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

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

ooc | one thread, open to everyone—lexie, bastien, and byerly are going to talk a lot, but anyone is welcome to interrupt with questions or their important opinions.

First are introductions—Lady Alexandrie, Bastien, Byerly Rutyer, each varying degrees of gracious for everyone's cooperation in being taken hostage—and an overview of the plan for the evening.

"Before we get into the particulars, we have some general advice," Bastien says, from where he's sitting on a table. They haven't started yet. He can sit where he likes. (Good posture, though.) "First: unless you are one of the elite, or attempting to fake it, you do not need to know everything. If you do know everything, it may be best to pretend otherwise. They do not want you to be as good at following their rules as they are. They might feel threatened if you are."

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.

ooc | pair up and dance. lexie, bastien, and/or byerly might interrupt.

While the tables are being cleared, Bastien draws names from two bowls (with only a little bit of sleight-of-hand cheating) for dance partners, because he's been around this block a few times, and he isn't about to waste time watching people mill around awkwardly because they can't stand to ask someone to dance with them themselves.

To begin, there's no music, only someone keeping time with a staff on the stone floor—which does at least make conversation more feasible—and the very basic task of moving in squares without running into anyone else or stepping on anyone's feet, but after everyone has been given a fair chance at getting that down, things get slightly more complicated. But only slightly. Advanced lessons will cost extra.

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.

"Just so." Alexandrie nods. The bright copper of her hair is swept up, a few ringlets let to fall forward alongside a gilded half-mask; she is pearls, feathers, and several layers of white flounce trimmed in gold.

"It pleases many in the peerage to be charitable to those who comport themselves well, assuming they adhere to the standards of whatever class they appear to belong to. Act too poorly and you are a hazard to associate with, too well and you shall seem as if you aspire beyond your means. Both attract attention, and likely suspicion as well."

She holds up a hand in an attempt to forestall the possibility of grumbling (whether successfully or not). "While I am sure a great many of you are already cross about the distinct likelihood of being condescended to and about how terribly unjust you find the class structure across Thedas, I implore you remember for what cause you endure."

Edited (gotta put them gown pics obviously) 2019-06-17 01:15 (UTC)

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?"

Edited 2019-06-17 01:14 (UTC)

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.

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.”

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.

Edited (finish a fucking sentence, me) 2019-06-17 04:01 (UTC)

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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?"

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--"

"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."

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."

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...."

Edited 2019-06-17 15:01 (UTC)

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.

Yet again, John finds himself in a situation where he is uncomfortably aware of the ways in which he is misplaced. Even an entire journey and an evening spent among nobility hasn't dispelled John's awareness that he'd be better served in a variety of different positions, but none that relied on whether or not he could blend into polite company.

It's always jarring to realize all the ways he's become acclimated to one particular type of lifestyle.

Despite all his complaints and misgivings, he's found himself a seat and appears to be paying attention—admittedly, he's paying attention to everyone else in the room rather than wholly to the lecture itself, but it's as good as it's going to get where John's concerned.

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?

It may be terrible, but Colin is immediately relieved to see he is dancing with a Dalish elf and not one of the fine ladies in fine gowns who care whether or not he looks like an Orlesian servant in his embroidered green silk tunic. He smiles nervously at the tiny elven woman and holds out a faintly trembling hand.

"Colin."

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.

Edited 2019-06-17 22:00 (UTC)

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Page 1 of 15

open | your baddest behavior

(A) A Lecture

(B) Dinner

(C) Dance Lessons

(D) Break It Down

no subject

Table Four

Table Nine

table one.

table six.

Table Three

Romain (OTA)

no subject

table five.

no subject

osana (open)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

derrica / open

no subject

john / open

colin + merrill

six (ota)