faderift | Player Plot | From Tevinter, With Love

WHO: Alexandrie, Benedict, Byerly, Fifi, Hanzo, Isaac, Loki, Merrill, Romain, Thor
WHAT: A diplomatic dinner and mysterious murder most foul
WHEN: Mid-Harvestmere
WHERE: the Asgard estate in Hightown
NOTES: OOC Poast, CW: rich people being garbage, elf related racism, other updates to come as they apply!

In the wake of the events in Minrathous, there has been a great deal of reshuffling of power and alliances both within the Imperium and between those within it and the surrounding powers. A particularly well-off Laetan merchant by the name of Flavius Aurelius is one such alliance shuffler. He has holdings in the south along the border and a number of cross-country trading caravans and has made overtures of aid in getting Inquisition personnel into (and around) the country in exchange for protection against having his lands occupied and used to do the precise opposite of what he's offering.

This is a rather good deal for the Inquisition, especially since it involves more risk on his part than theirs, and so all attempts are to be made to convince him that he'll be a valued member of the cause. By his countrymen in particular, who may enjoy particular success in doing so for a variety of reasons. Thus, the Tevene contingent of the Inquisition—as well as diplomatic representatives from Ferelden, Orlais, and a wayward Dalish elf—find themselves in the position of doing this due diligence, in the hopes that this will make things go smoothly—better than smoothly if possible—at the meeting established for the next day to discuss terms.

What better way than a small dinner party?

[ ooc: toplevels will be added beneath as they happen! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There isn't much Fifi has in the way of fine clothes-- most of her nicer dresses were lost in the various perils on the way from Val Royeaux to here-- but she asked Merrill to bring the finest thing she has, and failing that, there's always something borrowed from the ever-magnanimous Alexandrie.

When Merrill arrives, Fifi greets her with a grin and beckons her away from the door, toward the stairs to the servants' quarters so they can prepare.

There aren't many pieces that Merrill has that most people would consider fine - or 'civilized', for that matter. She has a green dress from the ball in Orlais, though, the one that Martel had insisted she have - and she has a few accessories, both from that ball and from her travels, that she thinks might work. Her staff is not one of those accessories, but she brings it anyway. It's a Tevinter estate and she is not going to be the only mage without a staff.

Any worries about that are forgot, however, when she shows up and meets Fifi. She grins back and follows her, free hand fiddling with the silver locket around her neck.

"It's funny how similar the houses in Hightown look," Merrill muses. "The Hawke estate is fairly similar."

"These Marchers have no imagination," Fifi remarks chipperly, leading her down, "all straight lines and slave statues. Say what you will of Val Royeaux's wealthy, they have style."
She comes to her room, blessedly a single, and guides the door open to usher Merrill inside. It's a modest chamber, with very little in it to suggest the presence of any one specific person, though a nail on the wall above the bed holds a woven collar with the name 'CLOCHETTE' stitched in.
There's also a single mirror, albeit with no vanity, but Fifi ushers Merrill in front of it and stands behind her.
"Would you like anything on your face?" she asks, with barely concealed delight, "I can paint you like a dancer, if you like."

"They didn't even remake most of the city when they took it," Merrill adds, shaking her head. Thanks for keeping the super confusing Tevinter magic symbols, Kirkwall. Not.

A bit uncomfortable in front of mirrors, Merrill takes the opportunity to look at anything but her reflection - the room, the collar, and Fifi behind her. The question makes her blink for a moment, and then there's a little giggle. "What are dancers painted like?" There's a gesture at her inked cheeks a moment later. "Would it cover the vallaslin? I'm not sure if that would be good or bad, in this situation."

"Red lips, dark eyes," Fifi replies, "I wouldn't cover it, unless that's what you want." A pause, a tinge of pink appearing on her cheeks, though she turns away to scoot a little box out from under the bed, "...I think it's lovely."

Facing each other or not, there's a tinge of pinks to Merrill's own cheeks in response. She lets her fingertips gently touch against her vallaslin for a moment; not many people have said lovely. Exotic, sure, but not lovely.

"I think I'd like that - the red lips and dark eyes, that is. Let's leave the vallaslin uncovered." Because Merrill is proud of what she is (was?), and because Fifi likes it.

"So it shall be," Fifi replies, opening the box and resting it on her bed as she sifts through it for the right supplies, then pats the bed beside it to invite Merrill over. "Have a seat and I'll get started," she says easily, sitting down herself and beginning to swirl a little brush around in a pot of pigment.

It's easy to do as Fifi asks, settling cross-legged on the bed so that Fifi can easily reach her and so Merrill's feet don't kick and fidget. Her fingers are still fidgeting, playing with the griffon necklace she has on, but oh well. "Do you do this often?"

"Not terribly," Fifi says with a soft smile, beginning to dab at Merrill's nose with a primer, "though I used to. It has been quite a long time since I've had any need." Or since anyone in her vicinity has had need-- she has a deft hand with the brush, and welcomed requests for help among her fellow dancers.

"But I do enjoy it. It's... transformative." Gently motioning for Merrill to close her eyes, she begins to swab on some color with a little brush.

"Will you tell me about it?"

Merrill closes her eyes, breathing steadily. She is a canvas, at the moment, but she's also a rather good listener. She wants to know more.

This isn't a topic about which Fifi is terribly open anymore, but if anyone will understand, it's another elf, displaced from home and country, despite the differences in specific circumstance.
"I used to dance on the stage, in Val Royeaux," she explains, "under the hot lights and for such crowds, painting one's face ensures you can be seen."

Smiling fondly, she smudges some of the primer with her thumb right under Merrill's eye. "I find it feels different. Like... I imagine how fighters feel with their armor. It is an act of preparation, to become someone else, only for a time."

She doesn't ask if Fifi misses it. She doesn't think she needs to; there's the paint, the mention of becoming someone else. Wouldn't it be nice, at times, to be someone else? To not have your own problems?

There's a quiet hum of recognition instead, and an entirely different question.

"How did you end up in Kirkwall?"

Fifi blinks in curiosity at the change of subject, but easily follows it. "I came here with a friend," she explains as she works, "the Inquisition caught us with something we weren't supposed to have, and we were given the choice." It's as easy as that: become a casualty of war, or join the side that'll save you.

"But I had been with another organization, the Freemen of the Dales. I find things more... sensible around here." A wry smile.

There's a little giggle.

"I know that feeling. As much as I miss Hawke, sensible was never necessarily true about any of our adventures." Especially the way Varric made them palatable for the public. "And before that, sometimes the Keeper had to tell us to stop pulling hair."

Fifi smiles fondly, giving the quiet instruction for Merrill to close her eyes before she begins to brush on some eyeshadow. "The Keeper was your..." She wracks her brain for what little she knows of the Dalish. "...mother?"

"Mm. Close, but no- no, I haven't seen my parents in... well, it was years before I left my clan. They were a part of another clan, you see."

Fifi probably didn't see, but Merrill would explain if asked.

"No, the Keeper is the head of the clan. I was her First; I would have taken over, if I'd stayed, when she could no longer lead."

Player Plot | From Tevinter, With Love

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