closed.

[cozen]

WHO: Bastien, Athessa, Alexandrie, Darras, John, Marcoulf, Petrana, Yseult
WHAT: A small apology tour slash charm offensive.
WHEN: Vaguely Drakonis
WHERE: Val Royeaux
NOTES: OOC post.

Background: Riftwatch is in Val Royeaux to make it very clear that they support the Orlesian military and Exalted March and definitely do not condone desertion or harbor deserters. This is necessary because someone in Riftwatch (Bastien) helped someone in Orlais (Vincent Suchet) who was harboring deserters, including, nearly, the son of the Baron and Baronness Auvray. They take a lot of pride in their family's history of valiant military feats and were on the verge of being horribly embarrassed by the whole ordeal before they managed to turn it around and paint it as an insurrectionist conspiracy that tried and failed to lure their son away from his duty. Enough circumstantial connections to Riftwatch came up during Suchet's quick and dramatic trial that the rumor mill went a little wild, so now everyone is here to tame it!

Except Bastien, who's here to put his fake printer name back on and tell some solid lies to the Chancellor's office when they ask him what the deal is, to ensure there's no real non-gossip trouble, and then to have a little bit of a meltdown. 👉👉

Comments

the city, family visits, whatever;

[cozen]

The absence of so many men and women of fighting age is noticeable, to anyone who knows what the city feels like when there's not a war on, but Val Royeaux is still bustling, especially now, when it's finally beginning to thaw and brighten. The port is as busy as it's ever been, the Grand Cathedral finally occupied by a Divine and settled into a brisk wartime routine, the Grand Royeaux Theater beginning the first of a whole season of productions that nod toward the military and religious interests of the population, the Belle Marché swarming like a kicked anthill, if the ants were brightly colored.

But the energy has an edge. New lists of the dead from the front occasionally prompt someone to break down in the street. Press gangs have been reemployed, and now and then violence breaks out around a workshop or tavern where men are being collected. It's contained, always, with the threat of invasion and the righteousness of the cause pulling the population back from edge of the sort of riots that erupted during the War of the Lions. But no one has forgotten that that's an option—not the commoners, and not the nervous local nobility and bureaucrats, who attempt to modulate the frequency of hangings to often enough to keep order without crossing into often enough to spark outrage.

Riftwatch's representatives are housed in a relatively modest, narrow two-story home left vacant by a sympathetic family who decided to go somewhere further from the coast until the grippe has played itself out. They have two and a half days before the parade. Most of that time is devoted to assisting a local charity drive organized by Verain Trémaux. He's a tiny old man, seemingly stooped under the weight of his own hat, who was well-decorated for his own military service decades ago and now has the ear (and purses) of a number of people Riftwatch needs to impress. He issues orders to carry donations to homes of dead soldiers like he's back in the cavalry. But before and after and between, there's time to wander.

OOC | This is for doing whatever you want, make-your-own-top level style, or just for your background flavor info during the other things.

surly teen home repair

[esquive]

"Might you bring the light any closer?"

It's a tricky proposition. The cupboard is already quite tight and Marcoulf has just enough beard to make bringing a candle into a narrow space alongside it seem distinctly Ill Advised, but the shadow of the cupboard lip and his own arm is currently casting over precisely where he needs to drive a second nail up to secure the cupboard's new top slab. And while their stern faced teenaged overseer may have withdrawn for the time being, he doesn't fancy the idea of the girl coming back to find Riftwatch can't figure out how to work around a little shortage of light.

He's already smashed his finger once. May as well give catching fire a try.

interviews;

[cozen]

As Orlais hasn't quite reached the levels of literacy and high-speed printing necessary to support daily or weekly or even monthly papers, quarterly periodicals are the best anyone can do for quick written publicity. But Orlais has plenty of those, and two in particular are keen for a word:

OOC | Pick your poison. Or pick both!

[cozen]

There's Laurens Joubert, who edits and prefaces the (much) longer essays and arguments in Empire Alone: Thoughts on Foreign Nations and the Theater of Politics by Orlais' Foremost Thinkers. (Foremost because they are in his quarterly, of course.) He invites Riftwatch to speak with him in his office near the University, which is so flooded with books that an avalanche seems imminent. It might be a trap. But he starts off gently enough, with, "How are you finding Kirkwall?"

[ipseite]

“It is a unique city,” Petrana answers, thoughtful, an observation difficult to dispute from any angle. “It has been much of my exposure to Thedas in itself, and so I must appreciate its—cosmopolitan makeup, particularly as I am myself engaged as a diplomat.”

[cozen]

Joubert hums, looking at the paper on his desk for a moment before he looks up at her with the same quality of attention one might give an interesting piece of statuary. How lifelike.

"It is an interesting use for you," he says. The you, perhaps, feels plural. "Do you find politics here similar to—where you are from?"

[cozen]

—or there's Adeleisa d'Arlesans, whose contributions to The Lady Huntress have historically been winking descriptions of eligible bachelors described as if they are being tracked by naturalists and hunters through the streets of Val Royeaux. She insists on following a few representatives along while they work for Trémaux, and hasn't tromped along behind them for very long before she asks, "Why did you break off from the Inquisition, exactly?"

[staysail]

"The Inquisition was a wonderful father." Giannis di Vecchio Carlo, Antivan merchant princeling, is more than happy to answer. He is of a small house, of middling power, which he will confess, openly. And has.

To the opposite is the rumor that the family di Vecchio Carlo is of distant relation to Bonaiuto Cellini, the powerful Antivan merchant prince. Mere rumor, of course, and no one would have heard that from Giannis, who is a man who smiles both easily and naturally. See this charming smile that he gives to Adeleisa d'Arlesans? This smile is a very good example of his skill.

"Is it impolite in Orlais to ask if you like your father? If it is not, then I am asking."

[cozen]

Adeleisa d'Arlesans may not be someone who cares very much about what is impolite, so her grin should probably not be taken as permission to go around asking everyone in Orlais what they think about their fathers.

But she says, "I like him better at a distance," with an arched eyebrow that suggests she knows she's being led somewhere and has decided to allow it.

sexy getting ready song;

[cozen]

[ The home they're staying in isn't made for quite this many adults to be in residence at once. So there are places to hide (if you want) for the less modest bits of getting dressed for the evening, but for the rest it's natural to congregate in the sitting room to share boot and buckle polish or hair pins and use its oversized mirror.

Foreigners are exempt from good manners, the charming things, but Bastien is coming at anyone who has or intends to fake an Orlesian accent—except Madam d'Asgard, who is noble enough for a mask and for knowing how to do her own face—with a case of cosmetics not far removed from face paint. ]

Hold still. It won't hurt.

[ OOC | This is just meant as a spammy (LOOK AT THE BRACKETS) all-hands group thread because I decided it would be fun. Feel free to skip entirely or have your character come in and out of the room or whatever though. ]

[ipseite]

( petrana, who does possess a mask (the things one acquires when dealing with orlesians in the marches), hesitates not for reasons of squeamishness or bullheadedness but an inclination to defer to wider experience; she has dealt with orlesians, but for the most part, not in orlais. )

Which of these will look less absurd?

( —the mask in her hand or the paint in his, and she means: appropriate with the outfit that she's halfway into, having got as far as her kirtle before giving into the sitting room and company and bringing with her the outer parts of a gown that could have been mistaken for one of alexandrie's if not for the solid seven or eight inches height difference between the two women.

either are somewhat absurd, because orlais, but presumably one of them will draw less commentary. )

[sulahnan]

[ She can't help Petrana, partly because she's hopeless in this department but mostly because she's fending off Bastien, saying to him: ]

Maybe I'll believe you if you say that when you're not aiming a pointy thing at my eyes.

[cozen]

[ Bastien jabs said pointy thing at Athessa's eyebrow, just to tease, but for a second afterwards his expression is a little sterner and pointed. Stillness is a skill. No flinching. Etc.

But it's only a second, and it's only a little sterner, and then he's contemplating Petrana and her question. ]

I do not believe you could look absurd if you tried, Madame. [ Granted, his absurdity gauge is calibrated for Orlais. She could put live birds in her hair and he would, at worst, think she was several years late for the trend. Still, he's pretty sure the birds would automatically become dignified by association. ] But I have not read the Panopoly in a while—Alexandrie, [ called into another room if necessary, ] will anyone feel intruded upon by cream and a blue sapphire?

party;

[cozen]

The Baron and Baroness Auvray's estate lies so far on the outskirts of the city that it's nearly disqualified from membership. Given how many of the city's wealth and/or ennobled were invited, the trek out requires joining a stream of carriages that nearly qualifies as a traffic jam. But the land is picturesque, still coated in thick enough snow to avoid looking too muddy and trampled under the feet of the soldiers while they show off formations that wouldn't be feasible in a more urban courtyard. Excuse enough to cover for the fact that this entire exercise is certainly a personal favor. That they've invited Riftwatch, given the rumors of their involvement in the matter, seems a confidently charitable offer to call the whole thing a misunderstanding.

The parade itself is straightforward. Rousing, if patriotic fervor and triumphant music are your thing, or dull and unpleasantly cold if they aren't.

Indoors, the air is warm and the music and patriotism are both somewhat more subdued. But the competition to dance with those in uniform is fierce, and most clusters of conversation are never able to drift too far for too long before someone turns them back to the war with anecdote or a backhanded rebuke for frivolity. The relative austerity of the Auvrays' furnishings and the simple creativity of the shortage-avoiding finger foods are praised with a sincerity that promises at least some people will be returning home to throw out their decor and replace it with simpler lines–for the war, you know–and upbraid their cooks.

The presence of Riftwatch's representatives–even a rifter–isn't as much of a curiosity as it might have been a few years ago. But it is one of the first times since its separation from the Inquisition that the organization has been so accessible to the Orlesian aristocracy and its more rapacious social scavengers. The competition for their time, attention, and anecdotes is only a little tamer than the competition to dance with the most handsome lieutenant. But that attention is accompanied, as always, by little traps–invitations to misspeak, to be too blunt, to put a foot out of line, to scratch the whitewash that's been brushed over the scandal–and comments on the weather or the tides or the fabric of a jacket that feel vaguely like coded insults or warnings.

OOC | Another make your own top level and do whatever you want thing.

champagne shell game | athessa ota

[sulahnan]

I. Mingling

The drinking competition organized by Eshal may have been many months ago by now, but Athessa is holding tight to her hard-learned lesson and not allowing herself to get drunk, even if the party-goers around her hold no such reservations. It's early yet, and she's mostly sticking within earshot of John just so she can eavesdrop on his expert (or expert enough) handling of any given conversation partner.

Every time her hands are empty, someone is handing her a glass, and she thanks them graciously, and either deposits it on another passing drink tray or upends it into a decorative plant. She only takes a sip every once in a while, when whoever gives her the drink happens to also want a conversation.

II. Dancing

One of the people who procured a drink for her and then expected to talk a while happens to be one of the handsome lieutenants everyone else is striving to dance with. It was bound to happen; two sought after dance partners winding up dancing together. Only of course, of course it isn't one of the dances that was covered in Bastien's etiquette lessons. Even longer ago than that drinking contest.

Drinks offloaded on someone else, the lieutenant takes her by the hand and leads her to the dance floor, and after a brief moment spent wide-eyed and looking for someone more equipped for this she has to face him with a sheepish smile. Her heels are tall enough to make it so she doesn't have to teeter on tip-toes too much to speak closer to his ear, admitting with what she hopes is endearing trepidation:

"I don't know this dance."

"Don't worry," he says, apparently charmed as he places a hand on Athessa's corseted waist, the band having yet to start playing. "Just follow my lead."

III. What-have-you

[wildcard?]

ii.

[cozen]

Bastien is well on his way to being not fine, but he isn't there yet. He's listening to the Lady Dufour's description of the home redecoration her friend has put on hold to donate to war widows instead—one of several people listening, really, so it isn't that rude when his attention wanders to the dance floor.

When he catches Athessa's eye around the edge of her lieutenant, he gives her a smile that's equal parts proud and amused, then holds one hand up to quickly demonstrate the particular position of the fingers that traditionally accompanies a moment of sweeping flourish at points during the dance.

[sulahnan]

His pride takes a little of the edge off her nervousness, which lets her meet his amusement with a quick yikes face when the lieutenant can't see it. Then it's just a matter of incorporating what Bastien demonstrated into her movements.

"Are you sure you don't know this dance?" The lieutenant asks, all twinkly eyes and perfect posture. Athessa looks at him under an arched brow.

"Am I not stepping on your feet enough?" She asks, too soon for her brain to consider that maybe she shouldn't say that. "Sorry." His laughter, melodious and rich, drowns out her apology, though. Earnest, like he's positively delighted by a witty joke, or a trick the host's dog just did.

Next chance she gets, she looks for Bastien again, using a combination of her limited bard sign (the closest thing she can get to broadcasting an endless stream of question marks) and mouthing I don't know what I'm doing. It's more a request for reassurance than rescue, though if she doesn't get the former she'll settle for trying to make him smile until she has to pay attention to her partner again.

Darras Rivain || ota

[staysail]

i- mingling.
It's all playing a game--thus the name, the Game--and like any game, it's more fun when you're cheating. That's true for Darras at least. Truer still for Prince Giannis di Vecchio Carlo, who holds court in one of the parlors just off the dance floor. He's clever, they say, and he's funny. Laughter bursts out among those lucky enough to have gotten a seat among his company.

"Tell me," a woman in a complicated pale green dress drawls, as the latest bout of laughter dies away. She has edged closer to Darras, taking up seats as they have been reluctantly vacated, leapfrogging her way across the room. Now she is right beside him, close enough to press one gloved hand against his shoulder. "What is it like to be in the company of these Rifters? We have heard such stories. Are they very human? As human as me?"

Darras' face-paint might as well be a mask, for how steady he stays. He presses one hand over the woman's. "As human as an Orlesian? Madame. Please. A Rifter is as human as... let's say a Ferelden. They walk on two legs and sometimes use a fork."

She laughs, swats his shoulder playfully, and leaves her hand pressed there, against the white and floral pattern of his jacket.

Any other member of Riftwatch passing by, he tries to catch their eye, to bring them in to the conversation with him. Still very much in character, of course-- "Let's ask my friend there--hello! Come in, please. These very nice people would like to know: how do you find the decor in the Gallows? I said rustically austere. I'm hoping the Auvrays bequeath us their estate, if we act sad enough."

ii- dancing.
This isn't Darras' style. It is the style of an Antivan princeling, so during the dancing, he puts on as good a show as he can, and trades out dance partners frequently, giving anyone who wants to be seen with someone of Riftwatch the chance to be seen with someone of Riftwatch. Even when he doesn't know the steps, he's charming enough to get away with it, asks to be taught, makes a great and courteous show of learning.

Even when he manages to break away from the dance floor, he maintains his character. And if he has chance to cross paths with another member of Riftwatch, he keeps to the pretense--jovial, cheerful, just happy to be here representing the organization that they both work for. Even someone really looking wouldn't catch him slipping.


iii- outside.
There's a small walled garden that is open to attendees, a place to catch your breath in the cool fresh air. Free from the warm confines of the ballroom, Darras--or Giannis di Vecchio Carlo, if you're Orlesian--is sitting on one of the benches without a topcoat. The fine trim lines of his white and floral-patterned frock coat are relaxed, slightly, as he's sitting slumped and sprawled, with his shirt unbuttoned a little closer to the line of untoward, but still fine enough to get away with it.

And he's smoking. He'll offer it, wordlessly, to any member of Riftwatch that comes his way. To any others, he slips back into his charm, makes a joke of his manners, tries to get them to move on.

iv. anything.

i. let's mingle

[sulahnan]

Perhaps not the ideal member to be walking past at just that moment, but it happens to be Athessa all the same. She's lost track of John somewhere, and ducking into a parlor with someone equally as adept at spinning a yarn suits her fine with one particular lieutenant vying for her attentions.

Darras seems in a similar situation.

"The decor?" She crosses the parlor floor slowly, playing off what is actually inexperience with walking in heels as taking the question into serious consideration. She smooths down the front of her embroidered red (she's been told) skirt and adjusts the lay of her hair over her shoulder, not that it will even remotely will hide her ears. "I dunno that I'm the right person to ask, but...sure, it's austere, and...rustic. Maybe kind of brutalistique? If that's a word?"

[staysail]

The Orlesian woman makes a noise of appreciation at the word. "Brutalistique," she repeats, trying it out for herself. "I adore it. Mademoiselle, I must hear more. You must join us. Please."

She scoots a little to the left on her sofa, making space for Athessa and getting herself a little closer to Darras in the process. She has to press her hand to his shoulder, of course--for leverage, committing some of her weight there--and he bears the imposition without comment. The smile he shoots Athessa might have a kind of gratefulness to it, if you're looking for it.

"Of course," he says, easily, "the mademoiselle would know the word for what it is. My friend has an eye for architecture, you know. And besides: true brutalistique is what we have in the Gallows. But we love it, don't we?"

iii.

[cozen]

Coming to a stop beside the bench, Bastien answers the wordless offer with equally wordless raised eyebrows, takes the smoke, and returns it after a drag and a half.

"Monsieur di Vecchio Carlo," he says. The walls have ears. He knows where most of them are, but not with enough certainty that he's going to say Darras Rivain out loud until they've left the property. Less blatant: "You might have done well in my line of work, you know."

iii.

[hassaran]

Yseult has studied her approach, naturally, both before she exited the ballroom and during her turn about the gardens, a meandering path designed not to look as if he is her goal. The place she stops is carefully chosen to ensure that only her back and maybe his feet can be seen from the house, shielding from view as she lets her mask dangle around her neck, removes one of her long gloves, and takes the cigarette from his hand, inhaling slow and exhaling even slower.

"You're even better at this than I thought you'd be," she says. She has kept her distance all night, drifting through his orbit occasionally but never stopping long enough to speak. She takes another drag before handing it back, gaze slid over the floral coat and white trousers, the shirt unbuttoned the perfect degree of too-far. "And you certainly look the part."

backroom drama;

[cozen]

Bastien wouldn't have come if he hadn't thought he could keep his shit together, and for the first few hours it seems perfectly feasible. Spotting the Auvrays across the room only makes him feel a dulled sort of condescension, maybe closer to pity. The Baron has circles beneath his eyes too dark even for a mask and cosmetic to disguise, and their boy, in his uniform, seems hollowed out and made of wood. He's an artist. Vincent's friend. Bastien doesn’t need to lift a finger to drive in a wedge.

But as the evening winds down, precisely loud and distinct enough to cut through the indistinct babble and reach his ear, he hears familiar beats and phrasing in someone's version of the apocryphal Towers Age thief whose belief he was immune to punishment, having already lost both hands and having none left for anyone to chop off, inspiring him to be impossibly brazen until he inevitably lost his life instead.

When Bastien looks for the source—not just then, but a good five minutes later, turning to hand his glass to a passing elf in the lesser masks that mark the Auvrays' servants—she's waiting for him, ready to meet his eyes. The inobtrusive splay of her fingers and the angle of her chin while she casually adjusts the decorative comb in her hair could mean, depending on the context, an offer of truce or confirmation of a settled debt. Now we’re even.

He smiles. It's the faintly puzzled smile of a man who doesn't know why a stranger is looking at him, who might be flattered by the attention if he were less cautious about misinterpreting its intent. His turn away from her is bashful. He finds a new glass of wine and someone to ask about the Serault glass in the windows.

But an hour later, under the watch of a dozen painted and sculpted faces in a dimly-lit gallery several turns from the ballroom, he's taking a swipe at the young woman’s head with a fire poker. Better prepared, she has a dagger and a knife. It’s a quiet exchange, in their soft-soled shoes, respective weapons scraping and sliding more often than they clank, statuary and furniture carefully undisturbed. There’s a kinship to their rhythm. It could almost be a dance.

She started it, arguably, by striking first; he started it, arguably, by following her here. Inarguably: she's a younger, faster, better armed, more recently practiced, crisp where he's ragged, and good where he’s decent. If she weren't holding back, he would probably already be bleeding out on the floor.

OOC | One thread svp, but if so many people want in that it becomes sitcom levels of multiple people coincidentally wandering into the same random room, that's fine and hilarious.

[hornswoggle]

While John had considered the possibility of finding someone up to something untoward in the lesser traveled sections of this estate, he hadn't expected a fight. Much less a fight that included one of their party. (He'd meant to find servants, because surely there's something worth knowing if he can just ask the right questions—) He recognizes the woman trying to take Bastien's head off only vaguely; she'd been milling through the crowd. John hadn't found her noteworthy at the time, but apparently that impression had been wrong.

Paused in the doorway, John considers for what feels like an age but in reality is only a few heartbeats whether or not it's bad manners to interrupt. It probably is. John regrets the absence of his sword; he's better with it after so much practice, where his dagger is a far riskier proposition. It's better than nothing, but it remains tucked out of sight for the moment.

"Enough," he says, louder than actually necessary, without any expectation that it will have a lasting effect on either combatant. But it'll at least give him another moment to make a decision about how he wants to insert himself in the midst of what might be literally nothing to worry about. (But probably is something to worry about, based on first impressions.)

[sulahnan]

Louder than actually necessary turns out to be loud enough to cover the click-clacking of Athessa's stupid shoes as she catches up. Every time she thinks she's gotten the hang of how to walk in heels, she steps wrong and rolls her ankle, or she loses her balance and stumbles into some well-to-do Orlesian to mixed response.

This time, she starts to lose her balance just as she's reaching the double doors to this room, one of which is already open to admit John, the other closed because why on earth would anyone need to open two doors that are each as wide as three Johns just to enter a room? And as she catches herself on that closed three-Johns-wide door, it swings in and pulls her with it until she slides to a stop on her knees, both hands gripping the door handle.

"Yes, enough," she giggles, making the split-second decision to lean into her clumsiness. Nobody's going to see a giggly, clumsy, supposedly-drunk elf as anyone to pay much mind to. At least, they won't if she can pull it off. "Put. Put those things away and come back to th'party. S'almost over and I--" At this point she staggers to her feet and none of the staggering needs much acting to seem genuine. "--I bet someone that I knew someone with a better mustache than someone else."