faderift | open | your baddest behavior

open | your baddest behavior

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

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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 happens to be nearby when she makes her pronouncement; not only is he nearby, he's at a loose end, briefly between partners and observing the scene. (He is also, likely, on her list of "people who might be taking advantage.")

Not, however, of Gwenaëlle herself. Instead, he replies to her comment. "The music is certainly getting more encouraging as the night wears on. I can't entirely blame you." He isn't expecting her to want to dance with him, but she seems in a mood where acknowledging that they know one another, at least, won't be taken amiss.

She spins to face him, or at least that seems to be the idea; she overshoots very slightly, sways where she's standing, and corrects herself to better look at him. None of which promises the most reliable dance-partner for a relative newcomer to the form, so it's probably for the best that Julius is spared any immediate enthusiasm for him, specifically.

Though she's not displeased to see him. She wouldn't describe them as friends, precisely, but there is a sort of fondness that she associates with him, as if her uncle Marius had loaned her a bit of his—

Well, after a fashion.

“Did they dance in Circles?” Wow, okay. It's an honest question, it's just also one that even Gwenaëlle probably would have ordinarily thought before asking. (And still asked, but deliberately, and probably not of Julius.)

He almost, but doesn't quite, reach out to steady her when she wobbles.

"I'm certain they did in some of them. I can't imagine Madame de Fer made it to court without knowing how. But not in Kinloch Hold. Not much music, generally, though there was one enchanter I knew who sang now and then."

It is one of the things he hadn't missed as much, before he'd known to miss it. He's grown fond of music, the longer he's been out, but it hasn't seemed a politic thing to observe to much of anyone, so he's kept it to himself.

From another person, or even delivered in another way, the question might have made him a bit defensive. From her, in this context, it's just a question.

“I'm sure Vivienne learned a lot of things from the Duke de Ghislain,” Gwenaëlle says, which is precisely the sort of bad example that no one should be following where making conversation at dinner parties is concerned and which she might not have done if she thought there was any likelihood of Madame de Fer hearing about it quickly. Or visiting Riftwatch.

Riftwatch is probably a bit too declassé for her refined palate; this is hardly the sort of soiree that Skyhold might host to impress visiting dignitaries.

A beat later, “While they were fucking.”

Yes, he probably understood the reference.

Then, “The old one, I mean. The dead one.”

Andraste.

"...is this a test?" He definitely wouldn't be asking if he actually thought so. "Spend the evening conversationally weaving only to be struck in the face with the gossip equivalent of a cast-iron pan?"

Incongruously, she looks very proud of herself— “A cast-iron pan, really?” And then, “Tell Alexandrie it was a test if she asks.”

Julius laughs, quietly. "Alright, I will. Am I allowed to tell her I inched by with a passing grade, as well? Recovered with a well-timed joke?"

Thranduil is an elf. Thranduil likes to dance. The first leads into the second, even if courtly elven dances, Sindar or Silvan, are entirely unlikely to be found in a Theodosian setting. But he has learned Orlesian dances, for both the novelty and the use.

Such as when he would like to dance with his wife. He lays his hand upon her arm, then slides his hand into hers. The music is slower than the spritely Nevarran number just finished, and the waltz is designed to allow those on the floor a moment to catch their breath.

“Did you and Iorveth enjoy yourselves?” he asks. The scent lingers, and her good humor is proof enough, but he asks anyway, just to smile down at her like they are sharing a secret. He witnessed none of it—dressed and left as Iorveth was arriving, needed down to help prepare the event, but imagination fills the gaps.

“As it happens,” airily arch, allowing Thranduil her hand and managing ably not to knee him anywhere when she sways into step with him and they float into a waltz that he is going to have to do much of the work in. She isn't entirely without her usual grace, but her reaction times are not what they usually are and he knows her to be easily diverted in this...mood. “Did you enjoy yourself at the first annual meeting of table big and blonde?”

Anders isn't that tall, but whatever.

“I like that woman,” ruminatively. “Brienne-of-Tarth.” She runs it all together, like one word. “She's so tall.” Thranduil has heard this song before, it was named Cassandra Pentaghast. “She's so tall.” She is three inches shorter than Thranduil.

He does the work. She is light and the dance is slow. It would be a bit easier if she did him the favor of standing directly on his feet, but one of the chaperones might well take umbrage with that.

“I did. Chiefest on our agenda was discussion of the best shoemaker.” He spins her out very, very slowly, and about a quarter as much as the dance calls for before bringing her back close, to continue to meander. “I am tall,” Thranduil protests, but only gently. As far as competition goes, Brienne isn’t the unflattering sort.

He does still miss Cassandra Pentaghast.

“Did you and Iorveth terrorize your table, my love?”

When he draws her in again she does step up onto his feet, shameless about her inclination to be carried about the dancefloor and prepared to argue very seriously to Alexandrie that she has been so well behaved, actually, she deserves much praise and no scolding.

So she is close to hand and very pleased with herself when she says, at once, “No!” which is debatable. “We had an excellent table, I'm sure it was very...”

The pause draws out. Long enough Thranduil might begin to wonder if she's forgotten what she was talking about.

“Educational,” she finishes, beaming up at him. “I loaned Athessa one of my dresses, I think she's afraid of it.”

Hmm. This is easier. With most of her weight on him and her skirts so voluminous, they could proceed in this manner for the rest of the song. He thinks they will.

“Educational? For who?” He locates Athessa by her dress—Gwenaelle has a good eye for these things. It flatters her, even if it is very—Orlesian. Gwenaelle. Puffy. It fits the mood of the night and may well be helping her confidence. Thranduil ought to introduce himself.

“Afraid of you, perhaps, or of damaging it. It was thoughtful of you to do that.”

"Then I must be done playing," The hurdy-gurdy. Specifically, playing the hurdy-gurdy, the drone of which extinguished several songs prior. "Or I will never forgive myself."

The presentation of a hand, the quirk of a brow; all a blunter invitation than she'd otherwise affect. She doesn't entirely trust Gwen to catch her drift. They're late in the night now, and the wine not so closely watched.

(Mme. Baudin might have done with some watching before the party, but that's the Duke de Coucy's business.)

She hasn't chosen a mask. This isn't work, and bare skin delightfully novel.

It does help that Jenin drifts so deliberately; if it would have taken Gwenaëlle longer otherwise to catch it, they're both spared the extended pause before she surrenders her hand, pleased enough to do so. And then looks closer, as they step out into the less than sophisticated dance floor—

“I know you,” she says, pleased, almost immediately followed by: “I do know you, don't I? How do I know you?”

"I feel much the same," A laugh answers. "It is the way of these parties, I think."

Earnest, and as pleased. As if she doesn't know that the former Lady Vauquelin loathes them.

(It is, in its roundabout way, an answer: The late Comte Vauquelin is not a widely-mourned man; his pursestrings, another matter. They had been well-compensated for the wreckage of the violin.)

"They run so together, if one is not careful," The purse of lips as they begin. "But I am tired of caution."

“Oh, you've come to the right place, then.” Riftwatch in general and Gwenaëlle in particular, yes; caution is not exactly their calling card, here. She's not sure what their calling card is, come to think of it, or whether or not she actually wants to. It seems the sort of question to which there can be no flattering answer.

The Inquisition's overall reputation probably went up, slightly, when they separated.

“And here you might not even get a knife between your ribs for the trouble.”

You know, unlike Orlais.

Thing is, right, that there are generally reasons Yngvi has avoided dancing. For one there was a point in his life where some of their tutors mandated in and a riot of young dwarves dancing when they've precious few ways to blow off steam turns out how you'd expect until it doesn't. Until it's yet another lesson and it's terrible and you're paired off with Jim who has a runny nose. Also dwarves are made for a certain sort of dancing which isn't what he's been watching from the sidelines.

Lastly Yngvi is - charitably - a short arse who finds himself at his lady's side, peers all the way up at her and cocks his head.

"You'll be done dancing I s'pect if you try dancing with me." He's trying his best to sound ruffled. In clothes from her. All scrubbed up by her man. Probably the way smaller Yngvi might because who asks any of them their opinions or listens to them that often when they aren't to their liking?

Given the present state of her, it's probably a matter of safety for the both of them that they don't attempt to dance; Gwenaëlle has thus far managed mostly by being led about by taller, steadier hands ready to catch her when her feet aren't where she expects them to be, and between her feet and her skirts, she might well take Yngvi out of the party in the least dignified fashion.

But with that prospect mercifully off the table, she's still delighted to see him; to catch his chin in one hand and turn him this way and that to inspect Guilfoyle's handiwork, beaming.

It's slightly obnoxious, but thoroughly affectionate.

“You're so handsome under all that rough, Yngvi,” she says, as pleased as if she's somehow responsible for his bone structure. “I should have you painted. I'll show my children one day, that's your uncle, he never looks like that ordinarily—”

That Yngvi does not jerk his chin out of her hand says more about his upbringing than either of them; you can go years without seeing a horse only to know how it is to have to stand there while someone checks your bite, so to speak. And it wouldn't be fair, not to Gwenaëlle who knows enough, knows something of it from the other side, to go snapping just because it's what he'd like to do.

(What you like, what you want, what you need, tonight is the sort of event where it's made patently clear how little any of those things matter.

This is probably why nobles have wine cellars. This was all easier when he did drink.)

"Handsome? Handsome?" He squawks, flaps hands clear of hitting her because he missed something clearly when he was-- away. Best to play offended. "Handsome's a word for the sort of Orlesian fops running the show here, I'm...I'm how do you say-- rugged. You've scoured the edges off, is what you've gone and done. Made me like them paintings people don't do up right sometimes y'know if they can't get the staff in or do it on the cheap. Which is what I deserve if you get me painted. Which you won't do."

Painted? Him? Sat still for so long with someone looking at him? Not even Yngvi who lived a life under Einar's scrutiny is good enough to keep the shudder at bay when he near crawls out his skin at the idea. Or maybe it's uncle Yngvi, maybe she'll be good enough not to ask, it's complicated enough when Thranduil at times seems more like Yngvi's abstract idea of fathers the way books make out about them.

"Gwenaëlle."

The greeting comes from off to her right, where the fairly conspicuous figure of Brienne of Tarth drifts in her direction, hands clasped behind her back. Had she recognized her in formal-wear, she may very well have approached a bit sooner. As it stands, she looks far more fit for this sort of occasion than the lady knight in the plain blue dress, and Brienne can't help but dip her head slightly in the smallest of bows when Gwen's eyes do find her.

Gwenaëlle has never been the most subtle woman in the world (and it's unlikely that she ever will be), so the way that she brightens upon realising who she's come upon is unmistakable even with the upper half of her face disguised by moonstone and ivory. She's a far cry from the cold, damp, businesslike thing she'd been when they met at the rift, though even there it'd been obvious enough to a familiar eye that there was money behind the sturdy, practical clothing she'd worn into combat.

“Brienne,” she returns the greeting, delighted, snagging her elbow when her hand is not in immediate evidence. “You'll dance with me.”

This seems like it should be a question, and yet: it isn't.

In truth, Brienne had precisely zero intention of further dancing. In fact, she's only attending as long as seems necessary to satisfy the 'mandatory' part of the event. But all at once she finds she's been commandeered onto the dance floor (in Gwen's defense, Brienne hardly resisted), and she may as well take it in stride.

"I don't seem to have much choice in the matter," she says, the faintest quirk of her lips indicating good humor rather than genuine complaint, as she escorts the smaller woman out onto the dance floor.

It's only once they turn to face one another that it seems to occur to her that she's not relegated to the stifling role of 'follower', and she pauses for just a moment, shifting gears. Then a hand lifts to await her partner's, the other boldly finding Gwen's waist.

"I've not led in quite a few years," Brienne says now, "So I can't promise this won't end in disaster." But she'll do her very best.

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late late late

fashionably!!!!

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