faderift | ( OPEN ) | something borrowed, something blue

WHO: Byerly, Sidony and guests (everyone is invited)
WHAT: The best sham of a wedding Thedas has ever seen
WHEN: Now
WHERE: the Toad and Flagon
NOTES: The Best Wedding Ever ft. a kidnapping

You are hereby invited to the wedding of Byerly Rutyer and Sidony Celogera Allegra Venaras.
The venue is not quiet nor is it beautiful; the gambling hall is loud and intense, with all kinds of smells and dirtiness to carry along with the strangeness of their wedding. There’s some attempt at draping, some attempt at making it look as though some kind of party is taking place here, but it certainly doesn’t look like there’s going to be a wedding at all. It’s hastily done, hastily put together, but at least it’s something, which is better than nothing.

There’s about an hour until the wedding is due to start and both the bride and groom are getting ready - whatever that means to the two of them.

Food is not provided. There are no drinks bought. There's a table for gifts to one side, with a little plaque with their names on. Prostitutes and gamblers wander between the aisles and chairs, laughing and making jokes with one another, completely avoiding setting the scene of a proper wedding.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Mhavos is always paying attention to his surroundings. Mhavos is also usually not showing signs of it, trying not to draw obvious suspicion. How good he is at handling both tends to depend on his mood, the seriousness of the matter, and who, precisely, is watching.

So there is a momentary stutter-stop of surprise when he hears someone whisper behind him. A flinch, as though expecting something more than words. He is an elven servant, and a fighter in darkness-- it's a respectable response for either.

He turns to find a human with a familiar voice, pleasant and soft.

"I was invited by the wedding party." So was everyone in Riftwatch, but. It's worthwhile to defend his right to be here. "Have we met...?"

An elf, flinching: not an uncommon sight. He reacts to it not at all, perhaps just drunk enough not to notice.

"In a manner of speaking," he says, a playful twinkle in his eye. Get it? Gosh he's clever. Moving on, "A naughty poet brought us together, if I'm not mistaken. Mhavos, isn't it?" He pronounces it well, having done a little preparatory practice in private. "Sorry for startling you, there."

(Perhaps not.)

Mhavos' first feeling is... relief. Relief and disappointment, but mostly relief. A human. He doesn't have to worry about the pressure of... attraction. He has enough on his plate right now.

He nods his head. "Yes," he says, "Mhavos. You would be Lea, then. A pleasure to meet you in the flesh, as it were, startled or no."

But his expression is calm, pleasant, average. No nerves or charm.

You would be Lea, met with a tip of head and shoulders, pleased to be recognized (even if he did make it easy).

"Likewise. I don't think I'll ever really get used to those crystals, but they do add an element of mystery—you know, wondering who's on the other side. I've yet to be disappointed thus far." Ask him about his first day on the island some time. And since that was merely a seasoning compliment, he goes on without much pause, "You're still quite new, aren't you—have you been assigned anywhere yet?"

"Perhaps. I find them easy to forget about, until they start attempting conversation."

All polite, almost demure, finely placid. His smile never reaches his eyes, but it doesn't need to. Genuine delight isn't required.

"As a clerk, I'll likely end up a jack of all trades. If you've an assignment for me, I'd love to hear it."

"Mmm," a lilt of interest that expedites him swallowing this little sip of his drink. (The littlest sip, just to taste.) He gestures with the hand around the cup, one finger extended. "I might, actually. Have you any interest in artefacts? Or the cataloguing thereof?"

"Oh, yes," Mhavos says, immediately. He's heard of several projects falling under this category so far, and all interest him. "It sounds like fascinating work. Far moreso than organizing Orlesian tea sets."

"Excellent, excellent. I've been doing some restoration work in the library side-rooms—mundane items, mostly. We tend not to play with the magical ones overmuch." Though he'd like to, he also enjoys remaining more or less the way he is, physically. "A promotion's got me pulling double duty, so I could use a little help. Cataloguing, inventory, that sort of thing. There's plenty to sort through."

Mhavos' interest continues clear in his eyes. "What sorts? If you don't mind my asking. Is it all organized in one place, or more... spread about? I don't mind either way. I just want to know how much time to, ah, allocate."

Because he's just assuming it's go. He's gonna do it. He's gonna do the thing.

"I've gathered nearly everything to the archives, alongside the library, but they still trickle in. New finds are especially exciting... I think we're still holding some of the Inquisition's material as well. That is, assuming they ever want it back. They may be using us as a sort of... lending storage." There's a little crease between his eyebrows, but his lips suggest a smile. It's always nice to have leverage, no matter how slight. "Anyway, call on me tomorrow, if you like. I can give you the tour. And, if you're still interested then," as if the eager questions don't say that enough, "we'll work out how much you want to give."

Finally, another taste, keeping steady eye contact over the edge of his cup.

The eye-contact thing would be off-putting if he hadn't seen a hundred nobles do the same as many times over. People watch elves. Mhavos is being trusted with valuables and expected not to steal them. It's just the way humans are.

It's all perfectly amenable, anyway.

"I will, then. Thank you." Hand out to shake.

"Splendid," he replies, and engages the gesture despite his own secret distaste for it. His grasp is firm, his fingers somewhat cool to the touch, the duration polite. There's a dry, smeared spot of ink on the meat of his thumb. "I look forward to it."

Just before he excuses himself, he casts a glance back, parallel to his own shoulder. A flick of the eyes, down-up. A relaxing of the lids as his face turns away.

Perfectly amenable.

( OPEN ) | something borrowed, something blue

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