faderift | open | 'til death do us part

For this particular event, Loki has gone to some trouble to secure a more open and inviting ballroom than the few large rooms that exist in their estate. There had been some appeal in having the event at his home, of course, but one cannot hold all their parties in their own house, it would inspire rumors. So, one of Loki’s...business associates, a wealthy Freemarcher with a reasonably gauche estate in Kirkwall, had volunteered the use of his home and his ballroom which had, of course, been summarily decorated beyond recognition by the bride to be in the melded style she’d been cultivating for months now: the pattern of the cloth hangings Orlesian, but their drape Tevene, their hot-house’s wealth of northern blossoms arranged with the roses she’d had brought from Val Royeaux to add to the estate’s gardens, wine from the Heartlands being offered in goblets of Minrathous ceramic. There are a few obligatory touches that were clearly orchestrated by Loki, himself, but no one who was unfamiliar with the more eclectic religious practices of Tevinter would note them.

It is Loki who greets most of their guests--in part because he revels in making Alexandrie’s guests vaguely uncomfortable and (to a lesser extent) because it is traditional--and his valet, an older elf with a Tevene accent, guides them to their seats. The list is rather full, with guests from some rather impressive distances having made it, but Loki’s polite smile persists as they filter in.

“Yes, how are you? Glad to see you. You shall be shown to your seat.”

The conversations are droll but not quite so droll as the conversations available to those who decide to mingle before the ceremony begins. Who is there to talk to, here, apart from that old woman with a hat made from (what appears to be) an entire swan, taxidermied in place. Perhaps the Antivan couple will make for fine conversation if you can understand them through their accents. Or maybe the two surly looking dwarves who are to the side, critiquing the floral arrangements.

Oddly enough, the Priest is available and has taken up standing by the low podium at the end of the hall. It is odd to see a male officiant in the south, but who else would they import to marry them, given the current Divine’s tepid feelings on the matter?

In any case, the ceremony shall start once everyone arrives and the dramatic tension is acceptable. Until then, best occupy yourselves.

Edited 2019-08-01 18:04 (UTC)

While uncomfortable is usually a word allocated to Six in terms of her position in formal occasions - she has never felt as though she fits in the least, something awkward gnawing at her, reminding her that she has no place here and is simply being pitied, no matter how false the claim might be - she is doing her best to at least appear relaxed. Her hair is tidier than usual now, tied up in a tight braid with all the loose curls pressed behind her ear, clearly not something she has done herself.

Thankfully, someone has done the kindness of helping her look more than just a little presentable.

The dress she has slipped into is another thing she had clearly not done herself; it's not her usual simple, easy style and she feels out of place and awkward wearing it, petting down her arms and frowning. It's red to match what she thinks Thor might be wearing, an intentional plan to show that they are... Something, even if she is not sure what that something might be just yet.

She hesitates when she meets Loki - the man she has heard of but not spoken to much, other than their awkward meeting at the ball - and deliberately glances around, a head or so taller than most others, trying to see if she can spot any kind of familiar face. She must look like a child abandoned at market, but she's trying to find the strength to ignore the feeling.

Alexandrie is meant to be waiting in a room just down the hall, but an indoor flowering trellis and use of the pathways normally taken by servants provided the means for her to observe the beginnings of this particular gathering, and her curiosity had been far too great to let that opportunity pass in favor of letting Marie make further minuscule adjustments to the same ringlet over and over, her fussing interspersed with darting away to check the look at all angles.

While she's most engaged in admiring the minute variation in how Loki tailors his bearing and gesture for each greeting, Six's stature—and the brilliant red softness of her dress that almost manages to smooth the lines of her terribly uncomfortable stance—can't help but draw the eye. She pulls a very tiny pebble from the base of the trellis and tosses it to gently bump the other woman's back, beckoning with the tips of her fingers from behind the vines when Six looks.

There's some kind of awkwardness that hangs around her no matter what she does, and Six's eyes flick over when she feels something touch her back. Her immediate reaction is to try and grab at a weapon that isn't there, her hands flexing over nothing before she breathes out softly, forcing herself to calm down and relax. This is a wedding, what could possibly go wrong in something as simple as a wedding?

Turning her head, she frowns, almost startled when she sees someone. It takes her a moment to pick up her skirts - obviously unfamiliar with the motion - before she walks over.

"... Greetings," her voice is soft, awkward. "Is... Is there something that I might do for you?"

"You might allow me to aid you in making yourself comfortable," say the flowering vines lightly, "I shall accept it as a wedding present."

The true owner of the voice peeks out shortly thereafter, a happy flush on her cheeks above a sparkling smile.

A wedding present; that has Six pausing, her eyes widening for a moment before she realises just who this might be. She's met Loki, if barely once, but she hadn't thought she had met the bride despite being a guest at the wedding. This must be Alexandrie herself, which has Six hesitatingly flopping into an awkward half-bow half-curtsey, unsure which would be most appropriate given she is wearing a dress.

"If you like," she says, finally, stepping forward. "You look very handsome - beautiful."

Alexandrie dips her chin demurely in response to the compliment—or, at least, with an appropriately demure affect hoisted above her pride in her own display.

"I do like. Now. You must tell me about when last you felt most confident; when body and spirit felt light and dazzling with purpose and all seemed to fall into place about you."

The last time she felt confident? She doesn't think it's something that might please the bride, especially considering how awkward she feels in her red dress, the skirts hanging around her like it is going to stick to her skin, and she sighs.

"In battle. Ghislain. I was cutting down those that threatened my allies and aiding those that could not defend themselves."

It seems to please the bride well enough; or, at least, her smile doesn't dim.

"High society is much like battle, if you think upon it," she replies. "You have allies and enemies, weapons and armor in your gown, your words, your comportment. It is not a battle you have been yet trained for, but you have a great deal to work with simply existing as you honestly are.

"Earnestness can be incredibly disarming. Coming upon such a person at such an event is akin to... expecting everyone to be wielding a rapier and coming upon someone with a greathammer. Lord Thor, for instance, is terribly earnest."

Thor is a useful allegory, as alike to the paladin as Alexandrie is to her groom, but he's also a useful point of gentle teasing. Perhaps Six can be induced to forget some of her self-consciousness in being reminded of who it is she's worn red to match.

Six still feels awkward, even as she tries to wrap herself around the metaphor.

"It is a far more delicate armour," she admits quietly. She misses the weight of her greatsword on her back, the familiar feeling of a belt and a dagger, the knowledge that she can reach for a blade and care for herself easily that way. It leaves knots in her stomach to imagine herself dressed like this more often - she knows she does not suit such finery, that her muscles pull at the silk, that her hair is straw on her head.

The mention of Thor, however, makes her cheeks flush a gentle red.

"Lord Thor is more accustomed to this than I am," a frown. "And I think myself wielding a knife."

With the guests seated, it is not long before the ceremony proper begins. It is, by all rights, the very picture of a Chantry ceremony. The groom stands at the end of the isle with the priest at his side, an altar stands before them, and they wait for the musicians to begin playing and the bride to join them. When the band strikes up the gentle and melodic sounds of violins and harps fill the room and, at once, Alexandrie passes the doors in the hall and enters on the arm of the ever-faithful Marceau. She glides towards the future she’d chosen with her head held high, fierce stubborn pride burning in every line of her, bright as the copper of her hair.

Loki, at the end of the aisle smiles a small but earnest smile and, in turn, the priest offers him a knowing look. He clears his throat and lifts both hands--the tome he holds in one is clearly not the Chant of Light--before gesturing to the guests.

“Friends and family, please rise to honor the betrothed,” he asks in a surprisingly clear and authoritative voice given his advanced age. The crowd rises dutifully (or reluctantly in some cases) and the music plays on until Alexandrie has joined them at the altar.

Three things happen as the priest steps into place and takes a breath to begin the ceremony proper: a dulcet summer breeze manages to tug a bit of Loki’s hair out of place. Alexandrie, with a look of fond and impertinent mischief, leans quickly forward to pat it down. And a crossbow bolt passes a hairsbreadth behind her to slam into the old man’s shoulder with enough force to send him staggering backwards.

Edited 2019-08-01 18:02 (UTC)

In the time that it takes to reload a crossbow, the void breaks loose.

One of the servants deftly abandons the tray they’re holding to pull a knife from their sleeve and slip around a pillar.

The woman who’d been playing the flute narrows her eyes in irritation and slips something that shines suspiciously into the end of it, drawing a deeper breath and taking aim.

Two men meet eyes across the room, flash something quick at each other with their hands, and move in tandem.

There’s another, and another; a too-quick move at the edge of your vision, an uncomfortably intent caught glance, and in the space of a moment the main event of the afternoon goes from being hosted in a ballroom to being hosted on a battlefield.

That was two moments ago.

[ ooc: ~~Bar~~ Ballroom brawl, and we’re starting in the thick of it!

By default, we’ll be leaving control of your NPC assassin attackers to you, but if you’re more comfortable having something written to react to, leave a note in the header and we will happily pick up the torch and toss opponents at you, grievously or not so grievously injure people (including your dudes if you like) and generally ruin the decor.

The hopeful bounty-collectors, assassins, and vengeful opportunists are of the caliber that any combat trained character or staunch wine bottle wielder can easily match, but y’know, they Just Keep Coming. If you’d enjoy someone coming after your character (because they have an opportunistic enemy, or because of a case of mistaken identity, or because they’re unlucky enough to get in between the mook and the truly impressive payday at the altar) then you’ve got someone! If you don’t, your character can escape notice entirely if you like. Maybe grab a fistful of canapes and hang out with someone under a table.

The thread format for this is: chaos! Threadjack each other madly. Swing on curtains and throw shrimp like ninja stars from the hors d’oeuvres tables. Help a brother out! Accidentally punch a brother out because you thought he was an assassin! “Accidentally” punch a brother out because you “thought he was an assassin”! Accidentally punch an assassin because you thought he was your brother!

Don’t let us tell you how to live. Have fun! ]

Edited 2019-08-01 18:27 (UTC)

The hand gestures were not very subtle. He could have done better. In fact, he does do better. Anyone paying very close attention to him might notice the way he moves when they move, or the way his trajectory across the floor periodically deviates from the logical route of a noncombatant just trying to get out of the way, but who has time to give Bastien that sort of attention in the midst of all this? And without it, everything looks mostly accidental. Darting out of someone's way but tripping them in the process. Shoving furniture aside to block a path. A stumble into an assailant that he emerges from with their sheathed dagger in hand.

He doesn't shed the appearance of dumb luck and accidental competence until he's reached one of the two bards, and then it's only long enough to bash the pommel of the sheathed dagger against one of their temples.

Probably they aren't dead. But the instant drop is the same, either way, and the other rounds on him with an open blade and exactly the degree of annoyance and calculation—the professional absence of careless outrage—that he'd expect. He holds up both of his hands, just for a moment, and sneaks in a little bit of a smile, mostly around the eyes. No hard feelings, it suggests.

She'd seen the flicker of bard handtalk as well, seen the direction. And so she checks for them once, twice, quick over her shoulder when she has moments to judge their progress, see how long until they—but then to her surprise there's Bastien, with one of the pair on the ground at his feet, his hands raised and open, seemingly lacking a weapon.

To encourage Bastien to look away from the man now watching him might have unfortunate consequences... but Gwenaëlle, who'd been in the assassin's path before he'd turned to address the drop of his partner...

Alexandrie snatches a vase from the table beside her, throws water, thorn, and blossom with great force into the next face she doesn't know on the approach, and twists in the space she buys to call out "Gigi!" waiting only for the barest of eye-contact before tossing her the now empty vase. Of course, the moment after it's left her hands she has reason to wish she'd kept it as a dripping fellow, now fetchingly bedecked in flowers, lunges at her with blade in hand.

Meanwhile, in the decidedly not doing anything useful camp, at the first sign of trouble Wysteria has done the sensible thing and ducked out of her chair and under the tablecloth of one of the nearest tables waiting to be burdened with refreshments the moment the ceremony is complete.

That she elbows a fellow reasonable person who has beaten under the table somewhere delicate on the way under in purely accident and in the shadow beneath the table, as the room bursts unseen into chaos, she actually takes a moment to apologize:

"Good gods - is your face all right?"

With a hand clasped over her eye, Fifi gives a wincing nod. By her dress, she's clearly a servant, but having never claimed to be good at anything resembling combat, she finds wisdom in simply disappearing when the going gets rough.

"Are you injured," she asks, opening her other eye to look Wysteria over with the sort of calm exasperation that comes with the territory of working for the wedding party.

"Me? No, no--" There's a crash somewhere in the room about them. Wysteria draws her feet in a little nearer to avoid the possibility of anyone beyond the edge of the tablecloth tripping over some mislaid toe. "No, I'm perfectly fit."

A momentary pause, followed by a flash of panic as she checks herself over in the not-quite-dark under the table. "Do I seem injured?"

"Good," Fifi sighs, wincing at the same sound but not bothering to curl up-- she sort of half-reclines onto her elbow, leaning her head down to peer out from underneath the tablecloth. Still going.

"You seem frightened," she adds, glancing over Wysteria again, still pressing one hand to her own eye, "but no worse for wear." A small, tired, reassuring smile follows.

Which is-- well, not reassuring, but she's at least not going to bleed through this dress and that much is a blessing. Returning a gore flecked gown to Alexandrie's closet in the days following her nuptials seems in poor taste.

But frightened?

"No, no. I'm afraid you--" Oh, she ought to be whispering this. Continuing in a hiss, she insists, "You have this the wrong way around entirely. I'm being reasonably cautious. And I daresay that I am of better use out of the way than in it. Now, are you certain your face is quite all right? That blows felt very solid to my elbow."

Crash, bang, thump. The table rattles ominously.

A wry smile is quickly schooled into a pleasant expression, which becomes exceedingly less so when she lowers her hand to display a blossoming black eye.
"I've had worse," she says, giving a little flinch as the table shudders, "...I think. How does it look?"

Oops. If Wysteria blanches (she does), then she rallies to cover for it with extreme grace (no she doesn't.)

"Oh, you can hardly tell at all that I struck you at all. It's really perfectly all right after all."

The look Fifi gives her is skeptical at best, but she doesn't push the matter; it's not like Wysteria did it on purpose, after all.
"Good," she says blandly, not even pretending to believe her, and leans down to peer out from under the tablecloth again.

"At some point we might want to run," she observes, "...but not at the moment."

Wysteria, sensible young lady that she is, twists after her. She doesn't quite get to the point of leaning down to peer under the edge of the tablecloth, but it's an awfully near thing if the tip of her head and the general incline of her upper body are any indication. No, stop that. You don't need to poke your head out to get a good look at the chaos.

"Is there a particular point at which you think it might be a better idea to make a run for it?"

There's been a hooded stranger by the buffet all the while, ignoring the ceremony in favor of snorfling down as many canapes as they could possibly manage. They've made some decent progress, especially now that most everyone else is seated, but all it takes is for one arrow to glance off their hulking back before they seem to grow abruptly to twice their own height. And there's a roar of outrage, a swing of a massive arm that sends the table rolling forward and plates shattering and clattering every which way.

The corner of the table catches on the stranger's cloak, and they are a bear, and she is very displeased by this turn of events. With a powerful swat, she clotheslines someone running by.

At some point, the next person to hit the ground is the last, and it’s over.

There’s quiet, for a long moment, and then a disheveled and blood-spattered Alexandrie moves back to the high table, picks up a glass and rings it with the thin flat of the blade she still carries—ignoring the subsequent crack and tinkle as said glass gives up and shatters in her hand—and pitches her voice to carry through the space.

“We seem to have lost our officiant,” she begins, rather mildly and collectedly all things considered, scanning the gathered guests with lofted brows, “Are there any among you who could conceivably be considered to have the authority to perform a marriage?”

Despite her light tone, her stance is intent: Alexandrie is walking out of this room a wedded woman.

[ ooc: roll betwixt possibilities came up Merrill; what a beacon of multicultural tolerance this wedding is! ]

Well. That was all... quite a lot.

Merrill smooths some of her hair back behind an ear; it had been braided for the ceremony, but there had been loose strands for Fashion. Some blood is smeared over her face, highlighting her vallaslin and mixing with her makeup. It's that same hand, blood on her fingertips, that pulls away from her face and lifts into the air when Alexandrie asks her question.

Conceivably, as the Keeper of her clan (of one), Merrill absolutely has the authority to perform a wedding ceremony. She just had never really thought it would come up.

Loki, who is busy retrieving and cleaning his knife in a rather dramatic swoop, rises from the body he's knelt over and glances out across the room. Alexandrie is being suitably dramatic and, given the circumstances, a bit of drama seems to be merited. When the little wild elf's hand goes up, however, so too do his eyebrows.

He knows Alexandrie quite well and the sound of determination in her voice is not to be trifled with.

He is going to have a wild elf wedding. How...unexpected.

"Gods' we don't have to strip down and dance naked do we? Apart from the company...the remaining company, that is, even I would object to dancing over corpses."

Though he would certainly claim to have done after the fact.

Despite her seeming nonchalance, Alexandrie had not been expecting a single affirmative response. Had been readying herself to be once again unmarried on her wedding day, forced to make some statement of continued intent, spin a story that made the delay a kind choice. Perhaps one for the benefit of the missing priest: he should be looked for, found safely, they would wait until then.

But then a hand. One attached to the now shining and serendipitous friendship born of afternoon teas and socially transgressive fashion endeavors. And Alexandrie smiles and dips her head to Merrill.

"Should such a thing be required," is the serene response to her very-nearly-husband, "there are, to my knowledge, no corpses outside."

Given that she had, due to its very flattering but slightly restrictive silhouette, been obliged to slit the cloth of her gown [green and gold, naturally] near to the thigh already, and she does not look unprepared to doff the rest. She does not look unprepared to do near anything.

"But I think it unlikely."

A quick eyebrow raise for Merrill: right?

Loki is not given a withering look - partially because Merrill is terrible at them, and partially because, at the end of the day, Merrill is doing this for her friend. She does raise an eyebrow at him, though; just enough to, she hopes, let him know that she doesn't appreciate his jump to stereotypes.

"Well, I don't know how human countries do it, but the Dalish don't strip naked or dance over corpses. We try to keep our bonding ceremonies away from corpses, as a matter of fact; this is actually probably the closest." The last bit is said thoughtfully, Merrill almost getting lost in the thought.

"We can skip over the bit about Loki having to prove he's a worthwhile match," she tells Alexandria, alluding to a conversation months ago with her and Wysteria. "As long as you have vows, I think it'll actually all be very similar!"

"Vows we have," Loki assures her and, despite the reprimand from his nearly wife--they would be wed even if it was over these assassins' dead bodies--and the sidelong eyebrow from the elf girl, he seems not entirely put out by the change of plans. He is a bit relieved he doesn't need to strip down but he would have, had he been given no choice.

"Though I expect I should probably omit the religious section if we're to change the ceremony on whole." He looks at Alexandrie, then, and all her determination is visible in her stance.

"Shall we take this outside, my dear?"

Alexandrie breathes, straightens, and then moves to take Loki's arm with every iota of gentility she can muster, managing a veneer of calm certitude that implies everything is entirely under control despite her own nervous adrenaline, the evidence of generalized chaos still remaining in the room, and the abrupt trade of Priest for Dalish Keeper. She pitches her voice to the room.

"Let us make sure our guests are seen to—and our 'guests' secured—and then... we shall."

[ooc: timeskip to outside though? :3 She's just doing image control inasmuch as that's... even... possible.]

open | 'til death do us part

I. Arrival

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II. Ceremony

And... fight!

opennn

drags gwen in!

ota

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III. Once More With Feeling

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SORRY work is trying to eat me alive ;;

Man ain't that just a mood.

we're all fashionably late