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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.

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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.

Edited 2018-10-15 03:45 (UTC)

Some of the wine bottles they come by honestly. Others might have been carried out in skirts or under jackets, if only for the thrill of it. They probably could have had them if they'd asked. There was so much that they won't be missed, back at the main celebration, and will absolutely be more appreciated by our semi-triumphant heroes, who have retreated down a sloping trail through Antiva City's rocky cliffs and onto a stretch of beach. To discuss how the meeting went, of course, and strategy, and other very professional Inquisition things.

No one specific person has to take the blame for what it turns into—though someone is certainly welcome to—but both moons are bright and the sharp, twisting wind off the water is the kind that whips hair out of place and makes even very professional people feel a little bit like running away and becoming pirates. An hour later they're already fifteen minutes into a stupid game, and it's Kostos' turn to choose.

He's lying on the sand and momentarily too wine-lazy to move, so he turns his head to look at his neighbor and says, "You." Truth or dare.

ooc | you're welcome to do separate threads here too! the beach is big enough for people to wander off for smaller conversations if they want.

Edited 2018-10-15 03:42 (UTC)

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

Edited 2018-10-19 12:08 (UTC)

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."

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.

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."

"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.

"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."

"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?"

"Dare, naturally," is Alexandrie's drawled response from her half-repose on the sand, one of the bottles of pilfered wine dangling from her hand. Her smallest finger is raised daintily as if such a thing could entirely counteract her skirts being tucked up to her knees to avoid them being soaked as she wandered in the shallows on their way here, the long curl of her copper hair that has entirely escaped the upsweep of her coiffure.

"The truth makes me come down with spots."

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.

Edited (I FORGOT LEXIE) 2018-10-22 13:04 (UTC)

Kostos’ contemplative look is unnecessarily prolonged, because she’s pretty and because he’s rifling through his imagination for something relatively unlikely to cause anyone to slap him. Slapping can come later.

“Contact the Provost and the Scoutmaster,” he says, eventually, extracting his own sending crystal from his shirtfront to wave it lazily in illustration—not in offering, use your own—“and ask them the length of their hair and their feet, in inches, and how to spell their names. And never tell them why you need to know.”

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.”

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.

"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."

Alexandrie retrieves her own crystal from where it's tucked comfortably, clears her throat slightly, and goes about having the requested conversations with first the Provost, which could not possibly have gone any better, and then—after taking a moment—with the Scoutmaster, who apparently needs her beauty sleep. Ah well.

"As I have been instructed by our esteemed Scoutmaster to direct my inquires to you," she says, lightly indicating Kostos with her bottle, "it appears I shall need to know the precise length of your foot. In inches." The corners of her smile twitch slightly with amusement, she pauses to take a drink, and then: "Well and so. Have I satisfied you?"

Edited 2018-10-23 06:31 (UTC)

It is probably the wine—

“I daresay someone is satisfied this evening,” very quietly.

What is even the point of being that tall if there's no [ she gestures vaguely from where she lies, flat on her back and one hand grasping at the air, searching for the word ] proportionality? Kostos is better value for height. Inches for inches. Whatever.

But good show, Lexie. [ golf clap ] You choose who's next.

"Yes, this is what I wanted to hear," Nikos says, from a patch of sand adjacent, "jokes about my brother's dick. Fantastic."

His voice is a little distorted given that he is also laying on his back, and has drank a small lake's worth of wine tonight. These are also the reasons for why he does not get up and walk away.

But seriously, gross. He makes a sick cat kind of noise up at the night sky: blearckg.

"Hurry up and fucking choose, Lexie."

Lexie, who is looking disastrously intrigued by the suggestion of such a set of value rankings, waves her little book at Nell who honestly probably cannot see what she's doing.

"What if we were to simply begin to write down a list of ratios in... mon Créateur, it could be a cypher! Ah, but then we should have to beware the incursion of toothsome Venatori agents and—ah, yes." She stops, finally, to nod and gesture widely with the utmost respect that she can gather at the moment towards Lakshmi.

"Bai Saheba! Shall we have candor or caper from you?"

Kostos—catlike in a different way—stretches his hands above his head and settles a little deeper into the sand, very satisfied yes thank you, and verges on a smile, which only the more directly overhead of the two moons is privy to, because he’s drunk.

But drunk or not, he has principles and/or the appearance of them to maintain, so after a moment he rolls himself up to sitting, grasps around in the sand until he finds something damp and seaweedy, and extends an arm with dignified inattention to drop it onto Nell’s abdomen.

For talking about his dick in front of his brother and his cousin.

That’s all the revenge he needs, though, because anything that bothers Nikos is a little bit worth it, and because there are more important things to focus on, like what happens when an Orlesian noble plays this ridiculous game with a rifter queen.

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THE WEDDING.

THE AFTERPARTY.

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SOME VIVAS FAMILY NPCS if you so desire

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i desire

good

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me too

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