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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ For a moment, Kitty genuinely considers taking a page from Bartimaeus' book and...and chewing loudly, perhaps. Or blowing a raspberry. Upon reflection, of course, she must admit that those might not actually be pages from Bartimaeus' book, as Bartimaeus' book actually quite likely bears recommendations to perform actions far more obscene than the aforementioned. So - well - maybe a page from the table of contents, or...something.

Anyway.

She does not start chewing loudly, nor blow a raspberry, nor blow anything more foul than that. Instead, she just shoots him a sharp glance. But, as obnoxious as that statement was (and it was very obnoxious), he seems to be sidling over with something approaching an attempt at friendliness, and she doesn't really want to punish him for that.

Yet.

So it's with only the slightest bit of hostility that she replies - ]

You met my mum and dad. D'you think I could get away without learning proper manners?

[ It's a straightforward statement, but it drags context along with it; "met", as if he'd sat down with her parents over tea. There had been tea, there'd just also been threats and a few minor explosions. Her parents had been placating and loyal through all of it — loyal to the State, not their daughter — which does make her point.

Still, there's learning manners and actually using them. She's rarely used them around him before. Which he thinks, but doesn't say; he's trying to play nice, which is why there's a slight pause before he settles on: ]

Yes, I remember. [ How nervous they were? That he charred half their living room? ] They were very gracious hosts.

[ If he's aware of how piss-poor an interpretation this is of the incident, it doesn't sound like it. Just an odd mix of detached and earnest, which he follows with another friendly attempt. ]

You must find these lessons redundant, as well.

[ see wow look how relatable (???) ]

[ Gracious hosts earns an ungracious snort. With acrid sarcasm, she replies - ]

Yeah, they're ever so respectable.

[ And then, stupidly, she almost asks, what did you do to them? Did they get awards for their willingness to hand over an enemy of Whitehall? Or did they get sent to the Tower for failing in their task? Or did he just...leave them be? But she doesn't care, she reminds herself; she does not care. So, instead, she forces herself to respond to something appropriate, something he's said - how did he follow up, after talking about Mum and Dad? - right - ]

You had to learn all this rubbish, then?

[ It comes out of her mouth with a tone that's somewhere between surly and awkward. ]

It isn't rubbish. [ Not a snide emphasis; emphasis for her word, not his. ] Presentation's important.

[ There's an odd shock of déjà vu as he says it. He remembers their conversation at her house well enough to know he's said that to Kitty before — he'd gone over that disaster in his head more than once, after, trying to work out the mistake. ]

So is etiquette. If you don't have those, you're hardly going to get into any rooms or conversations that matter.

[ Does that sound disgustingly ambitious? Maybe. Half the people here are only learning how to hold their forks for the sake of spying on nobles, so it's hard to feel too chagrined. And truthfully, it's the bare minimum; manners mean you're less likely to be cast out or despised, but they won't stop you being ignored. After a beat: ]

I can't say the same for the dancing.

[ Presentation's important. It's the exact same line that he'd given before. It's a little strange and a little pathetic, how he's still saying it, all this time later. He might be taller, and might have gotten rid of his idiotic frills, but - he's still the same, isn't he. She doesn't know whether that makes him better or worse. ]

You haven't been to Orlais.

[ She looks off to the side. ]

They're all dancing mad there. I bet they'd shut you out of any decision making just for stepping on someone's toes.

[ The comment invites the usual spike of concern that goes with being inadequate or making mistakes, followed by the realization that he really should get better at dancing, if he's stuck here. He casts the nearby dancers a thoughtful look before he can help it. Even his ambition's got its limits, however, and the thought sours quickly as his mind draws a quick parallel to the theatre. He's been spared that since he's been here, at least. He isn't eager to replace the tradition.

For a moment, he seems fully lost in thought. But the mood's awfully somber for considerations of Orlesian parties, and Kitty won't have to wait long to find out why. ]

I didn't come here to discuss dancing. I wanted to say— I was very sorry, when the false news of your death was confirmed.

[ He doesn't look at her when he speaks. Between that and his voice, the energy's painfully reserved. ]

[ Of all the things she expected to hear - She stares at him a moment, thick brows drawn together in sheer confusion. It seems all so strange and so incongruous that she wonders if she perhaps misheard him, or if he perhaps misspoke. I was sorry when it turned out you were still alive, that seems more accurate, with perhaps a bit of rebel scum thrown in for good measure...But that's not really something Mandrake would say. He's far more subtle in his speech, far more discreet. So it's not misspeaking, it's real.

It's weird. It's uncomfortable. It feels bizarrely and uncomfortably like kindness, and - Well, who can trust kindness from a magician? But he's also not a magician any longer, is he - his crimes back home, which are innumerable, oughtn't matter here, not when they're all trying to build a new life. Right? Or should they? Should she take them into account, should she detest him, even when he's practically staring at his toes in something that really looks like awkward sincerity -

God, what does she even say to that? She bites back her first instinct, a sardonic why. In its place - ]

Yeah, well. I'm quite good at surviving, you know.

[ Which is an utterly meaningless statement. Doesn't mean she can't die. Doesn't mean she won't. It isn't even a good recognition of or response to the odd, cock-eyed kindness in his sentiment, which she should acknowledge and should reward in some way. But also, is it her job to give those kinds of rewards? Why? She's not his mum. She's not his keeper. She's got responsibility for one person and one person alone, and he's not it...Except that's not even true, she's responsible for plenty of people; everyone's responsible for the people around them; no one is alone, and everyone owes a debt -

Damn it. ]

Erm - thank you. Though. For saying that.

[ It comes out weird and awkward and she runs a hand through her hair in frustration and says, suddenly, incongruously, desperate for something less this - ]

You have learned to dress a lot better.

[ There's something to be said for the way her awkward stalling helps him feel less unbalanced, like he's gaining confidence at her expense. Maybe he's just pleased that she's grateful, not caught off-guard. That's a normal and perfectly fair response, surely.

John doesn't draw his gaze back from the dancing until after she speaks, brow furrowing thoughtfully at the mention of surviving. She's right. He's seen her throw off imps and destructive magic like gnats, which is something he's got questions about. Later.

His attention isn't particularly heavy or expectant. He seems patient, content to let her stumble through an answer and that awkward thank you. Until the last comment, which strikes him as immensely backhanded when a) it means he wasn't dressed well before, and b) she considers these middling local clothes an improvement, which is a tragically low bar. His reserved expression flickers with childish indignation; there for a split second, gone a pensive beat later. ]

My trousers were a bit— well, I see a very good tailor, now. [ humility + bragging in one line, it's like bingo. Awkwardly, as he can't help straightening the sleeve of his shirt: ] Well— before. Not here.

[ She nearly misses his look of outrage, but glances over at the very last moment to see him twitch. Honestly, he's simply so vain, isn't he? Not like her - she hardly puts a thought into her appearance - which is why she wears very practical tunics and trousers, dyed in dark colors, with her hair pushed back efficiently, so that it's clear that she's not one of those frilly flouncy girls but rather someone who means business. ]

Well, you oughtn't be seeing a tailor here. [ With a shrug - ] No one's going to buy you as the lord of something-or-other manor here, so if you dress posh, they'll assume you're some rich commoner. And that's how you end up with your pockets picked. This is far more sensible.

[ She glances at him a moment evaluatively, then adds - ] Besides, you look like a person like this.

Edited 2019-06-30 18:27 (UTC)

[ He'd come to the same conclusion. Or he'd come to the same excuse, at least, on account of not being able to afford genuinely nice clothing and having (thankfully) grown out of not knowing the difference between expensive and nice.

It's— pleasant, being on the same page. Not because her approval's important. It's just much easier than constantly having to..... correct her....... anyway, the last comment does hit a small snag and begs mild confusion. ]

I've always looked like a person.

[ this is a very dumb retort, as is his surprise at example #8972343 of her despising magicians AND the very notion of magicians somehow being bullied by commoners, but reALLY. ]

[ She purses her lips and - somehow - refrains from critiquing his prior choices in detail. Instead, she turns to the broader category of people who don't really look like people. ]

You don't take a look at someone in a suit carrying around a cane and see a person. You either see danger or a fool. Like - Look, him.

[ She points across the room at Benedict Artimaeus, finely dressed and handsome and quite punchable. ]

The way he talks, and the way he dresses and carries himself - there's no one who trusts him here.

[ He isn't sold on it right away, because she's just described the entirety of Parliament and any self-respecting magician he's ever met. But the example does give him pause, and John doesn't rally a response quickly.

It's impossible not to think of Simon Lovelace. He'd considered him impressive, powerful — what she'd call dangerous, probably. And he'd turned out to be both that and foolish, in his own way. And John had done everything in his power to emulate him anyway.

Slightly harder now, of course, but that wasn't by choice. If it was an option, he'd still be wearing the same suits and getting chauffeured by expensive cars. And that's the sticking point: she's just complimented him and set him apart on account of circumstance, not real merit. ]

You have a point. [ He doesn't stumble when he answers, and he sounds more thoughtful than meek. ] But isn't that just a matter of context? Likewise, nobody in Parliament — or an Orelesian ball — would trust either of us, if we showed up looking like this.

Edited 2019-07-13 17:20 (UTC)

True. But they also wouldn't trust us if we showed up looking grand. If we were going to Parliament, or an Orlesian ball, we'd dress in servants' clothes and blend in with the help, wouldn't we.

[ She tilts her head to the side, surveying him slantwise. She fancies that, even with his nose in the air like it always is, even with his soft hands and his pallor, he might pass for a commoner. - Which isn't surprising, is it. Magicians always started out as commoners, before their magic was discovered...

No. Bartimaeus had told her this. Before they started summoning and enslaving spirits, who were the ones with all the real magic. There really isn't any difference between her and him, is there. ]

If your dignity would permit that, of course.

[ It absolutely wouldn't. It also won't permit him to say that outright, so: ]

Of course it would. It's just— you can do things properly, you know. You don't always have to resort to lies and skulking about.

[ Well, he can do things properly. She obviously didn't have any connections, and he can see how she'd struggle to make any. In England, anyway. Here is... they aren't really in the same position here, are they? His education and experience must count for something. ]

Lies and skulking about?

[ Her brows draw together, and her mouth turns down in a forbidding frown. It's the look that has proceeded many a punch to the jaw - though for right now, her fists remain by her side. For right now. ]

I'd be quite happy to hear your suggestions on how to conduct myself properly, Mr Mandrake. What shall I do - march in the streets, so that the Night Police can set upon me and my comrades and tear us apart? Stand up in court and decry the system, so that I can be told that the oath of a commoner is worth less than spit? Or are you saying that you think I ought to just try for direct assassination?

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open | your baddest behavior

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u ever type something regretfully english

so often