are those it’s best not to surprise), "Ought I reimagine my evening plans?"

That Ashara’s decided she’s required a chaperone is unwelcome, if not wholly unexpected. Her motives may be considered later.

"My handkerchief’s been claimed by the Lady Margherite," By way of apology for the jacket: "Let us see about procuring you a shawl."

Before Beleth speaks with the Viscount. Salt and vinegar might do for the dress when the party's done, but just now fabric isn’t the priority.

Vandelin's usual paranoia has never really extended to the Inquisition in the way others would tell him it should. His concerns are more on the level of 'they won't let the free mages stay free for good once the Chantry has a new Divine' than 'they're going to poison everyone at a party, their own operatives included.' Still, even the smallest of details sends a clear message, and if a division head herself is reminding him of that, he had best be more attentive to it.

"But how much of it can you drink before running afoul of the no-intoxication edict?" he asks, sipping obligingly from his glass with a wry smile. It's a question that feels ever so slightly safer to ask of another elf, even if, for all he knows, the Dalish build up their alcohol tolerance with wild raging forest keggers every weekend. "Though I suppose Madame de Cedoux can't make you haul boxes of files around at the crack of dawn, Scoutmaster."

"Ah!" Evie's look of concern turned to embarrassment and she put her wine glass down on the nearby table and clapped her hand lightly to her cheek.

"I should have known. Don't apologize, your seriousness is one of the charming things about you. I'll blame the wine for not being as on my toes as usual."

Now, he was going to snicker behind his hand, before clearing his throat. "Perhaps we ought to take a few rounds the room, clear your head so you get more of the deadpan humor? That way I can show off that I get to stand about you, and they do not."

"Mmmm, make the nobles jealous? Aren't we here to foster peace between the Inquisition and Kirkwall?" Evie replies, her smile back in place as she secures her arm to his.

"Well I do need to walk. I suppose it can't be helped."

"Well naturally, but I think we can do that by walking around and looking attractive. Especially when they see we are not really attached to one another, and thus, are open game to their ... " A sigh, "Groping."

He offered his arm gracefully. "Shall we?"

"People will talk."

Kit glances down at the burning cherry on the end of his cigarette, then brings it up for another drag. He blows out a whorl of smoke and watches a gust of crisp cold wind carry it away. "They always do," he replies, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. If he knows Vandelin at all, he'll find the scandal flattering.

A conversation with Melys suddenly tugs at his memory. He smiles at Araceli again. "You're with Korrin, aren't you?"

Van spends the better part of the next hour attempting in vain to do the same. In his idealism, he had thought he might have some difficulty winning over the nobles enough to make them receptive to the notion of integrating mages into society, but with charm and deft logic and a light enough hand, he might plant a few seeds. That's why they're here, aren't they? The party's entire stated aim is to convince Kirkwall's elite that the people they fear are worthy of a place alongside them in society.

In practice, he's been scoffed at before he can open his mouth, called 'rabbit' behind his back but well within his earshot, and twice had empty champagne glasses shoved into his hands as rich guests mistake him for a waiter. Perhaps other elves present might be afforded more courtesy, but nobody here is about to listen to a speech on mage freedom from a squeaky-voiced little runt.

Expression frozen, he scans the room silently for Kit. When he lays eyes on him, he approaches, brushes his fingertips quietly and discreetly against the back of Kit's shoulder on the way past, and breezes out to the balcony.

Kit's hardly in the middle of an engrossing conversation when Vandelin touches his shoulder; in fact, he's not even talking to anyone, and is instead just hanging out somewhat sourly near the punch table, munching on munchables and nursing a glass of champagne that looks like it's gone a bit flat.

At that touch, he takes a look at Vandelin's face, then sets the champagne down and slips out onto the balcony after him.

"Hey," he starts, chances a glance over his shoulder to ensure they aren't being watched by anyone important, then settles a hand on the outside of his elbow, "what's going on?"

"Are we sure we can't poison these people?"

Vandelin's not an idiot; he's ensured that they're completely alone, and the tight little joke is uttered in barely more than a whisper. But the fantasies he's entertaining are vivid nonetheless, and he's nearly vibrating with suppressed, seething, impotent fury. It remains contained, only the twitch-tight set of his jaw betraying his actual level of emotion.

"There's no compromise to be made with them. Why am I here? I could have sworn Madame de Cedoux intended me to be something other than a busboy, but none of our esteemed guests seem to have gotten the message."

"You're not a busboy," Kit tells him, even though he's well aware that he's answering a rhetorical question that wasn't even asked. Still, he doesn't know what else to say, or whether any words even exist that can reassure in a moment like this.

He grimaces and chafes a hand against his beard. Somewhere inside the gala hall, someone laughs at a witty joke, and champagne flutes clink together in a toast. The schmoozing is enough to make his skin crawl; he's as out of place here as a boulder in a china shop.

"Tell you the truth," he mutters, "I'm not sure what I'm doing here either."

Watching the smoke, she's reminded of late nights on the docks with sailors, wrapped tight in her coat with the rattle of dice in cups or the hushed whisper of cards over the lapping of the waves against the hulls of their ships. Each time she finds a familiar thing it's a comfort. Not quite an anchor but as close as she'll allow herself to get.

"Information is worth its weight in gold." A bard knows these things. A thief knows it better, all the things she stole and sold in the past. "To be a fly on the wall of some dining rooms and kitchens come tomorrow morning, can you imagine? Rifters, elves, mages, all of them in positions of power in their city?" Still managing to smile; they're sending the message the right way tonight, hopefully. Politely. Well-heeled. All polished manners and flawless courtesies.

As ever, any mention of Korrin pulls out a particularly fond smile, eyes bright. "I am indeed, two years when First Day comes again. You've met?"

Beleth isn't sure if she should be pleased, or a mess of nerves. Maybe both. Definitely both. It's okay, she's the Scoutmaster, a bard, and very respectable, she can do this without making an idiot out of herself. So she holds her hand out, and bobs her head, a small smile on her face. Just ignore how many other people are in the room.

"You honor me, Ser Norrington. Shall we?"

"I suppose that depends on the person," Beleth replies, with a small smile. "But I trust that you'll be able to tell your limit." Beleth certainly seems to have a higher one than would normally be assumed for her stature. It might not be a wild raging forest kegger, but drink enough homemade moonshine, and wine will be easy to negotiate.

And then she actually snorts, and struggles to suppress her giggles, doing a quick glance around to make sure that none of the nobles caught the lapse of composure. Assured that she hadn't just ruined her own event, she turns back to Van. "Don't underestimate her, Madame de Cedoux is a force of nature. I'd sooner circumvent the sun itself." It's said fondly, admiringly. She wishes she had quite the force of will as the people she surrounds herself with.

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.

Edited 2017-11-12 07:43 (UTC)

"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?"

"We did," Kit replies affably and taps the ash off his cigarette. "We were both part of the group that went down to the Korcari Wilds with the Arcane Advisor, a few months back." There he grows uncomfortably silent for a moment; the shaman's words have become a haunting refrain that visits him when his mind is left idle for too long. He clears his throat and wrangles his thoughts back to the present. "I haven't seen her too much since then, but things've gotten busy pretty fast."

She looked up at him, and offered her hand, and he felt that spark in his stomach. That one that reaches in and grabs him by the chest. He bows slightly, and wraps his fingers around hers.

"I believe we shall, Madame Beleth."

And he starts them towards them to where the band was playing.

"If you'd excuse me, messere--" Myr can be gracious--for the Inquisition's sake--even if he'd like nothing better to latch on to Kit and demand an immediate escort back to the Gallows. (Or an opportunity, somehow, to defend his own honor, even if that's nothing his friend can provide.)

Accordingly he keeps silent as they walk away, biting his tongue until Kit speaks up again and gives him a sign it's safe to speak his mind. Quietly, then, and his tone light despite the words: "I'd think--if we're expected to be on our best behavior so as not to give offense--it'd be the same for them. Clearly I'm a hopeless optimist."

He takes a deep breath in and unclenches his hands--mindful from the throbbing of where his nails have bitten into his palms--then heaves a heartfelt sigh. "Not really," he says in answer to Kit's question, "but it will mend. Just give me five minutes away from them and I'll be ready to go back."

At least they're always finding new and surprising ways to be awful around here; it would be really terrible if this had all gotten predictable. (Ha.)

Edited 2017-11-13 04:38 (UTC)

"Sirena and her bogs - do you know that after going to the Fallow Mire with what was most of the Inquisition, she went back? Willingly?" More fool Araceli for going with her to aid in wisp hunting. The shrug is helpless: what can you do when someone you love wants to go wade in murky stagnant water and reeds for their living? Korrin isn't here to defend herself, her girlfriend can tease all she likes with her fondest smile.

"Before some of us were off to collect the new rifters with the stay on the island then Llomerryn, Korrin was in Wycome." There's a hint of what sounds like regret on her part too. "I was meant to go there with her but as you said, things were busy and I know how to sail. She managed to meet us all in Llomerryn, catch the same ship back here."

Kit's lips tug up into a white, lopsided smile at Araceli's teasing, and he chuckles some. They make a pair so oddly and perfectly suited to each other, he decides; they complement each other well.

"I'm glad she caught up with you," he tells her, and a look in his eyes shows that he means it, that it isn't just some trite platitude said because it's the polite thing to say. He takes one final drag off his cigarette, then puts out the cherry and flicks it over the balcony. "It was wearing on me, not knowing what was going on with Vandelin. I'm pretty sure he didn't tell me the worst of it, but I heard stories. Sea serpents and sod like that." He grimaces, rubbing his jaw, gaze gone distant.

"Five minutes," Kit repeats, skimming the fancy ball room for some place that might serve as a suitable refuge for his friend. Really, how many times can he feasibly duck out onto a balcony without earning himself some suspicious glances? (A brand, topside, having private conversations with mages and rifters alike--nothing to see here.)

Sod it. "How about a smoke break," he decides, and leads Myr out onto the nearby balcony anyway.

"Intimately attached, I hope you mean," she replies as she slides her arm through his, gently laying her hand along the side of his forearm in impeccable posture.

"I feel somewhat attached to you. Though I wouldn't entirely mind intimately, either."

"Holding you to that," Myr says lightly. "Can't leave all my admirers lonely for too long." There's a bitterness to the words that he manages to keep largely from his voice, there in one breath and gone the next. They're the Maker's children, too; he agreed to this; he'll survive it and the rest of the world.

It's cold out on the balcony and he shivers accordingly, hunching his shoulders up around his pointed ears a moment like an unhappy songbird. "Brr. Don't know that I'm up to four more months of this," he mumbles, because the weather's safe and gives him something to fix on.

Likewise, worrying about someone else: "How've you been holding up, then?"

Considering Vandelin in his fine robes? Araceli could certainly say the same at least from the picture the pair of them have to paint together. She'll have to look when they rejoin the party, see what noble looks like they've swallowed an appetiser the wrong way.

"Emprise du Lion was worse, truthfully. The Winter Palace too. When it's what people can do to other people it never quite matches up to anything else after you've sewn up the sails, patched the hull, caught your breath." No one died, she thinks, mouth bitter as the wine she'd downed before finding her way out here. "Being able to see what the red lyrium does to the rest of the world that has no part in this war was painful, creatures suffering and driven to madness. We have serpents in my home. And krakens. But these beasts lashed out, the kraken especially was what forced us to stop in Llomerryn from the damage the ship sustained.

"Even the island had scaled cats. I didn't know cats could come with scales unless they'd gotten into the fish. I've been the one stuck behind and the one in a terrible place. Sometimes," she can't speak to Vandelin's reasoning but well, she'll hazard a guess as someone with a partner, "you say less because that person can't do anything. They'd want to but you're there and they aren't. They'll turn it over in their head. They'll worry. If they have another job to do what if you distracted them from it? At first it wasn't very clear how any of it was going to go right after we landed and got the rifters."

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A Very Official Party

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shows up three hours late with starbucks

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