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

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."

[katabasis]

"You buff it with an oil." Flint, who is currently shaking out the intricately folded napkin to lay out across his knee, seems untroubled by the potential chaos to be sewn with put oil on your bone. Is it uncouth in Orlais to drink from your glass before the first course arrives? "Something mild if you mean to be eating off it after. Is that right?"

This, to their resident necromancer. You're welcome, Ilias.

[libratus]

Their resident necromancer is, for his part, neatly pressed and tightly buttoned, in an elegant if severe variation on his usual Mortalitasi's robes -- black with embroidered accents so minimal one might imagine it was designed specifically to compensate for the Rivani. He has the sort of posture that comes from childhood lessons with a literal yardstick set to one's spine, and the table manners to match -- which do not, as it happens, involve particular adeptness for navigating his way out of conversations involving polishing anyone's bones.

Instead, uncouth or no, he's got his face half hidden in his cup in distant hope of discovering an invisibility draught there, or perhaps a poison, when Flint pointedly neglects to overlook his presence.

"We do not typically make utensils out of people," is what he manages, lowering his goblet in resignation. Fish aren't his area of expertise, after all. "But yes, I would suggest anything you intend to put in your mouth be inoffensive to the senses."