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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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.

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.

Vandelin is a guy who can appreciate what well-tailored clothing does for the wearer's figure, but these styles are all equally foreign to him, and as far as he's concerned, Kit's figure doesn't need help anyway. He looks good in the fancy duds, to be sure, but every stiff step makes Vandelin wince internally with sympathy.

He reaches over to tug the placket of Kit's shirt just a centimeter over into place, and smooths it all out, using it as an excuse to let his hands linger lightly on his lover's chest. "Now it is." He lets go, with a last tiny adjustment to a lapel.

"You look good enough to put any of these rich folks to shame. You could've left some handsome for the rest of us."

"You could've left some handsome for the rest of us."

"Nah, you know me," Kit returns, already cracking a wry smile, "I'm a greedy man."

Vandelin's eye for detail, and his compliments, seem to have done the trick with easing some of the tension out of Kit's posture--some, but not all. Exhaling, he turns his attention on all the various party-goers; maybe it was a bad idea for him to accept this invitation. He's so clearly out of his element.

"Think anyone would notice if I just slipped out and went home?" He's mostly joking. ...Mostly.

"These paranoid fucks don't miss a thing," Vandelin murmurs under his breath, seemingly unaware of the blinding irony there.

"If I have to drink the champagne because they'll notice if there's an inch too much of it in the glass and think we're trying to poison them, they'll definitely complain if a project head goes missing. Just stick it out until one of the other important names leaves, and then we can justify getting out of here and hitting the Hanged Man."

He's right. Why does he have to be right?

"Fine." If he sounds annoyed, it's because he is--just, not with Vandelin. He sticks close to his lover's side and sips at his champagne, watching the rest of the genteel party-goers mingling in the hall around them. At length he exhales, grimacing, and says, "Guess I should go--" a gesture to the masses, "--mingle."

He leans in to press a small, fortifying kiss to the corner of Kit's mouth. "Yeah, you should. But come tell me if they do anything really absurd." Much of what these rich folk prioritize feels laughable to Vandelin, who's never brushed elbows with any nobles who still had the rights to their lands and titles. He can hide the disdain well enough while he's here, but he'll want to share it with Kit when they can afford to.

"And if there's any dancing, I want you back here." There's dancing at these things, right? That's normal? He doesn't know. He's never been to a real party.

If that kiss draws a few curious looks their way, they surely can't be drawing much more attention than some of the more peculiar rifters who have made their presence known at the party so far. Which means Kit is able to smile warmly at Vandelin, the corners of his eyes crinkling fondly. "Yes, ser," he teases, feigning obedience, and gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Behave yourself, salroka." A wink, then, letting go of Vandelin's hand, Kit slips away to try to make a good impression on the riff-raff.

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."

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.

He never had picked up on the courtesy Petra had extended to him on their first meeting, drinking from her teacup first before he had even raised his from the table. Even now, these subtle precautions are lost on him, never a part of his upbringing and still unexplained. For all his vehemence in insisting that the Circle has left him no less prepared for this line of work than anyone else, the mind of a suspicious Hightown shem remains utterly inscrutable to him. Perhaps it's a universally human experience--or perhaps Araceli has simply been here long enough to know the ropes. He'd rather assign that explanation to the matter.

"I never realized quite how fragile they all are," he deadpans, raising his glass to sip as if he'd been just about to get around to it all along. "Is that why they all do the heir-and-a-spare thing? Just in case the first in line succumbs to a terminal case of mild discomfort?"

Common girls pick up what they have to when they learn how to get into noble estates, fancy parties, to look like they belong. Before the queensguard etiquette taught her the reasons why, polished it up so no one might find fault there was enough to pass. To look as if she belonged there as much as possible so the eyes would slide over her if she needed them to. Maybe it's why Araceli's parents taught her some lessons before she was too young to realise it was more than just a fun game to play at her father's knee, at her mother's dresser.

"Sometimes it's an heir, a spare, and someone for marrying off." Araceli smiles, leans closer as if they're telling a joke though tonight who knows, it might just make the rumour worse. (Is that even possible at this stage?) "One is the guarantee, the other one is waiting in the wings. If you're lucky the spare might be the interesting one if they've got something good waiting for them, but some? They're even worse than the one ahead of them." Think middle child then just go ahead and toss it into the sun, then you'll get some of the spares.

"And here's me trying to give the spares the benefit of the doubt and assume that self-sufficiency would make them the worthwhile ones as a rule." His easy smile could be a response to that imaginary joke--doesn't reach his eyes, but that's not seen so easily from a distance. What would he know about self-sufficiency? He's only spent two years out of his entire life having to provide for himself in any way at all, and they were a disaster he never wants to revisit.

It wouldn't matter to anyone here who isn't wearing the badge of the Inquisition. The nobles here could all intuit at a glance that Vandelin hasn't seen the inside of an alienage since early childhood, but they'll dismiss him in that same glance as a knife-ear nonetheless.

"You sound like you speak from experience."

"What do they know about that? They go to the parties where the wineglass never runs dry and the food comes on a platter. They haven't stood in a line to buy bread with the rent money." Or they haven't done it the other way, lying awake with a growling stomach staring at just how little roof all that coin paid for. She's being uncharitable but what have these people done to earn it tonight? Talking to Vandelin means she isn't having to politely smile, make jokes, feel her jaw crack so until someone drifts too close she'll allow herself the sharpness.

It serves as a reminder of how little either of them know one another too. Educated guesses, reputation, asking around, all easily done but Araceli's honest about a fair few things. It works best for all if he knows what to expect.

"Someone in the habit of visiting their estates in the small hours when they were safely in bed had to make certain the gossip was good," she says around a little smirk. "Noble girls like a bit of rough if she's good with a rapier, and can climb in and out her window."

Usually that's how she met siblings. Cousins. Fiancés. A whole terrible lot.

"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.

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."

"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.

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A Very Official Party

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