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persephone sits in a courtroom dress as green as summer trees her lipstick red as blood
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![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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.
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.
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.
d-d-d-dance.. pappy can threadjack if he wants his wife back
Or maybe he's relying on the fact that he looks enough like the groom-to-be to his advantage.
"May I?" He offers a hand to her, and the question to her conversational partner, if there be one. If not, then the question is hers. He's been learning the steps, enough at least to not have to resort to Ye Olde Woodelf Antics to have a good time.
Just as well. Legolas isn't exactly dressed for Woodelf Antics. A little too refined and fancy for that, for all that it might seem fitting on him. The better part of the celebration thus far has been spent trying to figure out how to field (or avoid, he's good at avoiding) questions common of second marriages, which probably hasn't helped him settle any, and if he seems antsy--
He's probably just hungry. So. Dancing it is.
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At least she hasn't had enough of it to weigh down her feet, yet: light on them, and clever enough to guide without leading, keep them moving in the right direction and improvise quickly around any gaps in his knowledge of social dances of Thedas. The evening is unavoidably Orlesian, but many of the guests are Marchers; it's hard to predict where a given beat falls.
“Thank you,” under her breath. And then: “My mother—my elven mother—I think she'd have liked you, if you'd met her.”
(She had two. It's a long story. Or: a short story, with a sad end.)
no subject
Still. A dance is a dance, and he enjoys dancing. He has enough enthusiasm, and shows it, for the both of them. Which would be an immense faux pas if it is in fact unseemly to be enthusiastic about Orlesian wedding dances. But he'll take the chance. It's been far too dreary for far too long.
"Would she?" He hums a little, thoughtful and to the tune of the music. "I have not oft heard that I am very likable."
He is, of course, not very serious about that. Though even if he were, it would not colour his words with anything like scorn or dissatisfaction. The only thing that would do that is if one were to tell him he couldn't climb trees anymore.
Which. Did happen while he was recovering from that nasty burn. So.
"..I am sorry that she could not make it." Perhaps he doesn't know the full story, or he has heard only rumors, whispers here and there. Perhaps it doesn't matter. "Maybe I would have liked her as well. Though they are strange elves that live here."
He's also a strange elf though, even by Middle-Earth standards, so he really has no room to talk.