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

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

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:

Merry Widow of Wycome

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.

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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.]

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!]

( 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. ]

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.

"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.

( 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 ]

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.

It's not as startling as it should be. For form's sake, Mhavos pretends to be startled. "Ah." But he recognizes that voice, the firm, flat tone.

Laura, the odd little urchin. He shouldn't think of her that way-- from the way she acts, it's more reminiscent of the poor elves who were kept as pets-- but she reminds him of a character from a play he once read. The innocent urchin, guileless and unfamiliar with the world.

Now handing him a raspberry mousse, by the looks of it.

Gingerly, he takes the plate. "I assume you have already? Or am I testing for poison." A moment too late, he remembers that sarcasm and jokes aren't... the best tactic.

"I ate a different one," she answers patiently. The lack of bite marks should make that clear enough--though, she supposes, if she expected him to test the dessert, there would not be bite marks. "They have not been poisoned."

Or, if they have, it is going to take some time for the poison to act.

"Appreciated," he says, because it's easier than explaining. It's not quite cruelty, more like moral lassitude. Hardly the worst he's done.

He takes a small bite, and nods, consuming it almost demurely. "It's very nice. You should try it. Unfortunately, it lacks citrus."

"What is this one called?" she asks, choosing not to clarify that she ate a different tart, but of the same pinkish flavor. Mhavos has, inadvertently, become her best resource for learning these things, if only because he never seems surprised when she asks him.

Mhavos stares at the tart a moment, frowning. "I could guess the name in Orlesian-- Mousse à la framboise. But I never learned all the words for sweets in Trade, I'm afraid."

"Qu'est-ce que c'est, framboise?" she asks, since he says he only knows the words in Orlesian. That, she can work with, even if it provides little more in the way of context for her. And continuing in the same vein (and language), "The fruit on the top of it?"

"Yeah," Mhavos answers. His Orlesian is inevitably more casual, seeing as he didn't learn the majority of it from books. "This little thing. Famboise." He picks up the raspberry.

She nods, quiet for a moment, her gaze going beyond Mhavos to the party as a whole. It's a large room, among the largest and finest she's seen since she went to Cumberland, and it hums with activity. "Have you seen anything unusual?"

You know. The true mission.

"A few times," Mhavos says, unsure if it's less or more suspicious to slip into Orlesian. Who cares; he likes speaking the language. It's comfortable. "But it's a little difficult to tell if people are sneaking off to debase themselves or commit worse sins. I'd follow, but I don't want to play at the voyeur... or worse."

His voice drops low at the end. Clearly, he finds absolutely none of this titillating.

Laura finds it about as comfortable as any language, which is to say: minimally. It apparently suits Mhavos' mood, though, so she has no complaints.

"No," she agrees grimly. This is not a moment when she can actually look at the small space she's forced all of her discomfort into--but she can reference it, if only distantly. "That is not the primary objective."

Only a last-ditch attempt at completing the mission, if it must be.

"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.

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]

"No, but--" she's trying to argue and somehow slink out of his reach while boxed in by the other passengers and supplies. Both her plots to recuse herself are disrupted by the the most recent bump in the road that jostles her off center. She feels swept up in some kind of absurd play, and finds herself contemplating how difficult it wouldn't be to just jump out and walk back.

It would also just be easier to cut the mess off and start over. She'd always assumed somewhere in the back of her mind that's how she would tend to the problem, whenever she decided to tend to it. She didn't yet know what she would look like to herself if she let herself not-be-a-Hunter during the daylight hours, so she hadn't tried. Neither to manage the nest nor to build up a mental map of who she would be out of her armor.

"No one will take me for a lady," she says it in a tone of voice that implies he also knows this to be true, so why is he doing this to her!(!!)

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. ]

"No one will take you for anything else if you look correct." And if she wishes to escape him, she will have to climb over the side of the wagon and leap from it while its still moving.

She will take the comb with her when she goes, given how it sticks when he first applies it to the oiled ends of her hair.

She makes a face at him, the pinched and incredulous one that she makes at him often when they bicker. She has too many scars under neath all this armor, and too much muscle. Even her hands alone gave her away as literally any species but a Lady. Let alone her hair. Dead strands catch in the comb, twisting as they're pulled and crafting new knots as they tangle with one another.

"There's nothing for it."

He can try all he wants! It won't be done in time. The last time someone did this it was a nun and she was twelve, just as sullen and unappreciative.

In response, a low chiding noise. Don't be so petty, girl.

One hand turns over, gripping a fistful of her hair above the comb's snagging teeth. It's not a comfortable grip, but it's a fair buffer as he hacks away at the hair below it. He is stubborn as she is surly, and this is a simple (not easy) thing to commit to.

"Do you never see a brush? A bath?"

"Never," if you were indeed looking for petty.

It's not exactly the truth, but neither has she ever held a position in the world which required or cared for her tidiness. The expectation from the nuns had been just another tool in their arsenal of indoctrination; trying to make her into anything other than the dirty urchin she was. The Hunters hadn't cared in the slightest, and maybe being the ones to get their hands dirty while the Priest and Scholars hid themselves away in the Church Ward was a piece of their pride. Sneering at primly dressed Executioners was great fun, once upon a time.

If nothing else, she's not squawked once about how much she expects this process to hurt.

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

mhavos dalat | ota.

laura kint / ota

derrica | ota.

c.

i. (and maybe ii. who knows)

john silver | ota

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Julius, mostly open

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athessa | ota

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