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Entry tags:
- alexandrie d'asgard,
- bastien,
- byerly rutyer,
- derrica,
- ellis,
- julius,
- kostos averesch,
- nell voss,
- wysteria de foncé,
- yseult,
- { athessa },
- { fitcher },
- { ket perrino },
- { miles vorkosigan },
- { poesia },
- { richard dickerson },
- { sidony veranas },
- { sister sara sawbones },
- { sonia barra },
- { vanadi de vadarta }
[ open: all arise! ]
WHO: you. yes, you there. you're invited
WHAT: Sonia is throwing a big party, because everyone needs an excuse to get good and drunk together right now. And dancing. There is always dancing.
WHEN: Justinian, shortly after the return of the jungle crew
WHERE: The suite at the top of the mage tower
NOTES: ♫ have some party jams ♫
WHAT: Sonia is throwing a big party, because everyone needs an excuse to get good and drunk together right now. And dancing. There is always dancing.
WHEN: Justinian, shortly after the return of the jungle crew
WHERE: The suite at the top of the mage tower
NOTES: ♫ have some party jams ♫
The month in the jungle was a long one, made longer by the total lack of any alcohol to mitigate the experience. Utterly unthinkable. Sonia is addressing a public need by throwing a grand party -- a public service, even. Besides, it's what she does. When was the last time she got to plan a party, anyway? Granted, this is not a Denerim soiree for the young nobility, but the venue doesn't matter. Only the people and the drinks, and Sonia is assuredly rich in both. It is also a fantastic excuse not to think about any of the bad things that have happened since she was last in Kirkwall.
The decoration in the residential suite at the top of the mage tower would be best classified as improvisational -- one of those drapes tacked along the wall for ambience may be a bedsheet -- but it's the spirit of the thing that counts. One makes do with what one has. In one corner are a few tables laden with spirits, some provided by Sonia, others by generous partygoers. There are a few Barra vineyard vintages in the mix, highlights of her personal collection, a testament to the celebration she considers tonight to be. There's a small selection of food nearby, mostly for snacking to go with the drinks, though guests are free to bring whatever they like to share.
And there is, of course, music. Someone here has brought a fiddle or a flute or a bunch of pots masquerading as a drum set. Maybe you've brought your very own a capella choir. Whatever the accompaniment, there's something to dance to. Sonia makes sure there is dancing.
Tonight is not for licking wounds or swapping grisly stories of terror and survival. Tonight is for feeling alive, getting properly and delightfully drunk, and having a good god damn time.
sonia | ota
But now that she's back here, back home, she's fine. There are no more Venatori kidnappers dragging her around, no more dank, humid jungle or its myriad of insects. She is here, back among friends and family, and she is fine. Everything is normal now! This is a testament to her normalcy! She doesn't need to talk about that at all. She only needs to drink, lots. And dance.
the three stages of drunk sonia
i. tipsy hostess
Sonia loves playing hostess, even when the space is a borrowed one, but she lives in this tower, too, so isn't it just a little bit her suite, too? She flits around the party with a sunny smile, eager to catch up with friends she's been separated from in the last month. She is as bright as ever, her laughter loud and uninhibited, as though those tropical trials are already funny stories to be told over cups. Sonia is here only to laugh, tonight.
She's ready with a drink if yours is running low, or if your hand is suspiciously empty. She's just a good host like that. And it's a terrific time to make new friends, too -- an excellent first impression, she thinks, finally out of the elements and in her element.
ii. the dance floor drunk
A few more drinks, and Sonia is riding high. With grace, of course; one does not get drunk regularly at the Denerim party circuit without learning to hold one's liquor, and Sonia has a deceptively high tolerance. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks are flushed, but she has no trouble holding herself upright -- or dancing, for that matter. She may lack musical talent, but she knows how to move, and more than anything else, takes great joy in doing so. This is the best part of the night for a dance, she insists, and if she sees anyone standing around looking bored or lonely, she won't hesitate to pull them in for a dance. And when she stops to catch her breath on the sidelines, she'll chat up just about anyone standing around. There's no better place to make new friends than a good party.
iii. the afterparty pre-hangover
The problem with parties is that they all end eventually. As the night winds down and the room starts to empty out, the adrenaline goes out with the guests, and Sonia's unguarded mind is left with uncomfortable thoughts that make her stomach squirm. She hadn't considered the possibility that being alone with her thoughts after drinking would be the worst position to put herself in, nor had she considered that a month without alcohol might cut into her tolerance some. The night is almost over, and she feels like she might cry or be sick or both. And it was such a good party.
wildcard
[ hit me at
ii
"A brilliant party, dear cousin," he says. "You've lost your touch not at all."
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ii
The hostess in particular has caught Vanadi's eye, and tonight, for the first time in a long time ... he's feeling charming. It shows in the warm smile as he approaches, preemptively setting his drink down on a nearby table.
"You're quite good," he says, with a brief but admiring flick of a once-over. "Perhaps you might be willing to show me the steps?"
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wildcardish
Putting her glass to one side, likely to be forgotten, she steps out to take Sonia's hand, laughing softly.
"It's been some time since I danced, cousin."
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iii.
She doesn't know, actually.
Enough time to make it possible to steel herself to turn away from the sky and catch sight of the hostess looking much as she feels.
"A party well worth the name, Lady Barra," she says, setting down the glass she's only now realized she's still holding with exaggerated care on the nearest horizontal surface. "Do say you have servants here to pick up after us."
threadjacking early to be in the background, feel free to disregard
<3333
athessa you angel
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iii
"Hey, you smoke?"
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i
"Goodness, aren't you lovely," she says, "This is a very exciting event after all of the jungle business."
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i
"M-my contribution to the...?" He jerks his head toward the refreshments.
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i.
That low honeyed voice belongs to a strikingly handsome older woman, dressed in a deep chocolate affair which might be relentlessly modest (given how it begins just below her chin) were it not for the rather fabulous window of cleavage just below the embroidered neck.
"And for a happy return, of course. Fitcher," she says. "At your service. I believe we have a mutual friend."
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iii
Val has been here to enjoy himself--at least as much as one might enjoy one's self at a party, when one's standards for parties are quite high. He had not found the jungle to be so great a trial. Greater would be to suffer an event boring or tasteless, so how lucky it was to have found this party to be, truly, neither of those.
His second purpose had been to surreptitiously look for something. This is why he is still here, as the guests are wandering off, or draping themselves in each other's arms, or laying themselves down upon sofas, or carpets, or simply the floor.
He has been drinking from a bottle of wine as he has looked. Now he wipes it, delicately, with his shirtsleeve, and holds it out to the miserable madame.
"It is good, I think. Not excellent. I mean no offense by this, only to say that it is difficult to compete with Orlais for wine. I commend your effort here."
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iii
Just water, but it seems as if now is the time to hand it off to her. He eases down to sit beside her, watching the stragglers milling about the room.
He'll make his own escape soon. Just after he's sure Sonia is steady enough to at least get to bed on her own.
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ii
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Byerly, ota
[ By has his violin. And, perhaps pleasingly or perhaps irritatingly (depending on your opinion of the man), he plays it exceedingly well. Slow songs are swellingly romantic or marvelously tuneful, when a slow song is played. But slow songs aren't his forte, not compared to the quick ones - joyous reels with frenzied bowing, with embellishments and improvisation aplenty.
He even manages to marry playing and dance, on some of the more familiar (Fereldan country) tunes: as he plays, he skips lithely amongst the dancers, not even missing a note as he weaves in and out of the patterns they're dancing. ]
ii. Dancin'
[ At some point, there will be an inevitable quadrille, in which Byerly will take part. And so you may find yourself touching palms with him, following the figures that make up the dance. And at that time, you will be subjected to conversation with him, which will lead with: ]
You dance beautifully.
[ Mocking? Sincere? Who's to say? ]
iii. Drinkin'
[ And By is here, of course, to get stinking drunk. He puts away a rather astonishing amount of alcohol for a man of his weight class, and not just wine - hard spirits, real rotgut. The more he drinks, though, the clearer he speaks; in contrast to most parties, where he's slurring and stumbling, he's actually now quite graceful and articulate. If you catch him in conversation, you may well hear more sincerity, delivered more eloquently, than you would at any other time. ]
i!
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iii. I drinked a drink of drinks gone by
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ii.
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iii
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iii
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iii.
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iii
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i
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jenny lou | ota
Holy shit, she's missed parties. And okay, it's not really anything like the parties she's been to. For one thing, they're in a building and for another, it's not a condemned building. The booze might also be better, though it's not exactly hard to top the kind of shit rowdy teenagers get their hands on.
Either way. It's a party and she's drinking, already loose limbed and mellow from the mild buzz. When she happens to catch someone's eye, she winks. "Hey babe, wanna dance?"
ii. A LITTLE PARTY NEVER KILLED NOBODY
There hits a point where the alcohol and the music really hit right and a manic energy lights up Jenny Lou's whole being. Which is when she slams (another) shot and turns to look at the person next to her with a wild grin.
"Dude. Fire pit."
iii. Wind down
Jenny Lou is the type to show up early and stay late. Old habits die hard and also she's hitting the not super sure about the walking thing stage. As the room starts to empty, she starts looking for flat surfaces to lie on. Like a table. Or the floor behind one of the fancy couches. Where she will be stretched out on her back, her arms behind her head and whistling an off key tune that stirs up a soft breeze, swirling around her.
ii
"I beg your pardon?"
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ii
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i.
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wysteria, ota
[Wysteria is by no means a dancer of singular poise nor grace, but she is an enthusiastic one and is at the very least capable of avoiding trampling her partner's feet. Further, between Riftwatch's penchant for sending anyone with the slightest air of respectability to events where important things might be accomplished on or surrounding dance floors and the etiquette classes posed months ago, she has memorized enough of the patterns to not end up spinning the wrong way round or clipping pairs in passing.
One of two possibilities is nearly inevitable. Either at some point during the a dance where partners are swapped and traded ad infinitum, she will be swapped and laugh as she stumbles through the hand off, or she will be lingering at the fringe of the dance floor with the appearance of someone all too willing to accept virtually any invitation out onto it.]
b. witty repartee
It's a shame that a fine night of dancing so consistently requires some awful occurence as a partner. I realize we are a most serious outfit and that Riftwatch's budget is rather narrow, but I can hardly recall the last time a party was hosted in or near the Gallows which was not either preceded or followed by being brutalized at length.
[Sitting in one of the chairs dragged up and lined against the wall, Wysteria is slightly pink in every direction - flush from dancing, or from drinking, or simply emphasized by the rose color of her voluminous array of skirts]
What I mean to say is that I do hope no one is stabbed or conspires to fall off the ramparts or some other tragedy befalls us this evening. But given the givens - I personally shall endeavor to stay away from sharp objects and heights.
[Ha ha. We have fun here and she is quite obviously the epitome of cleverness.]
c. wildcard
[Here for a good time, not a long time - literally. Wysteria will probably bounce before the party's energy starts to wind down, but is absolutely have a delightful enough time to end up being induced to mischief elsewhere in the Gallows or end up sleeping in her party clothes.]
a
Come on.
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b
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a.
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a
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b.
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athessa | ota
[ There's music, there's food, there's drinking, it's a recipe for success as far as parties go. And while Athessa can neither cook nor supply drink, she can sing and she can dance. She'll wait for the right tune to be playing to start up a well-known tavern song, bouncing between party-goers to try and coax them into singing along until there are more voices than not pitching in. She has a voice like a songbird, but she's not trying to show anyone up or be the center of attention; the songs she chooses can be sung even by the hopelessly tone-deaf. ]
ii. as the night goes on
[ Time passes, as do songs and dance numbers and trips to the de facto bar, and Athessa seems to be as drunk as the next person and never more. In truth, she hasn't touched a drop of alcohol since Eshal's drinking contest many months prior, but she's getting very, very good at pretending. Far be it from Athessa to bring the mood of the party down.
Sometimes, she might disappear for a few minutes, which is when the acting stops and she lets the stillness outside of the party soothe raw nerves and overstimulated senses. ]
iii. accidentally on purpose
[ It's no accident that by the height of drunkenness, Athessa is hanging around whoever is the most drunk, and the most potentially destructive. She'll follow behind, having a good time and somehow preventing--through acts of apparent fumbling--any damages to occur. Catching a vase here, a glass there, it's honestly masterful. ]
iv. wildcard
[ you know what to do ]
iii
And slowly pushing a glass toward the edge of the table, watching Athessa juggle the fancy pottery already in her hands.
you motherfucker ilu
im a helper
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ii.
*makes kissy noises*
*winky face*
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ii, which is also how many athessas i need
:U
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ii
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as the night goes on.
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ii.
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iv. the after party.
bats eyelashes
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Poesia | ota
Now this is a perfectly delightful end note to their charming jungle trip. The dancing harkens back to the days before her Beloved called her into her service and she delights in it whole heartedly, shifting easily from one partner to the next, one song to the next. She will eventually sit, only a little out of breath and turning to beam at the person next to her.
"It's a lovely party, isn't it? Do you suppose it'll turn into the sort without clothes?"
2. Iron Gut
Poesia drinks a substantial amount of wine and ale and whatever else happens to be on offer. It doesn't seem to have much of an impact on her. She lounges very comfortably in a chair, only getting up when someone topples over to lean over them.
"Hello, dear, are you quite all right?"
3. WILDCARD
[poesia's got a qunari tolerance for alcohol, but also is gonna taper off pretty fast when she finally does start getting drunk and wander off to find somewhere to nap. ]
1
Her question makes his smile a little stronger.
"Nothing is impossible," he says. Then, after a moment, with less loftiness: "But many things are improbable."
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kostos | ota
It takes some shifting and sniffing before he finds what he's looking for, but once he has, he turns to make a direct cut back toward the door, lifting the bottle toward the bulk of the partygoers in a little salute—maybe gratitude, maybe just meant as an explanation for what he's doing, which is definitely stealing their liquor and taking it back to his room like some sort of mannerless hurlock.
no subject
"Heyyyyy! You're here!" She grabs his free hand and starts to pull him back into the suite. "Dance with me!"
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bastien | ota
Cushions. Marvelous inventions. Truly the hallmark of civilization.
"I used to have a cello," he says to his nearest company, in confiding and distantly mournful tones. Like the instrument's loss is a years-old wound, rather than something he only discovered a few days ago. "And a lute."
no subject
"Bastien non~" the vowel is drawn out in idle reproof as Alexandrie reaches to pinch a lock of his hair between her forefingers and pull it in recompense. "What have you done with it."
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miles | ota
Still, with his usual electric energy, it seems to combine into a look that works for him. The colors are subdued neutrals, flattering shades of gray with a few navy accents -- he's never had that much of an eye for color -- and he wears it well, because at least years of excruciating attendance at Barrayaran court had drilled that grace into him. This party, though, is a substantially more relaxed affair, and everyone seems like they're going to get very drunk, and that's a situation Miles finds himself comfortable with.
i.
Miles has attended plenty of fancy parties, many of them against his strong preference, which means he has had plenty of dance lessons, but he feels more comfortable with his judo throw than his two-step. Besides, what woman likes to dance with a man half her height, anyway?
"I wouldn't say I've got two left feet," he'll try saying if anyone pulls him in for a dance, "but I can't promise what condition your feet will be in after a dance with me."
ii.
Miles is a lightweight under the best of circumstances, so he's nursing his drinks slowly tonight. But it is nice to drink -- the hostess's affair reminds him a lot of a good Barrayaran party, actually, the sort that you don't really remember ending, and some of the spirits on offer are...very good, actually. He wasn't expecting to find good wine at a "thank god we're all alive and bathed again" party, but he's certainly not going to complain about it.
But as the night goes on, he does start to enjoy the pleasant buzz. He's not on a mission, he reminds himself, for the first time in a while -- he's not on anything. That's a depressing thought, but he shoves it aside in favor of so maybe you should actually try to relax a little for once?
The fact that he's hearing it from himself is a dire enough hint. Miles swirls the last of the red in his glass, then, with a decisive nod, tips the rest of it back smoothly.
wildcard
[ throw me whatever or hit me up at
ii
Not that he expects to be stabbed. It's only a comfortable old habit, to match his comfortably nondescript clothes and comfortably poised posture.
"Was that the Seleny Song?" he asks of the wine.
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ii
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closed and open
[ A low lit level or two beneath the festivities, near enough to hear the music, a humanoid figure stands recessed in shadow near the stairs. Dick Dickerson is dressed for the gathering in shades of brown and green, but seems to be thinking better of it now, his eyes fixed forward, measuring the middle distance against the murmur of conversation muffled overhead.
He was thin before. Now he is gaunt, a ring turned loose around his index finger while he reflects on his life, his choices, and the slant of his evening without anyone else in it.
The moment passes, and he turns to leave before anyone is the wiser. ]
i.
[ Partway through tilting a bottle of wine to refill his glass, it occurs to Richard after a cursory glance aside that there is no one to stop him taking the said bottle back to where he’s been posted up on the sidelines, alone or with Fitcher. So he does that.
Grip choked up from base to neck, he turns to cut back across the floor, only narrowly dropping back half a step to avoid a collision as he goes. ]
ii.
[ Dick spends most of this party on the wall with a bottle of wine, more stick than flower -- gaunt, reticent, and increasingly relaxed in his recline as the night wears on, and he gets easier to converse with. ]
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[Alas, the world is sometimes a most cruel place - endeavoring to thwart one's intentions at every turn. And so naturally, Richard's is met by the appearance of a familiar figure swimming up out of the low light of the stairwell below. Dressed all in some rich dark chocolate color from her throat to her ankles, Fitcher's only bared skin consists of that sharp face, her two long hands - each occupied with a separate bottle of wine -, and a frankly outrageous tract of cleavage framed by the tear drop shaped window cut into her dress' bodice.]
Allow me to first press you into service, Richard. I tripped and nearly broke my neck two flights ago and could make use of an able hand.
[She passes him one of the wine bottles, and promptly hitches her skirts up by a few sensible degrees.]
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i
help
if only there was someone out there who loved you
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ii.
makes it weird
boy this escalated fast
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Re: ii
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yseult | ota
i. the drinks table. It's hardly polite to arrive empty-handed, especially when your presence could have a chilling effect on the festivities. The bottle Yseult sets on the drink table is dark, the label entirely in Rivaini. Rum, of good but not excessive quality. She uncorks it and pours a glass for herself before setting it with the rest of the liquor, taking a moment to browse the various offerings. She'll return a few times throughout the night, each time choosing to pour from a different bottle on the table seemingly at random.
ii. the divan. The seat she chooses is out of the way but hardly hidden, set at an angle to the main dance floor, so it neither seems like she's looming watching their every move nor like she's lurking in a shadowy corner. Royal blue skirts are neatly arranged over legs drawn up onto the seat in a casual pose, the neck of her still-pristine white shirt unbuttoned an inch or two further than usual in deference to the heat of the room, collarbones still a shade too pronounced after a month in the jungle. She is almost never without a glass in one hand, setting it down only to applaud the musical performances (Bastien's most heartily, if anyone is keeping score).
ii
It's clear from the particular cut of her dress that Fitcher has made some deliberate choices with respect to her wardrobe for the evening, but the ease with which she arranges herself there on the divan is so similar to her loose hold on a glass of wine that one might be forgiven for thinking otherwise. She hooks one elbow along the back of the sofa, fetches one leg over the other, and with a slight shift in the line of her shoulders it's as if Fitcher's been there forever.
"What is Riftwatch's approach when it comes to thievery? Do we cut fingers off?"
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Val de Foncé || opens and closeds
As with most things, and no doubt to the chagrin of his enemies and critics: Val de Foncé is a good dancer. It is not entirely natural. He has had lessons, and then a great many years in Orlesian society, and out of Orlesian society, in which to practice. He can hold his own in a grand ballroom in Val Royeaux or in a low-ceilinged taverns in Antiva, and everything in between. So certainly he can manage the steps of these dances, even those new to him. It might be a surprise how good a partner he makes, or how willing he is grab hold of anyone hanging about on the fringe and to pull them in to dance.
His trademark is that he abandons his partners when he has a chance, either once the song has concluded--with a smile and a wink and a sidestep into the crowd--or when the opportunity to do a handoff to another dancer presents itself. It's nothing personal. Maybe.
ii- drinking.
"I miss the jungle." It isn't even that late in the evening, and Val might not even know to whom he addresses this comment. It does not matter. It is his opinion, and it must be heard.
He takes a huge sip of his wine and gestures, with the cup, to the room at large. "Of course this is sincerely lovely, our hostess is so good as to hold this for our enjoyment, it is a fine welcome, greatly appreciated. And yet what adventure is there in the Gallows? What adventure in this party? Unless," well, and a gleam comes into his eye, "it is an adventure that is made..."
closed to M. Ellis
"You there!" Val calls out, somehow jovial and imperious, both at once, in a way that only an Orlesian noble (disowned or otherwise) can manage to be. He waves the man over to the display that he has set up.
And what a display! A long trestle table, pushed to one side of the room and cleared of all debris. At either end, a pattern of cups has been laid out: five at the base, and then three above that, and two, and the last almost at the edge of the table. In between them lies a long playing field.
"You take that end. Here--" And he presses a small rubber ball into Ellis' hand, and turns away, to take the other end. "Yes?"
i.
And his unheralded presence is all the surprise he intends to spring on anyone, so he also isn’t trying to sneak up on Valentine, or sticking his cane out to pretend to cut in, or bursting out of a cake. It’s plenty satisfying just to pick Val out of the little crowd of dancers, wait for him to be facing the right way, and raise a hand to wave.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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oh my god i can't believe i almost lost this starter forgivE
shame shame shame
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Sister Sara Sawbones
She shows up more dressed down than normal, in only the simple white dress normally worn under the Chantry red frock. It really has more to do with the fact that she doesn't have much in the way of clothes that don't stink of jungle filth or weren't converted into some other more helpful supply along the way. Either way, she shows up with a large dusty bottle that she plops down on the table and opens up.
It smells sharp and acidic and frankly horrible, but that doesn't stop Sawbones from pouring out a measure in a glass. It's murky and an oily yellowish color. She knocks it back in one swallow and lets out a breath.
"Sod, that's better." She gestures to whoever happens to be nearest, "Here. Ain't a party til you've had some of this."
ii.
Sawbones doesn't dance, but she'll sing once the Duster hooch and wine have had time to settle in her stomach and warm her throat. She has no particular gift for it, but it suits the more jaunty reels just fine. She sits on a table and kicks out the beat with her heel against the table leg, clapping along as she sings. When there's a shift in the music, she'll consider the height from her perch to the floor and then wave her empty cup at a passerby.
"Oi, mind gettin' me a little?"
iii
As the third place holder in a previous drinking competition, Sawbones has an impressive tolerance, but still overindulgence really only leads to one thing. It's late in the night when she finally hauls herself up.
"Come on," she says, hauling also at sleeves, "We need to get to the kitchens." She's only swaying a little bit, which is frankly impressive.