faderift | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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?

Edited 2017-11-03 23:51 (UTC)

There weren't many men who could look so much like a wild animal caught trying to eat something they shouldn't, but that was exactly how the Medicine Seller looked at the moment. He was just slightly hunched over the plate of goods, with the wide-eyed wary expression of someone fully prepared to defend their spoils from wandering fingers.

It was brief, but he quickly straightened and his expression slipped back into something more neutral. He dabbed some crumbs from the corners of his mouth, and judging by how the strange purple smirk of his didn't smudge, it seemed his facial markings were something a tad more permanent than paint.

"One can only discuss the differences in medicine between worlds for so long before needing a moment to oneself."

He took a long drag of the thin pipe and exhaled a plume of sweet-smelling smoke, then offered it to Thranduil. He may not have been inclined to share his snack, but he was never stingy with tobacco.

"Though I would ask the same of you."

"You are hardly alone," Thranduil notes. "You have quite the flock of pastries."

A rapidly molting flock- and a preference slash potential bribe filed away for when he might next need to coax this one into something- but enough to call a flock none the less. Thranduil takes the pipe, and settles into a chair left on the balcony, neatly crossing his legs. He takes a drag, exhaling slowly, clearly pleased by whatever the Medicine Seller has packed in it.

"I could not fault you for that," he says, offering back the pipe, though he must uncross his legs and lean forward to do so.

"I'm only making sure no one has decided to excuse themselves early without notification." Settling back into the chair, glad to steal a moment for himself. "Perhaps I ought not to have worried. Perhaps I owe you an apology."

Edited 2017-11-08 23:13 (UTC)

"I am aware of what is at stake. This evening going favourably is for our own sake," he said, taking the pipe back and having another puff. He wanted his autonomy back as soon as possible - occasionally slipping his leash to go take down some demons was not going to be sustainable forever, and some of his chaperones were too bright for their own good.

"You do not owe me an apology. I am sure it is as much a burden for you."

He watched a small group of young women flutter past in a flurry of giggles, lace and satin, leaving only a faint smell of perfume and champagne in their wake. They seemed keen on some handsome nobleman.

"already we have lost our novelty, it seems."

"It was," he admits. "They put my cousin under Templar guard. Even her patience was tested."

Thranduil turns his head to watch the young ladies rush past. "Good. Perhaps we may have some peace."

The evening is going well, by any measure. Soon enough, he, Madame de Cedoux, and Beleth will need to leave to speak with the Viscount. Nothing is likely to fall to pieces while he is gone, the Viscount will see that they are not another invading force, the nobles with be pacified, et cetera, et cetera.

He smiles wryly, and wished for a glass of wine. "You sound nearly mournful," he notes. "Were you hoping one would favor you?"

A Very Official Party

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