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

[misdirection_hex]

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."

[ragweed]

"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.

[misdirection_hex]

"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."

[ragweed]

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."

[misdirection_hex]

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.

[ragweed]

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.

[misdirection_hex]

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.

[ragweed]

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?"

[misdirection_hex]

"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."

[ragweed]

"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."