persephone sits in a courtroom dress as green as summer trees her lipstick red as blood

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Baudin, Thranduil, assorted guests.
WHAT: It's a nice day for a white wedding.
WHEN: Haring 30th / Wintermarch 1st
WHERE: The de Coucy residence, Hightown.
NOTES: The OOC post. Your character wasn't in the chapel unless you play Romain, Coupe or Legolas. Post co-authored with rowancrowned. Questions section of the OOC post still open! This is a mingle log; top level, tag amongst yourselves, hit us up if you have particular needs or desires.

Despite the events of the previous month, the winter's afternoon wedding of Gwenaëlle Baudin and Provost Thranduil proceeds as planned—or at least, close enough that any last minute discrepancies are invisible to the eye of oblivious guests (and indeed the bride, having taken approximately zero interest in the planning). In the ongoing absence of a suitable Chantry, the ceremony itself takes place in the modest chapel within the home to a select few witnesses hand-selected—chosen mainly to avoid any untoward rumours that it might not have been done properly, including the acting Viscount, the Gallows Forces commander, and a handful of others whose stature within Kirkwall lends them the sort of credibility this wedding is in dire need of being lent.

With the ballroom ripped out and redesigned for another purpose, the estate doesn’t possess the space to host the number of guests invited to the post-ceremony fete, instead making use of the courtyard in its center. Guests are shepherded there, and are not entirely left out of the wedding itself when they are joined by the happy couple to publicly sign the legal documents some who've not previously attended weddings between people with money may never have seen before. To ward off the midwinter cold—to varying degrees of success, based on one’s proximity to them—braziers have been set up at intervals throughout the garden everywhere but the space cleared for those moved to dance, and servants in de Coucy colors bring round trays of small, hot food and enough drinks to stave off the worst of the chill.

The decorations betray the groom’s tastes over the bride's. Holly and juniper and other such evergreens make up the majority of the arrangements, bright red berries a better ornament than the inexcusable expense of hothouse flowers. There is the underlying reminder that both halves of the couple are Inquisition members, in the smart dress uniforms that half the guests wear as they mingle with the better part of Kirkwall society.

This is a pageant, the diplomatic arm of the Inquisition flexing the agreement made with the Rifters and also the normalcy it seeks to restore. But it is a pretty pageant, and an easy excuse to wear something stunning and dance and eat food purchased with Orlesian coin—and, perhaps, to enquire about making a donation to the Inquisition in support.

Comments

[faithlikeaseed]

The look on Myr's face undergoes the most wondrous transformation when Loki opens his mouth: surprise into recognition into a hint of wariness around the corners of his eyes, and all of it smoothing away again in a matter of seconds.

"I'm surprised Kirkwall's reputation as a city of gardens hasn't reached Northern ears by now," he replies smoothly enough, continuing the absurdity he started. From his stance, he's here to stay a little while; from the way he holds his wine glass like he's looking for an excuse to get rid of it, he's not much interested in drinking while he does it.

"Though the Provost's really gone out of his way to enhance it. Messere Asgard, as I remember?"

[hwaaaitsme]

Loki snorts at the comment, it's as close to a laugh as he is likely to get, and takes another sip of his wine. The elf recognizes him and Loki's sip becomes a good deal deeper. When he lowers his glass it is about half finished.

"You are correct," he replies and there is something in there, in his tone, but it is ill defined and a little stiff. He falls back into familiar speech patterns a moment later.

"I assume you work for the Provost?"

[faithlikeaseed]

The laugh's--good to hear, though Myr's own inclinations toward making other people at ease are a little at war with memories of how he'd been treated last time. (The fellow is a Vint, after all.)

But they are both Inquisition, and Myr had resolved after the abbey to do better at laying his own preconceptions aside (when warranted) and reach out, so--

"Nominally," and the answer's cheerful enough. "I'm still in the Research division, though much of my time's taken up with Chantry Relations of late. Myrobalan Shivana, formerly of Hasmal Circle." Since he's a sneaking suspicion the recognition doesn't quite flow both ways, though he's polite enough about it.

[hwaaaitsme]

Loki stares at him a moment before he realizes what is expected of him. He is in the South and he has played his part well, but in his distraction he is falling into old habits. He extends a hand to shake, as courteous a gesture as he is wont to make, given the circumstances, and arches a brow.

"A mage as well," Loki comments noncommittally and finishes his wine. He holds the glass to the side a moment and then lowers his arm.

"Curious that you are assigned to appease the Chantry."

[faithlikeaseed]

"Some would call it a provocation." The words are equitable enough, a match for Myr's easy smile, but one might be forgiven for imagining there's teeth behind them. Somewhere. "Rather than appeasement. But the Inquisition asked and I assented; I can only hope to live up to their assessment of me."

Though whether he'd do whatever it is they'd thought he do and achieve whatever hidden ends they had in mind appointing someone so politically fraught to the position without an inkling of why-- Well. Leave that for another day. "And if it shifts Chantry opinion of elves, or mages, or even elven mages, so much the better."