closed.

[exequy]

WHO: Caspar, Kostos, Lakshmi, Lexie, Marisol, Nell, Nikos, Petrana
WHAT: Coming into a Merchant Prince's house, on the day his daughter is to be married, and asking him and all his friends to quit with their stupid neutrality. Plus Truth or Dare.
WHEN: Mid-Harvestmere
WHERE: Antiva City
NOTES: Will update with CWs if needed.

Comments

THE WEDDING.

[exequy]

Antiva has a dozen Merchant Princes, and all but one or two are here tonight—which means that if it's even possible for someone with that much money to spare an expense, Prince Lisandro, with so many friends and rivals in one place, has certainly not.

The expansive Iansoli mansion, which borders on a palace, is displayed on a cliffside that allows a view of the dimly glittering fire-lit city on one side and the dimly glittering moon-lit water on the other. The mansion itself is dimly glittering, too: the ballroom is lit with a larger chandelier than anyone really needs and an assortment of candelabras, scattered with crystal and gleaming metal and a handful of ice sculptures cut to sparkle, but the light is warm and low, the atmosphere more suited to wine than champagne. After a few songs and rounds through the crowd the newlyweds manage to vanish, but they'll be back, and everyone else is here for the long haul. There will still be dancing when the sun rises.

Eventually, as promised, the Princes (and Princesses, of course) will assemble in one of the side rooms and hear what the Inquisition has to say, and it will go more or less as well as possible, given Antiva is a nation ruled by money and famous for its neutrality. In the meantime, the palace is teeming with people with influence, or people seeking it, from Antiva, from across Thedas; from government, from the Chantry, from merchants with so much money that no one, and especially not Antiva's Merchant Princes, would close the door to them for lack of title.

And some fire dancers. Of course.

ooc | make your own fancy party adventure. schmoozing and sneaking around are both fine, just make sure you do a separate plot/info request if you want anything to happen that's outside the scope of the original plan.

[ipseite]

A second outing for Petrana's fine gold gown—one of these days perhaps Thranduil will see the fine craftsmanship made of last year's Satinalia gift—though her ornaments are a touch less ostentatious than she had conjured to amuse Tevinter, and the heavy train that would have attached above her corset-laces is still folded in a trunk in Kirkwall. She looks as if she ought to be here; she doesn't look as if she thinks she ought to be the center of attention at another woman's wedding. Antiva is a new place to her, and she hasn't even the few connections she's cultivated to trade on in Orlais or Ferelden, but she takes that for a challenge rather than an impediment, something that she intends to have changed before the night is through.

The dancing is the first and most obvious means, and she is light enough on her feet to confidently make conversation without tripping in the doing.

[exsecutus]

The wedding is equal parts things that Nikos hates, and things that Nikos loves.

Things that Nikos hates: the uneven distribution of wealth. Power tied to title and money, fancy clothes. The particular way the laughter of the upper class echoes against marble and fine stone in a room large enough to house a quarter of Antiva City's poor. Ostentatious display. Princes.

Things that Nikos loves: wine. Caspar. Marisol. Wine. The opportunity to overhear something he might be able to use. Wine, again. The chance to point out someone he hates to the people he loves most, so they can talk about them. And, deep in the hidden depths of his soul, Nikos loves dancing.

Not that he wants to dance here, in front of these people. Fuck that. He has instead positioned himself like a jealous and judgmental shadow on the edge of the dance floor, preferably sprawled on a sofa or leaned up against a wall, with a goblet of wine in his hand. The cut of his clothing is good, dark green and black, less faded than he usually wears. He is still badly shaved. Occasionally, when he witnesses a particularly stupid display on the dance floor, he rolls his eyes and mutters a word of judgement. Please, or maybe, fucking moron.

As the night wears on, Nikos keeps drinking. Still not enough to get him to dance. And everyone else keeps drinking, too. Steps get sloppier, jokes get ruder, and laughter get louder. At one point, the groom's father is holding court among a cluster of partygoers, favoring them with a speech. Nikos, listening nearby, turns abruptly to whoever is stood beside him.

"Let's play a drinking game. The next time that fucking boor in silk spills wine on her," a noblewoman in a gown of pale green that has already been liberally doused in wine, her punishment for standing too close to the groom's gesticulating father, "we drink. She's the second wife of a lesser merchant, that is a hideous gown, and she will shit herself when she gets home and tries to get those stains out."

A fact that Nikos sounds very pleased about. Because he is. And no sooner do the words leave his lips that the groom's father waves his arms in punctuation, in a hall the size of-- this big!, and wine slops over the rim and onto the train of the gown. The noblewomna's smile curdles to a grim rictus that wouldn't look out of place on a corpse. Nikos actually laughs, and per the rules of a game, takes a large gulp of wine. Now this is fun.

[coquettish_trees]

Obligingly Alexandrie, who has breathlessly begged a rest from her rather arduous dance card to glide about the periphery of the room, takes a healthy mouthful of her wine and then tilts her head towards the dance floor as if she is simply punctuating their conversation rather than indicating anyone.

"The fellow in blue has no idea what he is doing, and has stepped on every partner he has had thus far, although his current partner is a very fine dancer and is avoiding it admirably. If he manages it, we drink. If she begins backleading him immediately afterwards, we drink again."

[exsecutus]

Nikos looks, immediately, with only a hint of wine-soaked muzziness. He finds the fellow in blue easily, who is moving around the floor like a druffalo in tea shop despite his dance partner's nimble steps.

He smirks, and raises his glass in silent agreement: you're on. His observation takes on more of an expectant tone, waiting for that first mistake. "She's just dodged a kick to the shins."

[coquettish_trees]

"He is so aggressively awful that I cannot help wondering whether or not—" She pauses for a moment to watch more carefully as the fellow turns his partner in such a forceful way as to nearly cause her to stumble, but she recovers. Alexandrie sighs and looks sadly at her wine glass before resuming her watch.

"—it is purposeful. Know you who he is? Why in the Maker's name do these ladies continue to partner him?"

[exsecutus]

"His appeal is tied to his place within the system of power that dominates," Nikos starts. And then, because the wine has softened him, he summarizes: "Wealth."

There. Straightforward. Perhaps even enough that an Orlesian might understand. He'll still give a full speech. Not when there's a game to play.

Almost as if in answer, the man in blue takes a too-heavy step forward. Nikos leans forward in anticipation, but the woman turns nimbly aside, avoiding the impact, and Nikos sighs, irritated.

"It doesn't matter who he is. An Antivan. He's going to ruin the fucking game. Or she is. Hard to choose who to blame."

[coquettish_trees]

Looking exceptionally surprised, her eyebrows arching gracefully over the perfectly guileless blue of her widened eyes, "Surely you do not mean to say that those with value assigned to them by society largely have members of that society be willing to summarily overlook their value as a solitary individual in order to curry favor from the society as a whole? Pre-pos-ter-oh!" Alexandrie interrupts herself to grip the cloth at her companion's shoulder with excitement and shake him very slightly, "He has done it!"

And indeed, through a quite fabulous series of missteps that seem more complex than the dance itself, their hero has managed to actually kick his partner in the knee while turning her. Admirably, she doesn't yelp, and her glare is gone by the time she completes the turn. Alexandrie releases Nikos's sleeve to clap her hands with quiet delight, holding her glass deftly with her thumb while she does so, and takes a rather long and satisfied drink from its contents.

[exsecutus]

I mean to say that society's values are horseshit, would be how Nikos would start his response--angry, each syllable stiff with irritation, that the current system of power is reinforced by participation in its structure, no matter how funny she thinks she's being.

Then he wants to tell her to let the fuck go of his sleeve.

Then their wish is fulfilled, and better yet, they get to drink, and as Nikos raises his glass, he finds that he is already smiling, again, darkly pleased at the scene that has unfolded before them.

The start of his lecture is still stuck in his throat. Takes a large amount of wine to wash it away. He scans the room, looking for their next target. The room is full of idiots, rich peacocks strutting and preening. They are spoiled for choice.

"There," he says, and gestures with his glass. "That woman, in that pink tent of a gown. She takes a glass, takes a sip--then forgets that she has it, sets it aside. The next time a tray of wine passes her, she takes a fresh glass. And it repeats. If she does it four times..."

He raises his glass.

"We drink. To the fucking excesses of the rich."

[coquettish_trees]

It's like drinking with a person-shaped storm cloud. How cross he seems with her airy flippancy, with the greater dance of the event itself, with the entire structure of—

Alexandrie wonders suddenly whether or not he knows Kitty. Certainly they must have gravitated together by now, the disaffected often do. Although it is much rarer to have someone who profits from the established order of things waving the torch.

A curious man, to be certain, but he does have a wonderful eye for the ridiculousness that often seems to come part and parcel with wealth. The woman he indicates is readily found—the gown is a tent on her, although the color really sets off her skin and hair quite nicely—and Alexandrie nods her successful acquiring of their target.

"She has—" she looks about the woman to find where she is placing the near-full glasses. Ah, there. "—one abandoned beside her and one in her hand at the moment. Are you proposing four glasses acquired, or four discarded glasses in total?"

[shri]

It's a welcome reprieve to her, to be here. Far from the Gallows and with work outside of her present miseries. To put herself into presentation and grandeur, and there is - something about this place that she feels more herself in, than she ever did in so far any part of Fereldon, Tevinter or Orlais that she had seen. Not quite the same, not Jhansi. Not even the Mughals but -

- Because it is full with a vibrant sort of life that when she breathed in had the ache of familiarity. One that at least makes her comfortable than it honestly should as she reaches for a cup of wine. She might not dress this way strictly by preference, but she has a business to market. A business to show off for the first time in Antiva and it goes nothing at all to say that what she elects to wear is full. The embroidery that makes the material practically stiff, if not in comparison for the weight of the gold that hangs by ropes. The bangles and anklets that chime. But nor is she a light, glittering thing. She stands respectful, adhering to the mix of manners she has observed as proper, and her own. Under that weight like she was born to it. Each gesture particular, measured, as she discusses, goes about teasing, laughing, flirting with those who come to speak to a representative of the Inquisition. Gone is the warrior Queen all battered and bloody, what stands is a noblewoman with a soft hand, the scars are hidden by rings that hook together by chains down her hands, that connect to bangles filled with bells, That there is no step, no movement, that doesn't somehow, completely draw attention. A particular gift to making this all look like it weighs nothing on her.

Granted, it doesn't, but some of that is cheating.

Unfortunately, however, for all this grandness, it is not something that lends itself to dancing. Especially when the call of the evening happens to be dancing. Not that she even knows how dance this way. She knows a half handful of English country dances, and the ever-scandalous waltz, that the Muses girls just had to teach her and - this is not a court performer moving through Kathak steps, not even the cloistered dances of only women at religious rites which had an almost religious devotion. Off enough, that she wants to turn her face away to something as intimate of men and women dancing together in such an open form, though her hand only stays to the edge of her veils and never follows through on it. Eyes sliding as they turn about like glittering tops.

The second problem of course, that this dress isn't designed for dancing with the extra material underneath her feet. It is meant for lounging, for sitting as she does now, in the long chair, arm on the side, her body half turned ( a small prayer to the Muses girls for the blunt conversations they had ) to sit powerfully, not just to be admired, that she was in control of the space around her. Her offhand nursing her cup, the other that she gestures with when she needs too. Which is all well and fine, until she gets just one more pestering offer to dance.

But she doesn't lift a finger, doesn't even move her head when she hears the insisting tone to the man's voice, her eyes just look up, then the rest of her follows, her gaze unforgivingly direct, but the smile doesn't fall. That glitteringly, chiming hand reaches up to affectionately, fondly almost if not for the intent in such the same gesture, the almost, almost insult that she treats him as a family member, not a potential suit, that she has the right to do so, when she goes to fix the man in question's lapel.

"Why, my Lord," There is one particular downside to this, is that she never quite enjoyed these games as well as others, but, there is something else to how she smoothes down the jacket that can't be mistaken for the play behind it "- you flatter me. Surely your wife should come first?"

Save her, or him. A distraction is surely necessary right about now as everyone draws in a faint breath.

[exequy]

Kostos would like to be elsewhere, somewhere with fewer people, but barring that he wants to be near the people who are familiar—even only passingly familiar. He loses Nell and Marisol to the crowd, at some point, and Petrana to the dance floor, and that leaves his brother (no), his aunt and uncle (no), Alexandrie (with his brother, so no), and Lakshmi. He doesn't know her, but standing behind impressive women while they impress is familiar even if the woman in question isn't, and he winds up hovering nearby at the same approximate distance as a bodyguard, black-clad and silent.

Mostly silent.

"I'm sure she's lucky," he says into his wine glass, quietly but not quietly enough, "if she comes at all."

He's helping.

[shri]

He is not helping.

Which doesn't mean it's not hilarious, granted. The choke of laughter that bubbles up from around them. The immediate flustered Lord. She at the very least pauses, her face too blank to say that she's not laughing behind it. Right, time to get out of here before this got worse.

She rises, taking small steps underneath the long amounts of material that really aren't made for too much movement at once. Her hand lifts to indicate to him, to draw him close that he can lead her off. "I'm tired of sitting, are there gardens we might walk in?"

Get them out of here before they somehow offend a one day contact she might need.

[exequy]

For a moment Kostos looks at her hand like he isn't sure what it means, not because he doesn't actually know, but because he's currently more interested in goading her new friend into throw a punch than escaping to look at flowers and petulant about social customs in general besides.

But the moment passes, hastened along by a glance at the lord's pink face and a decision about what a short and anticlimactic fight it would be. And how much trouble he would be in. And how nice it would be, actually, to not be in this room anymore. So he comes close enough to offer her his arm.

There are gardens—not empty ones, with the size of the crowd, but the comparatively dim lighting and distance from the food and music mean they are at least more sparsely populated, and a significant portion of those there are very distracted by whomever they're there with.

"I should apologize," he says, which isn't the same as actually apologizing.

[shri]

"You should," is the affirmation, not letting him off the hook by simply saying he should. "But if you didn't something wretched, I would have next. He wants a rifter to be his whore no doubt because it is mysterious, but he doesn't risk his reputation with someone else's wife or sullying himself by fucking his household staff. So you spared him his life when I had to challenge on behalf of my honour."

It's a frank sort of assessment, but her voice doesn't rise and fall in ire. It is pleasant as remarking on the sky, smiling pleasantly at anyone that passed her by. The brief acquaintances she'd made so far. Her hand light, poised, careful with every gesture that communicates in its own way.

"But at least we're away from it now, thankfully. So that will do for now."

SOME VIVAS FAMILY NPCS if you so desire

[champions]

The Merchant Prince, Lord Amancio Vivas, cuts a familiar profile. Very similar to both of Marisol's cousins in the line of his nose and jaw, but his mouth is far more inclined to bright smiles than surly frowns, and his facial hair is less scruff and stubble, and more a carefully grown and waxed handlebar moustache and goatee. (It's very possible that Marisol learned her respect and appreciation for hair care from her father.) The resemblance to his nephews is markable, although he is certainly the taller and more physically imposing of the three of them.

He is dressed in black, with slashes of deep green and gold, and a heavy gold chain about his neck. That is the only jewellery he wears, aside from a signet ring. A little less over the top than he daughter perhaps, though he is certainly as warm and friendly as he is watchful. The observant might notice that, for all his warmth, he certainly listens more than he speaks.

Marisol makes introductions, and though Amancio has many he must speak with, he makes a point to return. "Please," he says, holding three plates of cake, "I keep being handed slices, and Constanze will not let me hear the end of it if she sees me eat any of it."

Help him.


Lady Constanze descends from a line famed for their seafaring, invoking awe and fear across many seas. She is a quieter woman, with a sharpened focus and intensity. Her green eyes are watchful and analytical, her countenance impressive. More than one noble is silenced by a look and a slightly raised brow— but when she see her daughter and her nephews she seemed to brighten. Three kisses to Kostos and Nikos cheeks (right-left-right) and a warm embrace, as she looked them up and down.

She may even go so far as to secure a dance. Multipledances. Come along, Inquisition. Step to it.


Or wildcard some Marisol nonsense.

i desire

[exsecutus]

Nikos avoids Uncle Amancio, the way he has always avoided Uncle Amancio, because when he was little, Uncle Amancio scared him and he has never quite gotten over being mad about that.

His size. His beard. His voice, loud when he wanted it to be loud; Nikos liked being inappropriately loud when he was younger, and always felt outdone. And he already has someone else with the same face as him, he doesn't need another one--

Which is how he ends up face to face with Aunt Stanze instead. Like a counterweight, he has been keeping on the other side of the room from Uncle Amancio, and now plucks a fresh glass of wine from a tray, for strength. He spares only a passing thought for the servant holding the tray, and his place within the great machine of wealth and power and title--which is certainly out of character, he's been burning with a faint irritation all night. But he's distracted.

And then he turns around, and there's Aunt Stanze. Constanze. On the edge of the dance floor. Shit.

Gentlemanly, he offers her the wine glass without saying anything. It's a big gesture, for Nikos.

good

[champions]

Nikos is not her relation by blood, and for some, that would be reason enough to snub someone who had caused pain to those he is related to by blood. Stubborn and passionate in equal measure, both potentially dangerous qualities, and doubly so when combined. His failed attempt at assassination was testament to that.

Constanze does not snub Nikos. In fact, she rather likes him, and that he is so dear to Marisol only cements that. Family was rarely a matter of blood, but of loyalty. Perhaps Nikos had a strange sense of loyalty, of viewing the world, but she wasn't sure that meant his view was wrong or less valuable. They could not thrive if they clung to but one perspective, and there were times when that which challenged was to be embraced. Was that not why Ruy so loved piracy, why that wildness ran in their veins? It was defiance, it was pushing back against laws and nations that constrained and punished.

She accepts the wine with a smile that on most other people might seem less than warm. On Constanze it's positively glowing. "Nikos. It's a rare treat to see you in such a setting."

[exsecutus]

"I'm Kostos."

A joke. Not a clear joke, maybe. He says it steadily, without hesitation. And to someone who doesn't know to look for the differences, perhaps they'd be convinced. There's something like a smile in his eyes, despite everything: Nikos isn't happy, but he's happier than he was a few moments ago by a few degrees. He has always liked Aunt Constanze.

"Still rare to see at a wedding. The sentiment stands. You look rich."

Also kind of a joke. Kind of.

[champions]

"Is that so? Then I suppose I will not ask you to dance. You're much clumsier on your feet than your brother."

The uninitiated might suppose she believes him. The familiar would know better, by the way her eyes crinkle with amusement.

"The secret to looking rich is to not feeling the need to be excessive." Across the room, Marisol dances with Archimede Santaniello, a man in his late sixties, whose hair was streaked with silver and fingers adorned with gold. Marisol was certainly a fan of the lavish, but Constanze had taught her that personality and gaudiness were different. For the most part, she thought Marisol did rather well at distinguishing, even if she could do with her daughter being a little flamboyant, at times.

The smile she gives Nikos is conspiratorial. "So really, you look rich as well."

[exsecutus]

The slim chance that he has fooled his aunt is eviscerated on the sharp points of Nikos' immediate scowl. Any good feeling curried by her insult to Kostos is likewise murdered.

Rich.

"Not," he tells her, in that flash of anger, "by choice. By order. And I am not at this event, by choice, when it displays and rewards and embraces the power structures and institutions that I hate." And there is Marisol, at the corner of his eye, too, looking beautiful and rich and happy on the arm of fucking Archimede Santaniello, who would probably die mid-fuck of a heart attack, so what good is he even to Marisol's stupid adherence to her duty both self-professed and imposed and reinforced by gaudy displays of wealth and waste just like this one.

Nikos grabs another cup of wine for himself from the next servant's tray. "And I don't want to dance."

Which is downright petulant, as well as partially untrue, but whatever.

[champions]

She sips her wine, and shakes her head, although there is no expression of judgment or distaste. "I know," Constanze replies, "but you'd do better with your plans if you could control that temper of yours. Such things can be used against you."

Constanze takes a step forward, and corrects his collar. "If you are to fool anyone and undermine them, then you must move amongst them seamlessly. Give them no reason to believe you are not one of them, befriend them, learn about them, and then you can destroy them."

A little quirk of her brow. "And if you cannot destroy, it serves to have a hand where you can influence, while you build something better, and freer." #pirateforlife #yolohoho #freedom

me too

[exequy]

Kostos is looking aside, when the offer comes, at a candelabra several yards away that has a spot of extra brightness in its halo, unnoticeable to anyone who doesn’t know to look for it. Wisps can dim nearly to nothing if they’re asked nicely. And then they can wait, and they can listen. Kostos is not expecting to learn anything more useful than what a nearby pair of Antivan men think of the food (well cooked, but perhaps too daring, with exotic dishes that would have been better highlighted and complemented by a background of familiar staples, and far too much banana for this season—) but it gives him something to do and think about besides stand in a corner and feel out of place.

He’s been to Antiva in recent years, but only to kill people, or to stop people being killed. Nothing social. Before that, when he last visited he was eight or nine, and they stayed for a while, his mother was determined that her children would know her language and her home and not belong solely to Nevarra. It might have stuck, for him, if she’d had more time before everything went to shit. But as it is he feels like a foreigner who shouldn’t be a foreigner, an extra dollop of resentful misery on top of the usual mountain of it he would bring along to any extravagant party.

Being confronted with an uncle he last looked up at from approximately waist height doesn’t help, cake or no cake—but as soon as his head has snapped around to the source of the voice and he’s had a moment to recover, he takes a plate, reflexively.

“If you stand further from the food,” he says, sounding blessedly less awkward than he feels, falling back on his default quiet impassivity, “it will probably be waylaid before it reaches you.”

[champions]

A rumble of laughter, and sets a hand on Kostos' shoulder. "True enough. It's very good to see you."

He glances about to see if Constanze is lurking anywhere to swoop down to condemn his cake holding, and satisfied that his wife is not around, relaxes a little. "But you are hiding away from us. Do you prefer to observe, or are you trying to avoid awkward chitchat?"

Amancio isn't foolish, or oblivious. His daughter was in the Circle, and he has heard of the terrible things that have befallen mages. It could change any person. What happened to Keto would change a person as well; Amancio could think of little that would be more painful, than to have had an unintentional part in the death of a dear family member. His nephew seems— different than how he remembers him, in more than age.

[exequy]

However quiet and emotionally standoffish he might be, which is very, Kostos doesn't play to type by being shy about physical contact. Amancio's hand lands on his shoulder, and he doesn't tense or shift away from it. If anything it leaves him feeling more solid, more aware, and Amancio seeming more like his uncle, whose legs he once ducked behind to avoid talking to strange adults—a softer shyness than he exhibits now, though there were early signs of his sharp edges in the way he warred with Nikos and tried to rule over the girls once the strangers had left—instead of an enormous cake-dispensing ghost. But the only outward sign of any of it is a slightly more confident angle to Kostos' chin when he says, "Both," and begins making further arrangements for the plates of cake.

With the tiny fork accompanying the piece he's already taken, he scrapes another of the slices in Amancio's hands onto his plate, then takes the other plate to stack beneath it, leaving his uncle with a more reasonably single slice and himself with something that passes for one particularly enormous chunk of cake—overall, a slightly more dignified scene. He'll make Nell eat some, if he ever finds her again.

"We are here to represent the Inquisition," he goes on, still quiet in a way that forces people to pay attention to hear him at all, "and the last time I spoke to a nobleman without supervision, he wanted to have a duel."