faderift | open | 'til death do us part

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.

open | 'til death do us part

II. Ceremony

And... fight!

opennn

drags gwen in!

ota

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