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

[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."