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

(D) Break It Down

[cozen]

ooc | free for all: if you want to swap partners, ask someone specific to dance, bow out and observe from the wall like a loser, etc., go for it.

After everyone seems to have the hang of the steps, or else has proven too much of a difficult case to be helped by a one-hour lesson in a dining hall, things continue in a less organized fashion. No one who insists on leaving will be stopped, at this juncture, but those who stay can give the dancing another go with real music—courtesy of Alexandrie on a pianoforte carted down from Hightown by poor souls whose backs we won't dampen the mood thinking about, Byerly wielding a violin, and Bastien alternating between a cello and a lute depending on the song—rather than a human metronome.

Eventually, assuming everyone hasn't walked out or been forcibly removed for being disruptive, the music shifts without preamble into something much less stately and much more like what can be heard in Lowtown after the mines and the docks go quiet for the night. No lessons are provided for these dances, but they're more difficult to do wrong than to do right. Provided instead is a respectable amount of alcohol, in case anyone needs the courage or just feels entitled to a reward for their good behavior.

Romain (OTA)

[toujoursdroit]

The duke arrives late enough in the proceedings that there is no chance he will have to sit through a lecture or a meal. He paid handsomely to avoid both, and is not inclined to argue about them. However, he does think it prudent to see the event for himself, principally for two reasons: first, to evaluate how his money is being spent, and second, to make sure that his granddaughter hadn't caused any sort of serious incident by insulting the wrong person.

At some point while Alexandrie is still playing the pianoforte, he can be seen walking the edges of the room, observing from behind his mask. He will not avoid an attempt made to engage him, though getting him to dance will be a trick unless your name is Gwenaëlle.

[elegiaque]

At a glance, it seems unlikely that she's made such a grave misstep this evening, if only because she is indeed still here, Thranduil doesn't appear to be actively putting out any fires, and she isn't in any state of panic.

That she is quite so bubbly raises any number of other questions, considering what he knows to be her enthusiasm for anything this is even within glancing distance of, general opinion of most of her colleagues, and actual personality. The slight smoky scent that her perfume doesn't entirely disguise will speak for itself, once she gets near enough to insinuate herself beneath her grandfather's arm—which she does, without any remote regard for his person or dignity or whether or not he wanted to be used to lean on.

It does seem at least a little as if she may need holding up, but at least if she has to be carried out of the Gallows a second time it'll be for less immediately concerning reasons than previous. He will be well within his rights to merely frown at her, disapprovingly, and spare the healers being bothered with the consequences of her own decisions. However, that is a tomorrow problem—

Her cheek bonks hard enough into the side of his arm when she arrives that she may have a bruise from her mask on her cheekbone, later, so it's immediately difficult to miss that she'd decided to wear one. “It definitely wasn't money well spent,” she informs him, brightly.

osana (open)

[radiosa]

She'd like to be able to dance. She definitely isn't too good to try. However, if the dance lessons themselves weren't enough to prove she's a fairly hopeless case, she makes it about five steps through a subsequent attempt before literally tripping over her own feet and banging her knees hard enough to bruise.

It's fine. Bruises are nothing, and she laughs about it, in a pink sort of way.

But it's also enough of that, for her, for today. She retires to the edge of the room with a glass of wine, instead, where she alternates between watching everyone else with a wallflower's open interest—she's new, she doesn't know any of them, she'd like to know the ones who aren't too awful—and looking at her own hand, and its glowing green mark, with a dissatisfied frown. That's fairly new, still, too.

[inkindled]

She's looking at her hand, so she misses the threat that is Matthias, crossing quickly to leave the room. He's got a cup of wine in each hand and a jug besides, crushed to his chest by his crossed arms. He is also finished with this for the day. Possibly forever. If there ever is a diplomatic mission that requires diplomacy and knowing how to get tiny bones out of a fish without using your hands, he'll go along and stand out in the garden where he's not likely to muck anything up, except maybe his boots.

His boots, which are new, purchased with the money he's saved since being awarded housing and meals. The peasant wisdom of buying a bigger size so you can grown into them means that the boots are, in fact, a little too big, and Matthias is walking a little too fast, and then he trips and falls and the wine falls like dirty wash-water thrown over the stone floor and Osana's feet and the bottom of her dress and--

"Shit!"

The goblets and jug clatter loudly as Matthias lets them go. His ears are very red, almost as red as the wine pooling on the floor and staining her dress. He scrambles forward to start dabbing at the wine with the sleeve of his coat--then realizes that he's pawing at a woman's dress, and the red of his ears spreads to his face, blotchy and horrified.

"Sorry-- about it all, really--"

[limier]

"Bracelets," Her brow lifts, elbow quirks toward mark. She's busy peeling off her own gloves. "For the palm."

Dangly. Fashionable. Or that was the plan — Ashara's been gone long enough, and while Yseult may have contributed to the venture, Wren suspects other priorities.

"Can you spot the others?"

The anchors. The privileges of authority may be short for this world, but she's been content to invoke them for a late arrival. A final tug: Something small crunches; leather pulls from knuckle, air from her teeth. Observation. Wasn't that the point of all this?

(A party. Other priorities, again.)

[indissection]

Sidony has been milling, now, making her way here and there; she looks stunning in her dress and she's well aware of it, well aware of what attention it is going to get her - isn't that why she chose it in the first place? Once she has done her fair share of training those that clearly have no idea how to dance whatsoever she takes her own glass of wine and wanders here and there, smiling and flirting and being as coy as she can muster.

She would settle in a corner with Byerly, if she thought that she might steal him for long enough, but he seems far too busy for her.

What does catch her attention is a woman staring at her hand - and, ah, another Rifter, perhaps? Sidony has not known many of them (and has tried not to, since Jester had left) but she cannot help herself. Walking over, skirts dancing around her heels and a smile on her face, she leans down to peer deliberately.

"Does it hurt?"

derrica / open

[tender]

This is a far cry from any of the dances Derrica had learned aboard any of the ridiculously named ships she'd sailed upon. And it's not exactly what she'd been expecting when she'd disembarked several days ago to join what she'd expected to be the Inquisition but discovered was now something else entirely.

Etiquette lessons: just one more surprise in the grand scheme of things.

After the requisite amount of torture on the dance floor, Derrica retreats to the sidelines to claim wine and consider the idea of escape. After all, she didn't come here to learn how to comport herself in polite company. Derrica has certainly never considered the possibility that the course of her life would ever and her in polite company, and the idea of that changing just because she's part of...whatever this is, it just makes her laugh.

"Does this happen regularly?" She asks the next person she notices slipping off the dance floor. It seems like a safe thing to assume that everyone else here has been around long enough to judge that habits of this company.

[aforethought]

"Twice a year, reckon."

Melys is pleasantly, incongruously, having a splendid fucking time. It's anyone's guess where her hat got that pink feather, unless that anyone has been to Hightown inside the past year.

It's a lot easier to guess where she got an entire bottle of wine (and what failing marks that will get in return).

"Don't call it lessons, mind." The wag of a pinky — you put them out when it's fancy — "Not mostly. Figure that's only gonna work once."

This is the second night. She's perfectly aware.

[inkindled]

"Oh, aye," Matthias says, cheerfully, "once a season, I'd say, but then we all prove to be such shit at dancing that they give up on us and burn the records and strike it from memory--and then enough time passes that someone new and brilliant says oi, we've not taught them dancing and manners in some while, let's have a go at it--and it starts all over again."

He keeps a serious look fixed to his face as he raises the jug of wine to his mouth and takes a big sip. A whole jug, mind.

"Don't tell me you don't like etiquette lessons."

[sarcophage]

Derrica's being followed.

From a distance, mind—eyes only—and not for very long before the one who follows her, seeing a sustained ebb in conversation, slips into public view with a specific trajectory in mind.

He's just as thin as she might remember (still eats like a bird) but even in the depths of his depression he never looked quite so ill: pale as milk, visibly tired, buoyed up mostly by his tireless hatred of boredom—and now by raised spirits, in smaller proportion. But he's clean, dressed reasonably well, distinctly not dead, and all but sparkling in anticipation as he inserts himself with a poetic halt in her field of view. (Speaking of surprises.)

john / open

[hornswoggle]

Do you know who isn't interested in dancing? John.

He's set himself up on the sidelines to watch the carnage. At some point, he'll make his escape, but that grows less and less urgent as the music shifts to more informal and familiar strains.

"We'd all have probably attended with less complaint if it had been advertised as a party rather than a lesson," John says to whoever is adjacent to him, tipping his cup idly in one hand. "We're overdue for some kind of celebration, I'd think."

Congratulations to everyone on surviving this long. That's an occasion to mark, right?

[justice_is_blond]

"And if the food had been half as... complicated," Anders says as he brings his own cup over. He'll be rejoining the dancing soon enough, especially now that it's actually dancing and not boring parading about. "Easier fare, make clear that there will be real dancing after the posing and preening, and people would absolutely be happier. But now I know how much I don't know about forks, that's progress, right?"

He snorts. He's never going to need to know which fork to use. They don't send rebel mages to the nice parties.

six (ota)

[swordproof]

Arriving at this ball had been something of an ordeal for Six; she has never been to a formal event like this before, not without her full armour and a band of some kind behind her. She had never been invited to such a place before, and her awkwardness is obvious as she walks through, her skirts swirling around her feet, her hair tied up properly, brushed and threaded and braided to perfection. It's far less messy than her usual style, which shows something of the effort she has put into this - she does not want to shame herself or anyone else.

Her dress is simple, something she was able to buy for herself with her own funds. It's not as fancy as others she has seen, but she knows she would not be even a little comfortable in the midst of everything else; she would be too distracted with silks, with making sure not to dirty it or ruin it somehow. Cotton is easier, and it hangs on her broad shoulders easily enough, her fingers brushing over the front to soothe it down.

Eventually, she breathes, standing off to one side, fingers curling in and out of the fabric of her dress. At least here she can watch - it's unlikely that anyone will ask her to dance, and she is more than accepting of that.

Anders (OTA)

[justice_is_blond]

"About time," he says when the music starts to change. Anders reaches out to the side, not even looking. "Would you care to join me in a real dance? None of the other nonsense that's meant to have people looking at you. It's time to have fun."

Later he takes a break with a drink, draping himself over a backward chair in a very improper (look at those ankles!) fashion, smiling like the cat that got the canary. He survived. He probably won't get a high score, but it's never going to be relevant and he'd at least made an attempt. And he looked damn good doing it, peacock robes, hair braided, a gold hoop in one ear. He's proud of himself, even if no one else is.

Athessa | Open and Shut

[sulahnan]

Dance Break: Closed to Matthias

"MATTY! Athessa says the boy's name almost as loudly as she drums her hands on the table where her friend is seated, lurching forward and nearly careening into him, face first. With the formality of the function effectively gone, Athessa has seen to getting thoroughly soused.

Will she regret it later? Sure. Will that stop her now? Fuck no.

"Maaatttyyyy," she intones again, this time with her inside-voice and leaning against the table. "Dance with me, you grumpy nugget!"

Drink Break: OTA

Athessa stays in her borrowed fancy gown for about an hour after the end of the lesson, drinking enough to cut through her discomfort at being in something so...rich, and enough to be quite outgoing. Most of the attendees who walk past her at this point will be reached for, asked "Shall we dance?" in a very poor approximation of an Orlesian accent, and/or subjected to the elf's silliest notion of small talk. "Did you hear that Fontleroy's llama has written a book? I hear it's the talk of the season! And so insightful!" "Dreadful weather we're having, don't you think? I say we all buy summer homes in the Western Approach. Prime real estate, ripe for the plucking!" "Did you try the snails? Delightful!"

Later in the evening, however, after what any rational person would consider too many drinks, Gwenaëlle's loaner dress is draped carefully over the seat Athessa had occupied at dinner, while the elf herself has somehow managed to pilfer far more comfortable and much less classy attire from...well, it's not quite clear where. She has a too-big men's tunic cinched at the waist with a sash from somewhere else, some leggings that fit suspiciously well, and a scarf tied around her head.

Clearly, she needed the outfit change to pull some ambitiously acrobatic dance moves.

Kain OTA

[in_death_sacrifice]

Of course, Kain has been rather grumbly and complaining under his breath here and there whenever he thinks he can get away with it. He doesn't outright disrupt anything, and does at least oblige whenever he's supposed to. Maker forbid he end up stuck here longer for bad behavior, after all. So aside from that reluctance, when it comes time to perform in some way, it all comes as second nature to him. He grew up with this noble lifestyle, after all, so it's just simply an old habit to fall back into it all.

He does offer help here and there if someone near him is faltering in some way, since the quicker they understand something, the quicker they can all get out of here.

When the drinks are finally brought out, he goes to grab one, looking much relieved. "I suppose this means we're near the end of our training. What a pity."

The Medicine Seller | OTA

[meds4sale]

a. The Medicine Seller is well suited to dancing even if he doesn't partake very often. And this is the sort of dance he likes best - no rules and certainly not mandatory and perhaps a little fueled by inebriation.

He's a bit disheveled - there are fresh creases in his attire, and his hair is beginning to win the war waging between it and the mountain of hidden hair pins and product he used to keep that wavy mass secured to the top of his head.

He extends a hand to the next person who wheels past, and while he's not exactly smiling, his usual chilly gaze has gone a few degrees above 'cold as a witch's tit in a brass bra'.

"If it pleases...?" he offers, and perhaps it's the perpetual purple smirk over his top lip or perhaps there is a hint of the corners of his mouth turning upward. It can certainly all be blamed on the alcohol.


b. He'd slipped out for some air and an opportunity to breathe. He didn't particularly dislike socializing when he wasn't obligated to do it, but it was always draining and his feet ached in his new shoes. He probably should have made a greater effort to break them in.

The suede was supple and soft around his legs but for whatever reason it rubbed and pinched at his feet. Perhaps the boots were not so good as advertised - perhaps he'd just gotten so used to a certain kind of footwear over the centuries that he didn't know how to properly move in these.

Either way he could feel the beginnings of a blister throb uncomfortably, and he pulled the offending boots off and set them aside resting his feet on the flagstones that had long cooled in the evening shade. He'd limp up the stairs for a nice soak once everyone had departed for greener pastures. For now, he leaned back against the steps to enjoy the last moments of spring before Kirkwall's notoriously muggy summers rolled through.

gwenaëlle | open

[elegiaque]

Having survived the stricter dancing—a little slower and a little more prone to aimless swaying than she would have been if she'd deigned to show up sober, but muscle memory is on her side so a steady partner and the simple choice of initial dances had precluded any disastrous outcomes—Gwenaëlle is still in (charmingly, if you like that sort of thing) bleakly high spirits, pun intended. They are quite literally dancing at the end of the world. Fucking fantastic.

She stands by her earlier assessment both that this is a good idea, and that if half of these people are ever called upon to use these lessons they will have entered dire straits indeed. At least no one tonight is going to leave having unintentionally left themselves open to exploitation.

(Probably, if everyone involved is on their very best behaviour. She could name at least five people offhand who might actually be taking advantage.)

“I,” she announces to the world at large, “am not yet done dancing.”

This is how you know it isn't a real stately affair—renowned for her ability and willingness to snub just about anyone to avoid the dancefloor, and the scrutiny it inevitably tends to draw.

Julius (OTA)

[overharrowed]

While not bad, per se, Julius is less adept at the dancing than he was at the dinner. You can learn fancy table manners by reading; reading about dancing is, on the whole, less helpful. He's coordinated and graceful enough, but even radiating confidence cannot entirely disguise the fact that he's not practiced at this.

If it puts him in any sort of mood, it doesn't show, however. He's happy enough to dance with anyone who asks. He'll never improve if he refuses to participate, after all. And if it gives him a chance to speak with some people he only knows in passing, or to renew an acquaintance, all the better.

bastien (open)

[cozen]

Bastien plays the lute like he’s throwing an arm around a very old friend, with careless familiarity and affection. He plays the cello like he’s planning to ask it to marry him and thinks it might require some convincing. He does love the music. But before he learned to play and love any instrument, he learned to play and love an audience, and so most of his attention is aimed outward, measuring energy and engagement so he can nudge the others into something faster, something slower, something people may know the words to.

The others are, however, perfectly capable of carrying the room without him. It’s a small room. So from time to time he sets his instrument aside—maybe hands off the lute to anyone who looks capable and interested in playing along, but don’t touch the cello—and appears instead alongside someone who looks to have been abandoned before they were ready to stop dancing, hand out in offer, or slides into a chair next to someone who does look like they were ready to stop but doesn’t look opposed to company, saying, “I think they sound better without me,” even though they don’t—good, but not better—or, “This could have gone worse, no?”

(He doesn’t care who thought it was a bad idea. Or, he only cares a little. The alternative was singling people out, maybe calling the entire thing the Merrill Method for Determining When You Ought and Oughtn’t Wear Shoes, and he prefers being regarded as a hapless but equal-opportunity nag to a villainous picker-on of bright-eyed Dalish girls and assorted outsiders. Still: neither would be favorite.)

Otherwise, pinning him down might take effort, like a direct invitation delivered to the corner where the musicians have gathered, or following him out the door the one time during the evening he ducks outside to smoke.

Kitty (OTA)

[rathercommon]

[ Kitty is - of course - quite thoroughly annoyed by the whole business, but less than one might expect. The advice actually had been rather practical, and useful for undercover work; even if the thought of having to pretend to be some snotty so-and-so is absolutely wretched, it's not the first time she's done it.

Dancing is obnoxious, though. But music isn't. So after the whole thing is done, she sits in the corner, legs tucked under her, tucking into an enormous plate of bonbons and watching the others bounce around. ]

for galadriel.

[dirth]

Solas is not one for dancing, not any longer. He had stepped into it at Thranduil's wedding, had accepted that he might enjoy it, but the world was no longer like Arlathan was. It is no longer the world he had known so desperately, the world he had loved so dearly; he mourns that even as he tries not to, swallowing back his frustration and his discomfort as he steps away from the practices (and the awkwardness of dancing with Gwen after their rather dangerous conversation).

There's only one person he wants to dance with if he is being completely honest, and he does not think it would come as a surprise to anyone at all.

He seeks Galadriel without pause; he hadn't seen her dancing with anyone else during the practice, so it takes him a little while to find her - but she is easy to spot once his eyes land on her, tall and wonderful and regal, as beautiful now as she has ever been. Solas moves to stand at her side, reaching to slip his hand against hers, curling finger against finger before he tilts his head up to look at her, fond and soft, entirely too gentle. He adores her and cherishes her so much - he's almost too shy to let the rest of the world know.

"You are not interested in a dance?"

gwenduilveth play with swords (closed)

[aenseidhe]

[ congratulations, iorveth, you successfully made it through bullshit nicety training! your score probably sucked absolute ass, but you did iiiit! your reward: hot people and sharp things.

also known as, when the music breaks down into something more casual, made up more of good spirits and connections shared between people (what music and dance ought to be, iorveth thinks) than stiff posturing and too many rules, thranduil and gwenaelle's peaceful dance gets interrupted by their once bedfellow slinking in against their sides with a devious grin on his scarred lips. he did come armed to the teeth and dolled up in warpaint originally as a fuck-you to this entire thing, but it just sort of works out that the two coincide with his plans now.

the hilt of one of the two swords at iorveth's hip prods against thranduil's side (he is both happy to see him and packing heat, thanks), and with a grin flashed to gwenaelle, the elf jerks his head towards a door that exits out into the gallows courtyard. come on, follow. he's blazed and having a good time in this shithole of a city for once, humor him.

once outside, he's shrugging off the other weapons he came equipped with for the purpose of being obtuse, lying down his bow, quiver, all the heavy holsters and straps and daggers, until he's just in the loose, fine clothes Gwen fitted him in, and his two swords, one the elegant, masterwork piece Thranduil gifted him nearly a year ago now. One spins, hilt over his hand, in an graceful arch, despite the intoxication still clear in his dilated eye, and once he seems to catch the beat of the song, it's sword dance time. let's be feral, friends, it is his favorite. ]

yngvi ota

[filthydipper]

Almost aggressively sober, Yngvi's lurking the way you lurk when you're shorter than probably everyone who isn't here and where rolling out the room - as is your usual custom - would be frowned upon. No one could ever say Yngvi failed a class. That'd mean reporting to dad and thanks, but no.

Generally speaking, Yngvi's too short for dancing given most of the company because someone would look ungainly (probably him, that's how dwarves do outside of other dwarves) and someone would do themselves a mischief (probably not him, that's how it goes dancing with people who comfortably have a foot and some to spare).

Maybe he's fiddling with things, Guilfoyle was not there to check the contents of his pockets and that's what you do on the edge of the dancefloor isn't it? Attempt to look fashionably bored - nobles get a lifetime to practice, he supposes - and have something to do with the hands. Which isn't whatever booze is floating around. Helpfully out of reach. Trap parts and trying not to trip anyone up it is.