open | your baddest behavior

[cozen]

WHO: Alexandrie, Bastien, Byerly, and their captive audience
WHAT: Mandatory etiquette and dance lessons
WHEN: Justinian 15, 9:45
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: See the OOC post and IC announcement for more information! If you didn't sign up, you can still participate in Parts A and D, and just handwave the other two, without needing to sign up or get an assignment. If you want to do B and C, you can find your own dance partner/seating group OOC, or you can sign up now and we'll dole out new assignments if we get enough latecomers to do so. If you signed up and are missing from the lists when you shouldn't be, I'm sorry and please tell me!

disclaimer: event less fancy than pictured

Seating Assignments
— Table One: Gwenaëlle, Iorveth, Matthias, Athessa
— Table Two: Flint, Ilias, Darras, Med Seller, Yngvi
— Table Three: Julius, Thranduil, Anders, Brienne
— Table Four: Benedict, Colin, Valentine, Six, Derrica
— Table Five: Teren, Salvio, Bartimaeus, Osana
— Table Six: Freddie, Petrana, Kain, Merrill, Silver
— Table Seven: Yseult, Cosima, Steve, Inessa
— Table Eight: Sidony, Fifi, Nell, Fingon
— Table Nine: Thor, Nathaniel H., Solas, Skadi

Dance Partners
— Cosima & Nathaniel H.
— Athessa & Anders
— Teren & Flint
— Freddie & Bartimaeus
— Yseult & Darras
— Nell & Julius
— Merrill & Colin
— Skadi & Benedict
— Gwenaëlle & Solas
— Petrana & Salvio
— Osana & the Medicine Seller
— Sidony & Matthias
— Six & Thranduil
— Brienne & Valentine
— Fifi & Steve
— Thor & Fingon
— Ilias & Iorveth

Comments

(B) Dinner

[cozen]

ooc | one thread per table! eat and talk amongst yourselves, and lexie, bastien, and/or byerly might stop by to say hello or tell you to get your elbows off the table.

Dinner is served in courses consisting primarily of small portions of foods designed to thwart their eaters: Antivan bruschetta topped so generously that moving each piece is a balancing act; a tomato-based stew with large cuts of beef and vegetable that will leave splatters of red on the table cloth and bystanders' clothing if not carefully transported from bowl to mouth; cuts of sticky fruit; whole fish baked with honey and still in possession of its many tiny bones and its sad blank eyes; jellied pigs' feet, to test any gag reflexes that withstood the fish eyes; corn on the cob, of all things; and cakes so small that one might be tempted to try eating them by hand but that will absolutely leave sticky glaze and crumbs on one's nose tip if one gives in.

Of course, the greatest test of patience and grace might be enduring the company.

Table Four

[keenly]

Colin has never attended anything like this. He sees absolutely no issue with cutting the big chunks of beef with knife and fork so that they are manageable. He knows how to de-bone a fish and has no hesitation in doing so in front of everyone, nor in eating the cute little eyes or the meat from the head. Quickly, however, he finds that he is in the minority in finding none of this objectionable and gets a self-conscious look.

"Um. Anyone need me to, um, debone a fish? Or anything?"

[cozen]

"A generous offer," Bastien says, swinging closer on his pass between tables to stand over this one, "for anyone without fingers," which is to say: don't debone anybody else's fish. That's cheating. But it's punctuated with a quick wink. No one's lost any points—because there are points—for it, yet.

[degenere]

"Oh, I could do mine. But I prefer to allow a true expert to work his craft in all things. Even in the field of fish deboning."

Boning is a funny word. Val smirks as he tips his chair back, lazy and elegant and casual. He looks right at home among a dinner of many courses and the table settings, and has even dressed for the occasion, ready to show off--a brocade tailcoat cut close in the chest, appointed with gold buttons and gold trim, and a sort of bolero bit in the shoulders that looks like green dragonscale. He's got one arm over the back of his chair, and one leg laid across his knee, irreverent and still so good-looking--even with his hat, which is very Orlesian, a soft velvet dollup with a bejeweled sort of brooch and four blue and green feathers to top it all off.

He smiles, charmingly, first at Colin, and then at the table at large. "If he wants to, and shows an aptitude, I think that should be encouraged, yes? No matter what else we are about today."

Table Nine

[pinprick]

Nathaniel has had to eat all sorts when with the Wardens, but somehow, the most infuriating thing on these plates is the corn on the cob. After everything, giving him something that will leave bits of things in his teeth that he isn't allowed to pick out is adding a great deal of insult to some minor injury. He tries circumventing the problem with a cross look on his face, taking his sharp knife and cutting off the corn daintily.

"Has anyone read any intriguing articles, of late?" he asks while trying not to burn through the plate with a dirty look.

[iceblade]

Skadi was having a grand time being her usual self and seeing just how uncomfortable that would make their 'civilized' instructors. Not giving a damn about points in the slightest, she ate without care of accidentally spilling anything, nor did the fish or pigs' feet faze her. Completely ignoring dress protocol as well, she was clad in her usual clothing. Elbows on the table were a given, as was leaning back in her chair. She didn't even bother to look around for reactions, pretending to be oblivious.

"Articles? Pfft, tell me about the griffons. Your lot has a new generation, aye? Now that's exciting. If only my hold could see them...."

[thorndergod]

Thor is glad that he's sitting across from Skadi rather than next to her, because it means his red, black, and gold robes aren't at risk of being splashed. He's the very picture of civilized. Tevinter civilized, that is. It includes all of the expected manners and the ability to eat things with a straight face, but it absolutely doesn't involve clothing that isn't mage robes.

"I read something yesterday suggesting that the elephants we encountered in battle were a mass hallucination." Griffons are fascinating. He's rather tempted to take up learning to fly himself. But articles were the selected topic and manners suggest following that lead. "It went on to suggest that we may be imagining the Rift issue as well. Some sort of... panic, I believe it said. It was written by a fellow here in Kikrwall, a William Sims in Lowtown. I found the attitude behind it far more interesting than the content."

Because the content is bullshit, but he can't well say that in civilized company. Or when he's pretending he's in civilized company.

table one.

[elegiaque]

Iorveth had said he wouldn't attend unless blazed out of his mind, and Gwenaëlle, who doesn't want to be here any more than he does but is slightly more prepared to acknowledge that it isn't a completely stupid fucking idea, had said—fine, and wrestled him into the fine white clothes she'd altered for him months ago when they were still sharing a bed. Including herself, she's dressed three quarters of the table she's sitting at, having both flung a dress at Athessa and then, considerately, made sure she could actually get into it.

(It's not very impressive that she mastered that high, it simply speaks to experience.)

Her own dress is a pretty, gauzy thing that she considers simple; she has, for the occasion, deigned to dig around under the bed for the wooden box where she kept the masques with too much sentimental attachment to sell or otherwise be rid of and produced a delicate moonstone-set thing that fastens into the high tumble of her curls. She certainly looks the part that she's never very skillfully played, but she also looks (for anyone more than glancingly familiar with her) in suspiciously good spirits for having been obliged to attend this.

Cheerfully, “What a fucking shitshow.”

[sulahnan]

If Athessa had been smart--or, more aptly if she'd done any prior planning--she would have pre-gamed the party in the same manner as Iorveth and Gwen. After all, every spare idle moment on scouting missions has been spent collecting elfroot and a specific violet cultivar of blood lotus for a concoction Athessa likes to call purple haze. It's an easy enough task because who is going to question an elf picking plants out of the dirt? Nobody, that's who. They just go about their business and let Athessa do the same, oblivious to the information being gathered alongside those weeds.

But she hadn't done any prior planning. She'd been ready to wander into the party in leggings and a loosely fitting and immodestly cut tunic, barefoot, and dirt-smudged before Gwen had seen fit to fix that particular faux pas before it happened.

So she's sat at the table with high society on one side and Matthias on the other, wearing yards of fabric that look about as hardy as a cracked eggshell and a little bit scared to move for fear of fucking it up.

"You said it," she agrees, adopting an accent fueled by discomfort.

It is, blessedly, not as offensive an approximation of an Orlesian accent as it could be.

[inkindled]

Matthias, who has eaten soup with his hands, is spending his idle thoughts wishing he'd known that the dressing requirement was as important as it seems to be. He would describe Gwenaëlle and Athessa somewhere between elegantly impossible and meringue, but fashionable--and how did Athessa end up looking so good as she does, it's unfair, and he's trying not to look at her--and Iorveth looks bloody good too, well-dressed, like a posh statue of white marble, and Matthias--

Well, he'd once stolen a fine tunic off a corpse on the battlefield, only needed a bit of mending and a wash, then had gotten too frightened of it and buried it behind his tent in the dead of night. So that's where he's starting from. He'd shown up for this well-scrubbed, at least, wearing clean and nearly-fitting clothes (too short at the cuffs, as usual). He's slumped in his chair, the very picture of poor posture, picking at a thread on the gray cote-hardie, which is near enough to a robe to make him feel both secure and insecure.

"I spent half a season eating with pigs once," he says to the table at large, all sullen and Free Marcher, "actual pigs. Not out of the same trough or anything--near enough. I'd go back and do it all over again if it'd get me out of this. What's so amusing about it?"

table six.

[ipseite]

The purpose of Petrana's elegantly cut dress is twofold: it is more than suitable to the occasion, and moreover, it is an excellent opportunity to demonstrate how to make taking great care not to dip one's elaborate sleeve in one's elaborate dinner look effortless. Arranging her hands in front of her before she even sits to ensure the drape settles at her sides, and not in her lap—

It is safe to say that Mme de Cedoux appears to be in her element, for all that she takes such pains not to appear too far out of it at any given time.

“It is wonderful to see everyone making such an effort,” she says, pleasantly, which is an opportunity for everyone else to remember that pointing out it's bloody mandatory would not be at all diplomatic.

[in_death_sacrifice]

Why he had kept any of his old clothes from his old life is a mystery to Kain himself, but here he is, dressed in full Orlesian noble finery. He'd definitely considered just wearing his Warden armor, but clearly that wasn't to be. So he very much does look the part, and he also knows how to act the part, when it comes to all of this etiquette stuff. He's participating reluctantly, but he is participating, mostly to avoid having to stay here any longer than he's forced to.

"Indeed, and I suppose tomorrow we can all trade divisions again. Perhaps Secrets could be next? I've never tried my hand at being a spy." Oh, hm... wait, maybe he should not be so sarcastic. Grrr stupid protocol. Kain clears his throat, trying to be more genuine as he continues, "It's... good to reinforce these diplomatic skills, since we never know when any of us might be called upon to use them." This is true, even if he hates admitting it.

Table Three

[overharrowed]

Julius has studied ahead of time, at least to the extent of seeming confident in which fork to use and confidently making use of the finger bowl for its proper function at the appropriate time. He is not wearing robes, for once, but a well-tailored tunic, shirt and trousers, but if the change of costume is causing him discomfort, he doesn't show it.

Instead, he seems purely focused on the conversation. Anders he knows, and he's worked with the provost on and off in the past, so he starts with the unknown quantity. "I understand you're a recent arrival. How are you settling in so far? I've no doubt it must be quite an adjustment."

Does he even need to look at the fish? It isn't obvious, but he seems to be eating it and not choking on bones either way.

[servility]

Brienne, on the other hand, hasn't studied at all. She was raised (despite the illness of fit) as the next Lady of Tarth, and while she certainly spent more time on her martial skills than on the intricacies of etiquette, she's always felt confident in her ability to at least provide a fairly crisp example of the baseline acceptable etiquette standards for one in her position.

If those etiquette standards vary from world to world, then so be it.

For the occasion, she's forsaken her armor and tunic in favor of a simple dress much like the one she wore at the late Joffrey Baratheon's wedding. Of the few dresses that she can recall having worn, it was the least offensive in appearance and in level of comfort - and the tailor she spoke with wouldn't hear of her donning pants and a tunic to the event, so here she is. Sitting at a table with Anders (a familiar face! How refreshing), a man who most certainly must be at least partially elven, and the man who currently levels a question in her direction.

And here she'd been more than content to simply blend in.

Brienne adjusts the cloth napkin across her lap, lifting her gaze to meet his. "It's... quite a bit to take in," she agrees, lips curling just slightly in good humor over her plight. "I never did well with politics."

[justice_is_blond]

"They're a headache at the best of times," Anders says with a smile, using the conversation as a little bit of cover for him glancing over to copy which fork Julius is using. He's supremely out of his element with the fancy food, but he's making an effort. The fish is suffering due to that effort, how does one carefully remove bones and look graceful doing it, for crying out loud? but he's making as good a try as he can.

That being said, he's gone for fancy robes, the same green, blue, and gold peacock ones he'd worn to his wedding. Anders is, well, Anders. He's not a noble. He's never going to be sent or invited to anything fancy like this, so he's at least going to wear something fancy enough but also something he's comfortable in.

"But you've been holding your own from what I've seen and heard," he continues, "and there's plenty that are willing to give a hand here. Both Julius and Thranduil had to learn through doing, and they've been doing well."

Both have held positions despite one being a mage and one being a Rifter. It's definitely something, though this organization was at least on the surface more liberal than the rest.

table five.

[radiosa]

While they're waiting to begin, Osana straightens her silverware (which didn't need to be straightened) for a second and then pulls her hands back and into her lap in a rush—is touching the silverware rude? where do hands go, in general, ever?—and keeps them there, picking at a thread on her skirt beneath the table but otherwise managing to look somewhat collected until the bruschetta arrives.

Then she says, "Oh, I know this!" with an Antivan accent to underscore why.

She's instantly aware that she sounds like a rube. But she's glad, anyway, that they aren't being given anything that requires specialized tools to eat, so her subsequent pursed lips are still most of a smile.

[doneisdone]

Teren is dressed in a somewhat outdated but nonetheless Sufficiently Fancy gown of blue and silver, with an embroidered griffon pattern on the bodice and a soft leather eyepatch that would be beautiful if it weren't, you know, covering her very scarred and ugly left eye (she decided not to bother acquiring a mask for the occasion, even if the future deems it a necessity).

"Stop your squirming, girl, you'll look untrustworthy," comes an admonishment, gentle compared to most of the things Teren says but still decidedly brusque to someone who doesn't know her. "Hands in your lap when they're not doing a thing."
She demonstrates.
"Keep them above your waist when they're not folded. Drawing the focus to your face, not your feet." A little smirk indicates that she's willing to acknowledge how ridiculous people are.

[reshapes]

"Oh good. I've arrived just in time. I just love a good appetizer, don't you?"

With a squeal of chair legs and a flurry of eye searing color, a truly dreadful specimen of humanity descends upon the table. Spotted and sweating, smelling powerfully of cloves and garlic from what surely must be pockets stuffed full with both, the gap-toothed floppy haired wastrel who all but squelches into the heretofore conspicuously empty chair promptly hooks one elbow on the table and fetches up the nearest glass in his other hand. Whether it belongs to his place setting or not seems irrelevant to the gentleman in question.

And a gentleman he most certainly is meant to be. Gone is the pointy, dark-eyed youth known for his unrivaled sparkling wit and a penchant for useless loitering. The slimy man at the table today bears absolutely no resemblance to him. He is, however, the spitting image of every feckless third son of minor peerage to ever exist right down to the yellow tobacco stains on his fingertips and absent chin.

"I didn't miss anything important, did I?"

Table Two

[meds4sale]

The Medicine Seller had made something of an effort. An approximation of one at least. For starters, he was wearing shoes instead of the socks and geta. He'd also forgone his heavily patterned attire for something one might actually see in Thedas (albeit with some personal touches). Baby steps, but steps nonetheless.

He also didn't want to be here and was thinking longingly of his various recreational "medicines" stashed away upstairs and a small pile of books to curl up with and peruse at his leisure. He could even be out doing his actual job - anything but stilted smalltalk for the amusement of those with more "Good Breeding" than sense.

The Medicine Seller was torn - some particularly petty side of him wanted to play dumb and invite the ire of those who'd thought this up. Passive aggressive sabotage was always appealing when he was in one of his Moods. But he was also the only elf (or at least something that looked like an elf) at this table, and it was a matter of pointy-eared solidarity that he show up his human dining companions with how perfectly well-mannered he could be.

"There are restaurants in my home," he remarked, picking up one of the fish forks and turning it over in his manicured fingers, "that serve with this western-styled arrangement. They are quite the fashionable novelty these days."

[staysail]

"For a lesson that seems to have been largely put together by Orlesians," and Darras gestures with his glass toward the administrators of the the trial they're undergoing together, "western-styled is apt. Sort of west of here, isn't it."

After a half-second, he decides to be friendly, and gives Bastien a genuine wave. He's all right, if a bit of a sadist for putting them all through this.

Really, it's not so bad. For all his low birth and the low company he's kept, Darras isn't some boor. All right, so all the finery he owns edges toward the garish, gold braiding on a crimson coat, his overlarge belt buckle that Yseult hates so much--but his shirt is clean, and his hair and beard have been freshly trimmed after returning recently from the dead. And, all right, so he'd prefer to eat with his hands, but he can use a fork--and chew with his mouth closed, and carry on an appropriately polite conversation--so really, this is icing the pastry, but he can play along.

Which is how he can be so cheerful as he goes on: "What's it you eat with usually, then. Fish bones? We do fish bones where I'm from. Polish 'em up so you don't get any splinters, 'cos the last thing you want is to be swallowing bones."

[filthydipper]

A man who shall remain entirely nameless so as not to summon him (although of all gathered, he'd know exactly how to behave, which is all the more reason not to tempt fate) is why Yngvi is the cleanest he's ever been. The hair still could do with more than a cursory brush but even if dwarves can't dream they can imagine very well thanks what his lady's man might do to his hair if given half a chance. So he's scrubbed (vigorously, there will be words) and fit for his lady's clean clothes because he's a lot of things but not ungrateful to the two people worthy of it. Or one and a bit.

"Make a decent soup out of bones," he says because it's true. Not that they were fish bones, not all the way down in Darktown, no fish down there. And if there were you wouldn't want to go eating it. He's flipping his knife and trying - and failing, let's be honest here he has a face made for giving away mischief when he's not trying particularly hard - not to let it crease up into a smile. "How d'you polish a bone anyhow? Sounds filthy."

Table Seven

[youwonscience]

The thing she should have anticipated, actually, is the vegetarian problem. It's probably fair that Thedosian nobles are not going to take well to "I can't eat your food, sorry, it's not you it's me." (She mentally adds this to the list of reasons she should not be assigned field work.) The bruschetta is good, but the stew is a bit of a challenge.

She should have smuggled Franklin in, she thinks, feeding beef to the dog under the table is a time-honored "dispose of food" technique.

So this is Cosima, seeing how long she can effectively mime eating this course before someone says anything. "So what happens in a real setting if you do this wrong, do you think? Regular jail, or do they have a special jail just for fork violations?"

[circleprodigy]

Inessa seems to make a token effort to try a little of everything, each bite and movement carefully chosen. She already has marks against her for being an elf, and she knows it, so she's giving as little room to judge her otherwise as possible. Her posture is perfect, and every so often she glances over to see how the 'experts' handle things, taking her cue from them.

Cosima's question causes her lip to twitch, despite herself. "In Orlais, I would not be surprised. They can be extremely...particular. Though if you play up the 'exotic rifter' angle, you might get away with a withering stare or somesuch. Though against those, I might almost recommend the special jail."

Table Eight

[untiltheyarent]

Wearing the finest thing she owns, and absolutely concerned about how appropriate it is for a) this situation, b) her age, and c) her position here, Fifi has the look about her of someone who has gone to the trouble of Looking Nice but would very much like to be noticed as little as possible.

She sits at the table with her hands in her lap, staring at the silverware and saying nothing, not daring to move until she has seen someone else do it first so she can copy their manner.

[indissection]

"You look positively lost," Sidony comments, sat by Fifi and leaning on her hands. There's something of a gentle smile on her face and she moves forward to adjust her cutlery, motioning with a hand here and there before she begins to speak, casual - as if she is not explaining etiquette to someone clearly out of their depth.

"Try this one first, and then you work from the outside in."