Player Plot | From Tevinter, With Love

[coquettish_trees]

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! ]

Comments

[eruit]

His eyes turn to Isaac and he watches, sharply, for a moment, drinking him in and assessing.

Hanzo knows what he is saying. One whispered comment, said out of place, and it hangs around him. It was a mistake and he curses himself for it now, shamed and frustrated with himself. What the secret is - that's something that the other man couldn't possibly know, but that doesn't matter. There's a tension in his shoulders now, something sharp and dangerous, and he breathes out.

Slowly, he pushes himself up, stands a little taller, lets the breadth of his chest betray how hard is he trying to be confident, to have control of himself, to have the power.

"Not even for that."

[wythersake]

Even standing eye-to-eye, there's no mistaking them: Hanzo is built like a ruddy siege engine — Isaac, for his part, has always been better-suited to sprinting in the opposite direction. It's effort not to blink.

But there's no armor between them save very fine cloth, no weapons but the hands at their side (but what they might bring), and he thinks he's a shade too bitter for fear tonight.

"Then find a reason to stay." Orlais has planted its flag steadfast inside this hideous mansion, hostile territory for them both. "As Mme. Yseult would wish you. No?"

With a hand clapped to his shoulder — look, we're friends! — Isaac pulls away.