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

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?"

[sulahnan]

"Oh yes," Athessa agrees, placing herself carefully in the freed spot on the sofa the way Alexandrie showed her hours earlier. So as not to crease the skirt, you see.

"It's a home away from home for some, and the only one others like myself have left. Oh, but you were talking about architecture, I don't mean to divert the conversation towards personal histories. I'd hate to bore dear Princey here, he's heard it before."

She adopts a self-conscious posture, with lifted shoulder and downward gaze. Another trick from Lexie, leaving breadcrumbs for the Orlesian woman to pick up.

"The statuary is very good, though, don't you agree?"

[staysail]

She's good. Darras has no idea that the cautious and delicate arrangement of her on the sofa is to preserve the fabric of the skirt. But he can see the way it casts her figure, like statue herself, the very image of a lady. It's a good trick.

"You could never bore me," he says, warmly. "Or anyone."

In fact the Orlesian woman is looking hard at Athessa now, her hand still pressed to Darras' shoulder. Clear interest is picked out on her face, keen and hunting.

"I have seen statues," she says. "I was born in a manor beside the grand sculpture garden in Val Royeaux. They are all about the city, but the best were placed within that garden, to be admired all together. What we do not have in Val Royeaux is interesting stories."

[sulahnan]

Despite how she'd protest the fact, pretending does come naturally to Athessa. It shows in her ability to look at Darras like they know each other far better than they actually do. A sidelong glance at him claiming she could never bore anyone, the kind of annoyed but bashful look you give a friend who is overselling you to a new acquaintance.

"Well," she begins, a faraway look in her eyes. Perhaps if she'd come here playing a character she'd have some grand tale perfectly designed to appeal to idle Orlesians, with plot arcs and symbolism and so-on. Darras probably has one of those. But Athessa is just Athessa, no fake name or fake background, just a nice dress and fake manners. "I guess you could say that I was born in a garden, myself..."

So she tells her own story, with some romantic alterations here and there, and gentle omissions elsewhere. No mention of Devigny or the trauma he caused, and enough of a mention of her family's disappearance to elicit a gasp from the woman and make her lean a little closer with some sympathy and even more curiosity. A fine line to walk when most Orlesians don't see elves in the right light for either, but she manages.

She's gauging her success on how firmly the woman's hand is planted on Darras' shoulder. Less firm, more successful. More firm, less so. The goal: a complete removal.

[staysail]

Athessa is rewarded for her efforts when the woman--transfixed by the tale, utterly gripped--removes her hand from Darras' shoulder at a crucial moment of the story. First she holds it just over her mouth, which is visible beneath the cutaway curve of her mask. She is too well-mannered to cover her mouth outright, so it hovers there. Then at a break in the tale, she moves her hand again, this time reaching for Athessa.

"You," she says, tremulously, "have suffered so. It is like something out of a story, but it happened, and it happened to you. To be so young, and so alone in the world... I cannot stand the thought of it."

She squeezes Athessa's hand between her own. Behind her mask, her eyes are large and full of sympathy. Darras, behind her, give Athessa a very small nod. There is a tinge of gratefulness to it. His shoulder, after all, is now free. He's also been listening: not just to the story but for the story beneath it, if there is one.

[sulahnan]

The story beneath the story is just her own, abridged: the death of a clan, a girl forced to fend for herself on the streets, then becoming a mercenary and joining Riftwatch. The story presented to the Orlesian, though, has a meaning to it that Athessa doesn't apply to her own life, at least not consciously.

"Fortunately, mademoiselle," A subtle compliment hidden beneath her inability to discern age, especially when hidden beneath mask and maquillage. "So long as I work with Riftwatch, I'll never be lonely. And doubly fortunate that it's thanks to Riftwatch that Princey and me became acquainted! You couldn't ask for a better friend."

[staysail]

"That's me," Darras says, dutifully, "a good friend."

He's all charming smiles as the woman looks between the two of them, clearly pleased by their friendship. Again, she squeezes Athessa's hands.

"You are so lucky to have found yourself among this company. I am sure of it. It, perhaps, goes beyond luck. Let us call it fate. The eye of the Maker upon you. To bring you to such a group such as this Riftwatch--to give you friends, yes, but to save you, and raise you from your upbringing to mingle among those of rank--"

"But that's just it," Darras interrupts, wisely sensing the path this will take. And he takes a cue from Athessa in her form of flattering address-- "You have hit upon it exactly, mademoiselle. The company of Riftwatch is for anyone, and for everything. There is beauty in that. We can all agree on this, I think."

[sulahnan]

"Just so," Athessa agrees, because they can all agree, and she does agree, etc. Though they're toeing a line here, where an Orlesian might be glad of someone lifting themselves out of the gutter, but perhaps not so glad of the idea that those raised persons are suddenly equal. Equal could mean a lowering of high standing, in order to meet whoever is rising. "It's as much for everyone as the University is. It offers a chance for bettering both oneself and the world."

Nailed it. Sometimes Val mentions things that are useful to know.

[staysail]

Bettering is the right road to take. The woman's face lights up, aglow with satisfaction. She squeezes once more at Athessa's hands and draws them close to her, with great familiarity.

"Have you been?" she asks, somewhat breathlessly. "Either of you? To the great University? I am very fond of it, and I make many donations to continue its work. As you say: a chance for betterment cannot be ignored. Is that not what war is? A fight for betterment?"

Darras loses just a mite of composure at that. Um. "It is a fight for many things," he hazards--not with any outward uncertainty. But he is thinking: Um.

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."

[staysail]

"Might have pleased my wife if I had." Maybe. It's hard to say. Darras takes the smoke back and takes a drag of his own, exhales with nearly a sigh. "But that's a true compliment. I'll remember it."

He has suspicions, mostly, as to the specificities of that line of work. Never asked and had it confirmed outright, but he's not an idiot. Closely related to his own, in some ways, that it feels a little familiar. Darras tugs at the collar of his shirt, loosing slightly the cravat he'd donned for the occasion. Not his usual garb, which is what helps.

"We used to make a game of it." Him and Yseult. Like Bastien, he doesn't name names. "I don't think I could keep it up for more'n a night. How do you manage?"

[cozen]

"Me?" he says—not to feign innocence, but to buy a moment, because no one has ever asked him that before, and to separate himself from the sea of con men and spies who undoubtedly would answer differently. "I don't know. An over-developed imagination? When I was a boy, I could pretend to be an elephant for days at a time." He contorts an arm, briefly, to lazily mime a trunk extending from the side of his head. "I suppose I never grew out of it."

There are other answers, most of them less pleasant. They don't even make it far enough into his head for him to have to stop himself from saying them.

"But I do not think it is a wife-pleasing occupation, generally," he adds. How many bards has he known to have married at all? Excluding the nobility trained in the art, of course, and the handful of commoner practitioners who practiced their way into wealthy widowhood. He only tries to tally for a moment before he hops ahead down the trail of that thought. "Is it very uncommon for your sort to be married?"

[staysail]

The elephant mime--small, but unexpected--gets a laugh out of him.

"We only had pirates, in Afsaana. S'ppose that's why I stopped there and never made it to elephant. If only. But, now. My sort, and marriage? I think you'd be surprised at how many of us are married. This is all somewhat of a secret, mind," a tip Darras gives with a tap on the side of his nose, light enough not to smudge the paint. "So see that you keep it to yourself. Pirates make for wonderful husbands."

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."

[staysail]

Darras smiles up at her as he takes back the cigarette. Much is made of women without their clothes on. Only a woman like Yseult can wear a glove, strip it off in one elegant gesture, leave their hand bare, and achieve the same effect as fully undressing. And only Yseult can achieve its fully effect--which is to say that if they weren't in a garden, Darras would stand up and take her hand and pull her close and kiss her, hard. It takes a great deal of willpower not to.

As it is, in the transfer, he lets his fingers graze her hand, all bare and pale and slender.

"You look more than the part." He flicks ash from the end of the cigarette, then puts it to his mouth to take a drag. A poor substitute for kissing her. "It's the sort of game we talked about. Going to some other country, pretending to be other people. Thought I should get some practice in."

[hassaran]

"You're a natural," Yseult says, watching him--and watching him watch her, too. She reaches for the glove on her other hand, going finger by finger slowly loosening its grip before tugging it off in one go. She folds them both together across a palm.

"Honestly," she presses, earnest, "You've done excellent work here. I think at least half that room is now in love with you. If I weren't a sensible married woman myself," this said in the soft Starkhaven accent she's been affecting, "I'd find it difficult to resist."

[staysail]

He watches the degloving closely, and flicks his gaze back up to her face only once it is off, when her Starkhaven accent comes back. With a grin, he takes that compliment, and scoots over on the bench to make space for her. A proper amount of space, should she decide to take it. Married woman that she is.

"I wish you couldn't resist. But I understand. What's your husband like, madame?"

[hassaran]

"It's a near thing," is said in her own voice, and she plucks the cigarette back out of his hands before joining him on the bench. She leaves that careful space between them, but reaches across it to offer the smoke back between two extended fingers. Red rings the paper, and she touches carefully at her lips with the back of her hand, checking the vibrant color.

She puts the accent back on to answer, one eye kept on the garden entrance "He's canny in business, and his workers admire and respect him. They were all sorry to see him go when he joined to the Exalted March. But he's a fine warrior, and I'm proud he's doing his part."

[staysail]

"Sounds the very model of a man. Looks perfect, if you're worried," and before he takes the smoke back Darras gestures to his own mouth so she'll know what he's on about. When he has the cigarette in hand again, he turns it this way and that, taking in the red of her lipprint. "What's it that you do, while he's away? Besides feeling proud."

[hassaran]

She smiles her thanks at his reassurance. "He is indeed. I pray for his success, of course, and for his swift return. It is quite hard to be without him, and his efforts for the cause are so very-- inspiring. I think of him often."

[staysail]

"And," which he says very seriously, as he lifts the cigarette to take another drag, lipprint at all, "which is his favorite character in Les Chats?"

[hassaran]

She laughs, quick and surprised and real. She answers in her own voice, tone teasing. "He claims it's Jeanne des Points, but I don't believe him. I think it's actually Growl-Tigre, the pirate cat."

[staysail]

Pleased to have gotten that laugh out of her, and at its reality, Darras grins. This grin is his own, too, even under the paint. It's enough that he reaches into his frock coat and fishes out a flask. He holds it out to her as a reward, as he puts the cigarette back to his lips.

"I've got it on good authority that he loves Jeanne des Points. The dancing, madame. It's very good. You can't disagree."