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closed.

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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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.

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!

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?"

—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?"

[ 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. ]

( 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. )

[ 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.

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.

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.

[ 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?

[ Very determined to stay out of the way, John answers Petra against his better judgement— ]

The paint.

[ If only because between the two, the mask can be easily discarded and the paint can't. This certainly isn't a night meant to go sideways, but John considers the possibility anyway. ]

And you've already brought the mask all this way.

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.)

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."

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?]

"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."

The civilized response would be to stop. To cooperate for as long as necessary to keep this a private conflict, or else to vie for the position of victim acting in self-defense—the sort of competition that Bastien, with his unweaponlike weapons and sweet-natured face, usually wins. But this time he doesn't try. Through the momentary gap in her defenses, while she's looking toward the authoritative man and drunk elf, ready to lower her blades to feign as much innocence as they'll allow, he whips the fire poker at her hand sharply enough to fracture bone and send the knife skittering across the floor.

It leaves a dark smudge of ash on the back of her pale gloves. And it probably, you know. Hurts. And her look toward the door has given her plenty of time to realize the onlookers are with him. Her patient goodwill evaporates, and when he pushes forward, trying to jam the other end of the poker into her sternum, she sidesteps, grabs firm despite her injured hand, and takes him to the floor in a flurry of skirt. When the material settles she's straddling his chest, knee holding down the fire poker that in turn holds down one of his arms, dagger near enough to his throat to keep him still.

She holds up her visibly smudged, invisibly-fractured hand toward the door.

"Behave, please, and I will not hurt him," she says, voice raised toward their observers, then dropping to a confiding tone for him: "She said to try my very hardest not to."

"Ah ouais? What else did she say?"

He sounds casual. But beneath her skirt and her thighs the muscles in his torso are twitching, straining to escape the grip of his self-control, and instead of an answer she gives him a self-satisfied smile.

As she turns her face toward the door again, the smile turns sweeter. Not too sweet. She isn't trying to fool anyone.

"I like your dress," she tells Athessa.

Edited 2020-02-28 22:58 (UTC)

[ pitched from the other room, as it was necessary— ]

How light is the cream? If it—

[ a sound of mild irritation, and then the Lady appears, still in the first layers of her preparations. Perhaps the sauciest layers, as her hair and makeup are immaculate but she has only just begun the process of dressing, so it is a corset cinched tight over a chemise of cloth woven finely enough that the stockings and garters beneath are more than suggested, its neckline such that her decolletage is an exclamation.

She looks about for Petrana, and then tilts her head in examination of the lifted mask before her face opens into impish amusement and she emits a tinkling little laugh. ]

Oh là, that is close enough to ivory; and I can assure you with some certainty that the De La Fontaine family shall not feel impinged upon.

[ A twitch of her smile at Petra that serves as well as a wink between court ladies, and then she turns to frown exaggeratedly at Bastien. ]

I forbid you to come near the visage of Madame de Cedoux with that, you impudent creature. She is a lady.

( petrana is (somewhat) less saucy, for all that she's rather more undone than most people who haven't at some point been obliged to share sleeping quarters with her traveling have ever seen, and the indulgence of her mild exasperation calls to mind a more matronly figure than she presently cuts with her habit of necklines rather like alexandrie's— )

I shall shelter beneath your arm, Mme d'Asgard, though I am content with diplomate only. Thank you all.

( the mask, then, now that she has suitably included john and bastien in her gratitude for assistance, and a subtler cosmetic. in lamorre she might despair of her hair, but for all the elaborate orlesian dress she has seen the simplicity of some of their coiffure, and she is relatively confident that her usual modest attempts will serve, and besides look rather less severe hand in glove with her dress and her mask. )

“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.”

[ Stillness is a skill, she gets it. She just doesn't come by it easily. So she sits on her hands and tries very very hard not to let her leg start bouncing. ]

Mesdames et messieurs, you all look merveilleux.

[ No jokey fake accent, just an earnest compliment and an attempt at a language she doesn't speak. ]

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.

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?"

[ Bastien makes a face—for Athessa's benefit, but not particularly hidden—at that she is a lady. Specifically: briefly-widened eyes and tiny o-shape to the mouth, a sarcastic and silent little ooh, a lady, while he does Athessa up in a way not fit for their betters. (He's next. Men aren't exempt.) As far as impertinence goes, it barely has an edge, let alone a sharp one. It's only a very small sign that he's off his game, and it gives way quickly to a friendly smile at Mme de Cedoux's deft gratitude and Athessa's earnest Orlesian. ]

Toi aussi, mon oisillon. Now what do you think, for tonight—daring or demure?

[ For her face, he means, with the base done. He turns to include Alexandrie in the question—even if she provided the opportunity for that blink of resentment, she isn't really the target of it—and quickly makes a show of shielding his eyes to protect them from her neckline, or vice versa.

Averting his gaze makes it land on John, to whom he adds, ]

You must at least let us do something with your eyes, Monsieur.

Edited (john!!!!!!) 2020-03-02 21:33 (UTC)

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?"

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closed.

the city, family visits, whatever;

interviews;

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sexy getting ready song;

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party;

backroom drama;

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champagne shell game | athessa ota

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Darras Rivain || ota

i. let's mingle

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