[ota] nobody's gonna have an orgy in their mansion all over their nice furniture

[hassaran]

WHO: OTA, more or less
WHAT: An all-hands infiltration mission ends up being rather more hands than anticipated.
WHEN: Nowish
WHERE: At an estate outside Ostwick
NOTES: Sending crystals are allowed but must be used with the utmost discretion to avoid discovery. A general warning for Eyes Wide Shut-type party nonsense, but more fancy swinger makeouts than sex dungeon. Please make sure to communicate OOCly to ensure everyone's having fun. NSFW content is likely, but if a thread is going to turn into prolonged porn please shift it to an inbox.

Word has come through reliable sources that Baron Hounsford, secretly a significant financial supporter first of the Inquisition and now of Riftwatch as well, is to be the target of an assassnation attempt. Precisely why or by whom is unknown, just that the threat is imminent. Worse, the Baron has left behind his personal guard to attend a somewhat mysterious event at the home of Lord Esterhauzy, outside Ostwick. All Riftwatch has been able to learn on such short notice is that the estate is secluded and the event extravagant. The massive scale is a blessing and a curse: it's certainly big enough to sneak in quite a lot of people, so long as they look as if they have money, but by the same token it will be easy for assassins to sneak in as well, and difficult to quickly locate anyone.

On arrival, everyone willing to dress the part is ushered in to Lord Esterhauzy's glittering mansion, where the difficulties of the mission suddenly become much greater: each person, whether disguised as guest or staff, will be handed a random mask, and informed of the rules:

1. Masks must be worn at all times.
2. When the musicians play the famous Merry Widow of Wycome, every guest must kiss the person to whom they're speaking, or who is closest. They must continue until the music stops.
3. If they aren't interested in stopping, slipping away somewhere more private is an option (but given the competition for space, finding somewhere completely private may be a challenge.)
4. Any person found to be breaking these rules, or the spirit of them, will be unmasked, removed from the premises, and forbidden from attending in the future.

The dimly candle-lit ballroom is already loud with masked guests, so many that they spill out onto the torch-studded terraces and garden beyond. The room is overwarm, but not sweltering thanks to the efforts of oiled footmen posted near the windows with large fans, and the servants circulating with trays of icy-cold champagne. Somewhere in this crowd are Baron Hounsford and those who wish to kill him, and the only way to find them is to spread out, speak to as many people as possible, and regularly pool information among themselves to try to zero in on their targets. They must mingle as if lives depend upon it.

Those reluctant to participate if it might be avoided will discover that locations where private conversation can be had without complying with the house rules are almost non-existent. Lord Esterhauzy learned his lesson the last time he tried this--it is a common subject of gossip among the crowd that the last party he had advertised as the most debauched of the season fizzled out into merely a slightly racy cocktail hour with underdressed staff. This time he has taken precautions, blocking off most of the house, monitoring access to the rest to ensure it's for sexy purposes only, and empowering staff to have anyone not complying with the spirit of the event thrown out--lest they think that an idle threat, shortly after they arrive several people are unmasked and thrown out for not obeying the musical cue, much to the laughter of the crowd. Even the grounds are patrolled.

There are several spots they've overlooked: a linen closet, a stairwell alcove, a corner of the library, but Riftwatch aren't the only ones to have discovered this, and there is no guarantee any particular hiding spot will be available when the music stops.

As the night goes on and the crowd gets drunker, the tone gradually shifts from slightly giggly titillation to more serious debauchery (much to Lord Esterhauzy's delight. If at first you don't succeed!) but there remains a veneer of decorum that keeps it from sliding into obscenity: people may saunter off to the garden or a private room with someone else's spouse(s), but nobody is just openly fucking on the piano.

Comments

mhavos dalat | ota.

[murderbaby]

a. PARTY PARTY PARTY.

Mhavos arrives in a mask that, unfortunately, complies to all the rules of the party. The lower half of his face is easily seen. His ears are not hidden. To those who know his accent, he's quite easily recognized.

But to the rest...

Mhavos leans across the back of a settee, chatting amiably with a well dressed woman. She's wearing far too many clothes to be entirely beyond reproach, at a banquet like this. She chuckles, and turns away, and Mhavos drifts back into the crowd.

"That one," he says in a stage whisper. "I'm keeping an eye on her. But she's being tailed..."

b. KISS KISS FALL IN LOVE.

And then the music starts up, and even behind the mask, Mhavos looks like he'd quite literally rather die.

But the rules are the rules, and he has a mission to accomplish.

c. WILDCARD.

[I'm down.]

c.

[justashotaway]

Laura finds him by voice--having spoken with him often enough by crystal, she knows the sound of him more than the shape of his face.

"Eat this," she says, holding a delicate porcelain dish out as she comes up to his side. From behind, specifically, so if that's startling...deal with it, she guesses. On the tiny plate is a sort of cup-shaped bit of pastry filled with cream and shavings of something dark and sweet and entirely unfamiliar to her. A single raspberry graces the center.

b

[notched]

Her full, glossy hair smells like juniper as she leans close to kiss her partner. Her kiss is light but not stiff, or mechanical. It's really only when the music stops, however, that her dark eyes actually focus behind the cat-face mask to look on the bird-faced elf.

"Oh, it's you."

b.

[tender]

"I'm sorry," is the first thing out of her mouth, having clocked the expression on his face even with the mask obscuring half of it.

As fun as Derrica typically finds kissing, unsurprisingly it's a real moodkiller when your partner is deeply not into it. She has some minor crisis about where to put her hands before they land on his shoulders and she kisses the corner of his mouth. Deliberate or did she just miss? It's hard to tell.

b.

[libratus]

They do have a mission to accomplish. Ilias is not much of an actor, but he is also not so uncomfortable about locking lips with strangers as might be expected from a man of neatly buttoned collars and infinitely layered robes. (Even out of Mortalitasi grays, his idea of fancy seems to be a scattering of silver stitches around the collar, his mask a simple satin, both by now a touch askew.)

And yet, when the first chords of Merry Widow of Wycome reach his ears, he hesitates. Mhavos is no stranger. Perhaps they could be called friends now; certainly, and of more immediate relevance, they did not meet under the sort of circumstance that make a casual kiss appropriate. Least of all with Mhavos looking like he'd rather melt into the floor

But power can always be reversed, can't it? Instead of worrying about the distance between their lips just yet, he reaches to catch Mhavos's hand in his, to draw a thumb into the dip of his own palm. A pulse point. Discreet, sensitive to pressure.

"Like reins," he explains, a little sheepish, "If you want me to stop." Just squeeze.

Then he leans down for a kiss.

laura kint / ota

[justashotaway]

eating fancy chow and drinking fancy wine

Laura almost looks as though she belongs, having been dressed up by Lady Alexandrie in something that passes muster among the wealthy, though she hadn't had patience for a more complicated hairstyle than a knot at the nape of her neck and had to be threatened into her mask--don it or wait outside for the remainder of the night. In the end, she decides losing some peripheral vision is preferable to failing in her mission.

(She dislikes the other rules of the night as well, but they are in service of an important objective--and she has had years of practice in binding that unhappiness up and stuffing it into its own little compartment. It can be taken out and examined some other time, when she is not working for Riftwatch's success.)

Inside, she has to think to keep herself from gawking at everything around her; the part she has to play is of a rich woman, for whom gilded decor and velvet gowns are nothing new. She does, however, allow herself a long time at the tables of tiny, pretty foods. People will talk to each other without taking note of her, and she will listen under the guise of debating the possibility of one dessert over another. (And she will debate one dessert over another. It is efficient.)

When asked to dance, she says no, thank you, and instead lets herself be drawn to the edges of others' circles, a little shadow in conversations that aren't hers. When she recognizes someone else from Riftwatch, her voice is low and terse. "What have you found?"

to build a dream on

The first time, she does not know the song. Merry Widow of Wycome means nothing to her. But the delighted sounds of others' reactions (and a few impolitic groans) tells her that the song has started. After that point, she knows it at its first strains.

Laura knows how to kiss. Moreover, she knows the mission cannot continue if she does not. So there is nothing of hesitation in the way she leans in toward her partner, when they strike up the song again.

wildcard.

[Drag her into dancing, accidentally walk in on somebody with her, go chasing after possible assassins, warn her that she's about to do something completely impolite like jumping over a railing, spill wine all over her clothes, &cet &cet &cet. Let's do whatever--feel free to PM, plurk, or disco for specific discussion!]

mingling but soon to be more ok

[inkindled]

"Nothing," Matthias mutters. "Load of gossip about someone's wife not being here. Gras-something. She's got a pig disease. I think."

He's muttering so as not to be overheard, but also because he feels a little bit as if his heart is lodged in his throat. Or is it a lung? That would explain why it's so difficult to get a good breath. He feels stupid. Somewhere beyond stupid. Idiotic, and like everyone can tell how much he doesn't belong.

His mask is a gilded thing, rippling like fire when the light catches it. One jagged swoop of it carries up over his left eye, balanced by the jagged swoop that sticks out stiffly over his right cheek. If he smiles, it pokes into his face. He'd chosen it because it had reminded him of fire, because he thought it might look cool and dashing--there was someone else with a similar mask, going in to the party before him, Matthias had see the mask and had been struck by it. He should have known that it wouldn't be the same on him, even in his all-black formal garb, which is finer and better tailored than anything he's ever worn in his life. Still a bit short in the cuffs, but that's a given.

Trying both to look about the room discreetly, and carry on a normal-looking conversation, Matthias shoots Laura a glance. He'd recognized her, of course. Spotted her while he was eating, nearly choked on the tiny pie he'd been shoving in his mouth.

"You look," he starts, and thank the Maker there's a mask to cover the flush he can feel in his face, "great."

iii

[hassaran]

The man Laura is talking to--or more accurately, the one who is talking to her, because he hasn't stopped regaling her with tales of his own success--is a stocky fellow with a carefully-curated beard beneath his mask, a great bear leafed in gold. He has killed several of the beasts himself, he's said, and isn't that when a man knows the weight and value of life best, when he holds the still-beating heart of such a magnificent creature in his hands?

"I'm afraid we're quite overcome by the majesty of the image," Yseult says, appearing suddenly at Laura's side, fingertips on her elbow and a flutter in her voice that makes it difficult to tell if she might not actually be serious, "You must excuse us." She steers her aside, and not a moment too soon, as the now-familiar strains of The Merry Widow begin again. They are near enough the wall, in shadow, that Yseult feels she can get away with leaning down near and catching Laura by the chin, but stopping safely short of kissing-distance.

"There is a man near the northwest door," she says, in a low voice, "In a dark green coat with black braid. About my height, brown hair, short beard. I need you to keep an eye on him."

ye olde wildcarde.

[murderbaby]

After several events which will forever leave Mhavos with a traumatized twitch in response to The Merry Widow of Wycome, Mhavos slides into the nearest linen closet to wait out the next playing of the song. He'll be back. He has a duty to do. He just... needs a break.

There is a reason he generally plays the servant, not the guest.

His fortune continues to be terrible, though, when he sees the closet is already occupied. He's all ready to make his exit, except he recognizes the shape of the girl before him-- Laura Kint. And then, the scent of blood hits him.

There are always monsters at these parties. Perhaps most of the people who attend are monsters. It's his first assumption, anyway. In the half-light, he relies on his other senses, not bothering with looking in too much detail. He just grabs the nearest wad of sheets and begins tearing it into strips. "Don't worry. You'll be fine."

derrica | ota.

[tender]

( i. | MINGLE )

Derrica's mask is uncomfortable. Or she just isn't used to it yet, which means she's hyper-aware of the way the ornate edges press against her skin, and the place where the ribbon rubs against her ear. Her hands keep straying up, adjusting it even though it's not necessary. She can see just fine.

Though seeing just fine hasn't stopped her from trodding on a few people's feet, the hem of one very lovely woman's dress, or the hem of her own skirt. Formal wear. She feels at a complete disadvantage in it.

"Does this last all?" she hisses to the first person she recognizes, frustration ebbing into despair. "I haven't even found anything strange poking into places I wasn't meant to be, just..."

She trails off. The mask likely ruins the effect of the face she's making, which Derrica seems to remember after a moment and underscores her insinuations with a suggestive hand gesture.

( ii. | KISS )

If this were a different sort of crowd, maybe this would have been a lovely party.

That thought sticks in her head as the music lurches into the now-familiar tune and she turns, somewhere between resigned and vaguely curious, towards the person nearest her.

( iii. | WILDCARD )

[ whatever, i'll roll with it. ]

i. (and maybe ii. who knows)

[justashotaway]

"Look for the things that are wrong," Laura murmurs back to the woman. Her voice is familiar, if not quite the same in person.

It occurs to her that she has not found much, either, and that she is not exactly sure what is out of place in this setting. They all are, when she stops to think about it. "Have we found him?"

The baron, specifically. Perhaps they can just tail him, wait for anyone else to show their face that way.

ii. smoch

[sulahnan]

"Oh, good! Someone my height." Athessa sounds genuinely pleased and relieved to find herself the nearest to Derrica this go around, both because of their similar stature and because so many of the men at this party are bad kissers. Kissing is supposed to be a nice experience.

She's still smiling when she drapes her arms over Derrica's shoulders and kisses her.

ii;

[sarcophage]

If this were a different sort of crowd, maybe Derrica wouldn't have turned to find a guise of pale green feathers darting in between her and the person standing nearest. Maybe the old man wearing a frog on his face and copiously chapped lips below it—he looks greasy and dry at the same time, it's kind of impressive—would be somewhere else, and this considerably younger man wouldn't be drawing any unwanted glances by abruptly committing an act of shallow heroism—

"Oh no you don't," he says, and those are definitely Leander's pleasantly flushed cheeks behind that moth mask, and his mouth definitely tastes a little like champagne. (In the hand not currently invested in pulling them closer together, he's still holding his glass.)

john silver | ota

[hornswoggle]

( i. | HOT GOSS )

It seems that any time John goes to Ostwick, some quirk will necessitate fancy dress and some level of subterfuge. The mask is new territory, at least.

Scoping out a party for an assassin should be urgent, but the task leaves John more or less to his own devices. Mingle, look for anything strange, and don’t let anyone be stabbed. Simple enough, isn’t it?

It leaves John a lot of time to consider the ways in which this could have actually been his life, had things gone differently aboard the Walrus. If he had kept his leg, kept separate from the crew, he could have taken his share and vanished into high society. (Maybe.) Instead, his life has taken a wholly different trajectory.

This truth lingers in the back of his mind, even as he listens to Lady Orianne expound on Lord Renaud‘s many mistresses. Useful, but not exactly the information they’ve been sent here to get. It’s a relief when a hand finds his elbow, drawing him away from the conversation.

“The good news is we may be able to great a large scale incident at the next ball with what I’ve been hearing,” John says immediately before taking a sip from his cup. “Any promising signs on your end?”

( ii. | KISS )

Would John still have come if he’d known about this particular quirk of the party? Maybe, maybe not. It’s too late to consider.

Still, there’s a flicker of something reticent in his expression as he graciously bends towards a partner as the music strikes up.

Is this what guilt feels like?? Weird.

( iii. | WILDCARD )

[ let’s get crazy ]

ii. gay chicken except i didn't read the rules

[excipio]

Gracious isn't exactly top of his list when it comes to promising kisses, but it isn't at the bottom. And given the exact circumstances, it's probably ideal. The politeness is at least matched in Caspar's response, though he brings a bit more friendly warmth and enthusiasm to it. Easy enough when guilt isn't an issue — not in anything that qualifies as work, and that's all this is; compartmentalization for amateurs.

It is, however, a little awkward keeping a kiss strictly polite for several long seconds as the song's drawn out. He settles a hand at the side of John's neck for show and distraction, because while neither of them looks suspiciously uncomfortable, they are in imminent danger of looking bored. He's holding a glass of wine in his other hand, which is honestly the only reason John's spared from further theatrics.

[notched]

closed for marcoulf
She touches her hair self-consciously, like a disturbed bird protecting its nest. Would it be unlikely if she had started to think of the knotted mess of it like that, something she could hide behind and avoid many social niceties because she was too wretched.

"It will take too long," she objects. "I can hide on the roof."

en mask, en kiss
The Hunter is unrecognizably cleaned up. The mask makes her feel more comfortable, a little piece of armor where she's been stripped of all semblance of it. It creates the distance she needs to be in this room filled with people who want to touch her shoulders and offer her drinks. The drawn out play-acting and actions not-taken disturbs her more than the kissing. It's a relief when the correct little melody plays and concrete action can be taken. It lifts the fog of perfumes and silks for a few moments after and she's able to pay attention to the room again.

Eyes searching for-- Hands that are too quick and too sure. Smiles that do not match the eyes inset into the mask. Mouths too sharp. The lingering scent of blood that Hunters never forget.

stalking
The simplest way to continue to stalk her object of interest and not be thrown out is to have a partner while she does it. She picks someone she assumes to be Riftwatch, takes their wrist and pulls them along.

[esquive]

"The assassin will not be on the roof." Marcoulf slaps her hand away from the gnarled mess of her hair. His fingers are faintly dappled with oil.

They are sitting in the back of a wagon, apparently meaning to arrive in Ostwick in no great style where they will promptly redress and find suitable transportation to the Lord Esterhauzy's estate. Here, in the wagon, her miserable appearance harms no one. But it cannot stand, and he has the means to take her to task for it.

Marcoulf returns to rubbing the beard oil into the matted ends of her discolored hair, humming some low sound of disapproval under the crunch of the wagon's turning wheels. It smells starkly of juniper.

Julius, mostly open

[overharrowed]

A. Closed to Petrana

Julius is grateful for the compulsory party lessons, as he realizes he's never been to a party before. (Well, at least a party more formal than people drinking, playing Wicked Grace and telling one another outrageous lies for entertainment.) They're here on a job, and he isn't about to lose focus, but he could admit to a small amount of curiosity all the same. On arrival, he thinks he could do worse than sticking close to Petrana, taking cues from her when necessary.

The one thing he does know that she may not, however, is how the "Merry Widow of Wycome" goes. The first time it strikes up, he touches her shoulder, a nonverbal alert.

Well. There are worse ways to preserve one's cover.

B. Party (open)

He and Petrana weave in and out of one another's company once they're both up to speed. It's simply too large a gathering to risk concentrating their eyes and ears, and sticking together too much might additionally draw unwelcome attention.

Behind his mask, Julius keeps his eyes open for any suspicious behavior. So far, very little, except a few attendees likely there without a spouse's knowledge or permission--and, of course, the odd Riftwatch agent. With the later (and occasionally the former), he'll take a dance. When it's a Riftwatch agent, it's a chance to discreetly compare notes; when it's not, well, he'll pry what gossip he can without pushing hard enough to draw notice.

With an agent who is disinclined to dance, there's always lingering with a drink. At least once, he says quietly, "You don't think it's Esterhauzy himself, do you? If so, it's the world's most elaborate attempt at a diversion."

C. Kiss (open)

By the time Julius and Petrana have separated, Julius has found a certain rhythm to the way people look around for partners when the correct melody begins. He fluidly immitates it, no sign of hesitation in his manner. One might almost suspect he's enjoying this.

D. Wildcard

[hit me]

b.

[hornswoggle]

"Or he's killing two birds with one stone," John answers, squinting at the dance floor. "He seems very pleased with himself."

It's almost endearing. Or John would find it endearing if he hadn't been taken so off guard by the entire conceit of the party. Feelings. What a drag.

"If it's him, I'd have to commend him for being so efficient."

athessa | ota

[sulahnan]

I. schmoozin and boozin

Athessa is so far oh-for-two on parties that don't align with the etiquette lecture banquet everyone had to attend. If she'd known that parties could be like this she would've still not been invited to them but would've tried a bit harder to crash a few.

After trading her randomly-assigned rabbit mask for something a little less insulting, she mingles this way and that, scooping up a drink here, a smooch there, and gets turned down by two of the oiled footmen.

It's surprisingly to her benefit that the heatwave is still going strong, and that she didn't turn to Gwen for help with attire this time around. While Athessa is abysmal at striking up conversations in any sort of natural or smooth fashion, wearing a bandeau and loose trousers with slits up the legs reveals enough skin to have others making the first move.

II. kiss and tell

Her first kiss of the party didn't go as planned, with Athessa not being familiar with the song that cued it, and with the awkward height difference of her first very tall partner.

The second kiss, this one, will go much better. She'll make sure of it, moving in close and fast and--wait, who is this?

III. we have not yet begun to defile ourselves

[ Wink Wonk Wildcard. ]

ii here it is the best first meeting

[exsecutus]

It's not like he hasn't kissed women before. Nikos spent time in Cumberland kissing nothing but women before he worked out that there was another option that he preferred. It's not even that it's distasteful, kissing women. They have generally the right parts for kissing. It's just that they're missing all of the other parts that Nikos cares about, and generally their mouths are softer. Whereas Nikos likes a kiss that can bruise, a kiss that hurts, a little.

He's taller than she is. There's something funny about her eyes, behind the mask--wide-eyed, maybe--but he ignores it, playing along with the music because he has to play along with this stupid fucking game, if he wants to stay here and learn anything useful. So he leans down, and he kisses her.

His mask is dark green, like moss. It matches the dark of his clothes, black and deep emerald and a paler green for contrast. Better clothes than he usually wears, but he still smells--and probably tastes like--wine. She'll get the force of it when he kisses her. He doesn't do anything to make it particularly nice. Chaste if a little heavy, utilitarian and firm. Here we are, conducting business. This fucking song.

[imbroccata]

I. party rock in the house tonight

It's not difficult to get people with delusions of grandeur to talk at length about themselves, though an affair like this has different tactics. What you might break a finger to find out elsewhere, here takes a simple whispered word in the ear. A hand on the back instead of a blow to the kidney. A thumb brushing a jawline instead of forcing its way into an eye socket.

It's also not difficult to spot the Riftwatch agents in the crowd, if you know what to look for.

"This is ridiculous."

II. one kiss away from killing

The music starts, and Lino grabs the person next to him--or whoever he is talking to--and pulls them closer. One hand on the back of their neck, tilting their head and meeting their mouth to his. His kisses are neither stilted nor perfunctory, but confident and demanding and forceful.

III. your body talks

[ Wildcard. Take a fuckin sip babes this is your chance to kiss the crow. ]

ii. im sorry this was too funny to pass up.

[murderbaby]

And Mhavos is minding his own damned business when large, strong hands grab him and- he's already scrabbling for an escape, some way to break the hold, until he hears the music swell, and-

"Va te faire foutre et ta mère."

He just has to get the last word, before he's passionately kissed by a man too large and too hairy to make the experience even minutely enjoyable.

[exequy]

open: hiding.

Look.

The kissing doesn't bother him.

The talking, though, in the early parts of the night, when people are still sober and giggling nervously before or after contact—the talking is annoying and difficult, and Kostos isn't doing anyone any favors by attempting it. He didn't come along to talk to people. He came along to tuck himself away somewhere out of sight and deploy wisps. And that's still the plan, which is why he's now either looking up with irritation only partially hidden by his mask when someone else stumbles into a closet or alcove in search of privacy, because he was here first, or else refusing to look apologetic when he stumbles in on someone else, because he needs it more.

open: mingling, maybe kissing.

Eventually, inevitably chased out of that closet or alcove by the staff or other occupants, Kostos winds up standing on the edge of the main room, glaring at nothing in particular and inattentively swirling his drink in its glass. He doesn't look approachable. But some people approach anyway, intentionally or accidentally. When someone familiar settles with murmuring distance, he says, with his usual quiet tone and rolled Nevarran Rs, "Trust Marchers to need a stupid hours-long game just to fuck," or, more helpfully, "The woman in yellow."

closed: nell.

The song hasn't played in a while. Maybe the musicians have gotten distracted. Maybe it's intentional suspense. But Kostos been thinking any moment now for many moments now, at one point turning and walking directly away from a skinny man with onion breath who seemed to be lingering near him, unwilling to risk it, and now—

Now he's caught in a narrow channel behind a cluster of masked gossipers, a table, a wall, an unoccupied fainting chair, and Nell. Behind her, a couple is not waiting for the music to attach at the mouth and block the escape route. He'd have preferred the onion breath.

"Fuck off," he hisses, even though there's nowhere for her to fuck off to.

mingling

[sulahnan]

Her look of I'm a Marcher, you know doesn't translate well through the mask, so she gives up on it in favor of looking for the woman in yellow.

"Which one?" Does gold count as yellow? Probably not. What about mustard? If limited to sunshine yellow, or buttercup yellow, there's still a handful to choose from.

for yseult.

[cozen]

It’s a good kiss, mechanically speaking, between two people who know what to do with their mouths and hands to convey genuine interest. But on Bastien’s end, the apparent sincerity is countered, maybe, just a little, by the fact that he’s very quietly humming “Merry Widow of Wycome“ along with the band the entire time.

This is rote, is what he means to convey, or: we’re both professionals here with a side of but I am starting to get bored.

When it stops, and he stops, he steps back far enough to look Yseult in the eye through her mask—his own eyes smiling and perfectly sharp behind his—for just a moment before he puts a hand on her shoulder, another to his heart, and lets his knees buckle.

He will fall down if she lets him.

[hassaran]

She doesn't, but it's a near thing. She assumes that he is going to catch himself right up until the last possible second, at which point she moves swiftly to hook an arm beneath his shoulder and snatch a grip in the side of his coat with the other. He still almost takes her over with him, skirts thankfully loose enough to allow her to crouch, a foot sliding back across the well-polished floors, to arrest his swoon.

"I should've let you," she says, the hint of strain in her tone outweighed by the laugh, "You clown."

Karoliina | ota

[kalt]

around
She is not inconspicuous. She towers over most of the guests in a way that can only garner attention. She does, however, look like she belongs at this party; the money and the posture to mingle easily among the horny nobility of the lowlands. She likes the general idea of this party, but all of the soft people surrounding her fills her with amusement that show on her mouth. Her relentless, snooty laughter both intrigues and repels. She is not inconspicuous, but that can have its uses.

She sets herself up on a loveseat, lounging with whatever drink has been placed in her hand. She gestures with it, more than drinks it, to make herself look more easy-going and a part of the party. She brings in and pushes guests out from the seat next to her. Thirsty women and arrogant men, letting them talk to her until they get their kiss which she always makes worthwhile. While they talk, she asks them about the other partygoers. Who is that, who made that dress, are they married. As if she's just another lady after gossip and a new tailor and new toy.

a lead
From her little throne, she motions for you to come sit with her, her long arm spread possessively over the back of the loveseat.

hotter and heavier

[ she's not discriminating, can be as little as a handwave to followup on later, I'm not actually that in to writing smut o7 ]

marcoulf, ota

[esquive]

wallflower

He is in this, as with a half dozen others, the last resort. Behind the mask - something feathered in dark blues and rust colors -, he might move easily enough between clusters of partygoers, but Marcoulf's real applicable skill this evening is knowing how to stand just to hand of someone important without being obvious. He's spending the night trailing Baron Hounsford, drifting delicately after him as the man drifts from one laughing conversation to the next. He's not meaning to speak to the Baron himself; Marcoulf's just there in case every other thing goes wrong tonight and someone needs to intercede between the Baron and a knife.

It makes for an evening of half finished conversations, of nursing glasses at the margins of more interesting ones, and rare intersections with other members of the Watch who he might share a long suffering look with as, a handful of paces away, Hounsford delivers what is evidently one of five of his favorite jokes to one of the other party goers.

kissin'

He knows the Merry Widow of Wycome almost as well as a few of the suitors the song do (when it is being sung, and not played by a dashing string quartet and drum). It has the sort of tempo that's good for marching - and presumably, doing other things - to, and is filthy enough in both Trade and translation that it's a popular thing to holler while in rank and file.

The reminder of mud and tired feet is incongruous and funny enough that it should strip the whole situation of its awkwardness. It mostly does. The anonymity does the rest, which maybe accounts for the unwelcome twist of his mouth when the music starts and he turns to find himself nearest someone he's certain should be familiar.

le wildecard
[etc, etc]

I do what I want!!

[notched]

She comes to stand with him when she grows tired of being touched by people. She's shared her suspicions about some of the guests with those better disposed to subtly in this kind of situation, and now she just wants to leave. The millionth round of the Merry Widow of Wycome makes her sigh with actual exhaustion. Were these absurd nobles really going to do this all night?

Even when the ditty has finished, she touches his hair lightly with her fingertips, leaning her forehead against his to avoid having to pay attention to the room any longer, her eyes closed.

wysteria, ota; comedy threadjacks welcome

[heirring]

a linen closet.

Wysteria Poppell is not kissing anyone this evening, thank you very much. Not that she is opposed to the whole concept, of course. It seems like a perfectly delightful evening if what you're into is lightly transgressive anonymous liplocking and boring conversation mostly filled with double entendres in preparation for the former. However seeing as she is not on top of being fundamentally useless when it comes to thwarting an assassin - more or less only along for the sake of being able to talk less reputable Watch members through the door -, she may as well retire for the evening into comfort and quiet.

Which more or less means Wysteria's holed up with a cheese platter in a linen closet. Her feet are up on a basket of laundry. A bottle of wine is conveniently near at hand. Her mask has been pushed up to the top of her head so as not to impede on her consumption of food or drink. Best of all, there is a fat orange cat for company who has since tottered out of its nest of freshly washed bedsheets and tablecloths to be pet behind the ears.

There are worse ways to spend a party.

[sulahnan]

In lieu of the tap tap tap of a polite knock, there is a loud whumph and the muffled sounds of giggling from the other side of the door. And then Athessa stumbles in, handsy masked party-goer in tow. Clearly, they were seeking somewhere more private, but upon seeing who else is in the closet, the elf turns and shoves her partner of the minute back outside and closes the door between them.

She turns to address Wysteria, doing a parody of a nobleman's bow and accent. "Lady Poppell."

closed to yseult.

[staysail]

"Heard about the rules?"

Of course she'll have. Yseult is difficult to surprise. Darras could count on one hand the amount of times he's truly, grandly, surprised her. Not mundane day-to-day surprises, doing the wash before she could surprise, bringing home a bird with a broken wing surprise, dropping a hat on her head in the market surprise. Big grand surprises. Most of them are not anything to be relived.

Maybe it's a little surprise, the way he steps into place right behind her. They're not here together. Then again, everyone's in a mask. Why not stand together, especially given what's to follow.

Darras' mask fits well with the blue of the coat she'd picked out to him. A deep blue, the blue of deep night that touches the edges of an evening sky. A hint of silver threading within like the seams of starlight. Curved, over the eyes, more like the ocean there. He smiles down at Yseult, who is looking resolutely forward, beautiful and unassailable and irresistible. He doesn't touch a hand to the small of her back like he wants. The gesture is there anyways, hovering, invisible.

They're still in an antechamber, waiting for the doors to be opened. The murmur of the other guests around them making polite conversation does little to hide the sound of the music that is beyond the great carved double-doors, leading to the next room. Two footmen stand at either side, waiting for a signal, to let them in to whatever awaits.

Darras, in Yseult's ear, says, "I heard it's debauchery in there. Or that's what he hopes for, at least."

[hassaran]

"Of course," Yseult replies, head turned incrementally to direct the words to Darras. They're quiet but even so she is in-character, the unusual edges of her accent filed off into generic upper-class Marcher. "That's why we're here, isn't it?"

Her dress is silver in some lights but champagne-gold beneath the candelabra and the torches, swept across by dark blue lace netting. The mask she chose from the table is of a similar shape and color to his, simpler than many. She tugs the corner of hers almost like a tip of the hat, as if just noticing the match, and smiles. "Perhaps we'll meet at the right moment and find out."

A gong sounds, and the footmen move to open the doors. Yseult winks, and flows forward with the crowd into the ballroom.

closed to ilias;

[sarcophage]

Leander materializes from the confusion of bodies. Sculpted of silk and feathers, pale green and white, the shape of moth's wings spreads across his face, the fickle grey of his eyes leaning green with them. Striking, above his otherwise dark attire.

At once insinuating himself closer than he needs to be without the Merry Widow to guide them, he murmurs, "Enjoying yourself?" Sweet champagne breath, a rosy glow of indulgence, lips that certain telltale pink.

Companionably, he straightens the fabric at Ilias's shoulder, adjusts his collar without asking. He's always careful with alcohol in public, taking only small tastes at a time, but this has been a long party, and anyone looking might easily blame the glass in his hand.

[libratus]

Ilias has not had so much to drink he doesn't see the flush on the other man's skin, nor the too-familiar shade of his lips. Out of place, perhaps, but the glimpses he's caught of Leander before this moment have been quick, cautious things, poles repelling at a distance.

"I have been to worse parties." Most, he tries to escape; this one, for at least a few fleeting moments, has been an escape in itself. The tug of fingers at his collar (Leander's, others before it) is reminder enough of that.

But the Merry Widow isn't playing now (yet). The time between that moment and this seems to be shrinking as fast as the space between them. He draws an unsteady breath, pasted over with a hasty smile -- but doesn't back away.

"And you?"