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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. 👉👉

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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?"

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?"

"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?"

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."

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.

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.

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."

"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."

"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.

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.

There's a split second where Athessa's expression freezes, the best she can do to keep from breaking entirely. The mask must stay. But behind the mask is a big ol' yikes.

"A...A war against darkspawn could...be considered betterment of the world," she says, somewhat haltingly at first. But she seems to be getting some traction, maybe. "Ultimately I think it's a fight for the continuation of life itself."

Yikes yikes yikes!

"Life is better if it continues," Darras agrees, picking up that thread quickly before the woman can say anything. Having opted for the currently stylish facepaint favored in Orlais, he doesn't have the protection of a mask. He has to fight to keep his face neutral, composed. He has to not look at Athessa directly.

"Oh, yes," the woman says, talking right over anything else he might have said, "but that is not exactly what I mean, yes? I speak not only of this present war, but of war itself. The greater concept. One who wins the war is one who determines the betterment. The development of the society."

"In case you haven't noticed," Athessa says, composure snapping like a dry twig and springing her up out of her seat. "It isn't betterment to the ones who lose those wars."

And now she's on her feet, feeling a rage she didn't even know was waiting just under the surface. Clenching her hands into fists, but looking like she realizes just how ill-advised it would be to cause this particular scene. Athessa breathes deep in through her nose, and forces her fingers to de-claw and smooth her dress again.

"Forgive me, I must have had too much wine." She turns and briskly walks out and turns whichever direction leads away from the crowds. The garden, maybe.

The Orlesian woman puts her newly-released hands to her mouth--not touching, hovering over the lower ridge of her half-mask. "Mademoiselle," she begins, a note of shock coloring her tone--but by then, Athessa has turned and walked off, cutting away from the lurid colors of the partygoers and the music that is still carrying on, bright and loud, as the dancers turn on the floor.

The woman turns to Darras, her mouth drawn into a frown. "There was no cause," she says, somewhat stiffly, "for that--if she cannot hold her wine--"

She reaches for her own glass and takes a quick sip to fortify herself. Darras does as well, his eyes following Athessa until she disappears past the edge of his vision. Then he turns back to carry on the conversation.

Not much later, he's followed Athessa, as indirectly as possible, so as to not look as if he's following her. She might be difficult to find, besides, but when the way she'd gone terminates at a door out to the garden, he ducks out as well. The night air is cool and perfumed heavily with flowers. The season is wrong for them to be growing naturally. They were brought here, and set into the planters so as to look like they're growing. Darras, with two wine glasses, wanders through them, giving a smile to the strangers that he meets, looking for Athessa.

She's not hard to find, sitting on a garden bench with her shoes in her hand. Even though the lawn has been specially made to be as unlike the natural state of soil in the soggy season, most seem keen to spare their soles the indignity of getting smudged, so stay clear of the grass.

It's a peaceful little getaway for social pariahs.

Athessa turns upon hearing someone's approach, and smiles ruefully when she sees that it's Darras.

"And I was doing so well, too."

Darras returns that smile, a few clicks closer to kind on the scale. Well. "Could have done worse. It's a small comfort made greater by the magnitude of the self-control involved in choosing to walk away. Second comfort--"

He holds one of the glasses out to her. This one has been overfilled, past the point of decency and portion size.

"Might as well make good on the excuse you gave her."

The rue stays as she takes the glass in hand and looks at it like it's a glass of foul tasting medicine.

"What a time to have quit drinking," She sets the drink down on the bench beside her, and slides it about an inch further away. A small, silent signal that he's welcome to take it back if he doesn't want it to go to waste.

And congratulations, Darras, you get to be a test subject for her new excuse, since apparently people expect you to defend your opinions when you simply say you don't like something.

"Though maybe I shouldn't be trying to better myself anyway, after that."

Not one to waste, Darras resists snapping the glass up again and takes a sip from the glass that he's holding first. He's been careful here. Among neutral company he can afford a bit of drink.

"If it bothers you, might say that now is the perfect time to be bettering yourself. Can't climb out of a hole unless you fall into a hole first, yeah? But no one ought to be asking you to compromise too much of yourself," he offers, in mild opposition. "Not when met with a truly ignorant opinion such as that."

"But if I don't fall into a hole in the first place, I don't have to climb out," is her admittedly somewhat confused reply. There's any number of things he could mean, when double-talk is the lingua franca at this party.

"How do you do it? Keep up a civil conversation with someone you disagree with?" She can make attempts with people she's not trying to impress, with middling success, but when she has to make a good impression? And worse still, making a good impression to someone who thinks elves are naturally less than people. "I don't know if I'm good enough at pretending to agree with them."

Darras' smile takes on a wry tint. "I don't," he says, a gentle correction. "I'm used to settling my conversational disagreements with a bit more dramatics. Ask my wife if you don't believe me. If I'd have been in your seat? I might not have had the sense or the control to walk myself away."

And it had meant something to her. Without asking, he knows that much. It was plain. He looks down into his wine glass and gives it a little swirl.

"I'm keeping it together by playing a part. That's easy. You can pretend to be someone else for a bit. Some're better at it than others, and some of the parts go on for a long while, but there's always you underneath the masks and paint and all. I don't know that I think you ought to let that go. Even when you're trying to blend in as a charmer at a masked ball for Riftwatch."

She hums thoughtfully and narrows her eyes a little, mostly just chewing on the concept Darras posed but also deciding whether she wants to insist you were in my seat, technically, or take a different tack entirely.

The different tack wins out, with a tilt of her head.

"You're married? I wouldn't have guessed that."

"Really?"

He spreads his arms so she can take a good look at the frock coat, and Orlesian-cut Orlesian-fashionable breeches, and very stylish Orlesian-style facepaint.

"Me, a prince, and you don't think I'd be married?"

"I always thought princes became kings once they got married. Don't they?"

Maybe shes wrong about that. Oh well.

"Anyway I'm pretty sure I heard Madame de Camembert call you a most eligible bachelor when she recounted what a good dancer you were."

He snorts. "Madame de Camembert is very hopeful to find an eligible bachelor. I heard from Madame Brouder she has seven daughters. All of them unmarried."

Having leaned in to disclose that fact, Darras leans back, and takes a sip of wine.

"Madame Brouder has eight daughters and only three of them are unmarried. And they are all better than the Camembert sisters in everything. Here, you're a lady, you tell me. How important d'you think it is, to play the harp?"

Her turn to snort.

"I'm no lady. I'm at best an elevated guttersnipe, thank you. So: not important at all."

closed.

i. let's mingle

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