faderift | [ 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 ♫

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.

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Bastien turns his ear toward her in acknowledgment without looking away from the remaining people dancing around the room, who he's been watching with glaze-eyed half-focus and a faint smile while nursing a glass of wine.

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."

She pouts a little, for the lack of his full attention and his answer.

"That's too bad. It's been absolute ages since I've been to that sort of party and everyone is really lovely."

He glances sideways at her, briefly, to check that her face is what he expects, given her tone. And it is.

"C'est vrai?" he asks. "Where did a dear little reaver find parties like that?"

That pleases her enormously, which is more than enough reason to reward him with a honey sweet smile.

"Oh, I never found them! I was sent there! As part of my schooling, you see, before I took the High Lady's blood and was passed to the Reavers. All the pretty ones are taught courting to start with. It was terribly interesting and such fun, but I was utterly awful at it," she says, laughing gaily, "I do like the flirting and sex is delightful, but needing to remember what one is and is not meant to say is terribly vexing, don't you think?"

"Mm, no," Bastien says, tone agreeable despite the disagreement. "I have always been good at that. Even as a child. But I know a lot of people find it frustrating, so you are hardly alone."

He takes a drink of his wine and shifts in his seat to angle toward her, though a laugh or a flourish from the dancers still occasionally grabs his attention for a moment.

"How old were you, then, when you became a reaver?"

"That's because you're clever, precious," she says with the confidence of one who is stating fact, "Clever people always know the sorts of things they ought to say."

Poesia leans forward, setting her elbow on the table and pillowing her chin in her hand. She seems to pay the dancers much less mind, focused on Bastien.

"Oh dear, it was quite some time ago... I suppose I officially joined the ranks when I was seventeen or so, perhaps a little older." It's very difficult to think of those early days without slipping back a little, drugged and dreamy and bloody, "Time was rather liquid for me." A few moments and she rises back out of the feeling to ask, "When did you start learning to be clever, precious? Were you clever in the cradle?"

"Not that I know of," Bastien says with a smile, watching her more closely now.

He almost feels a kinship. The sort of kinship you feel for a relative you wish you weren't related to, perhaps, but there's no escaping it, your cousin is your cousin even if she strips naked and smears herself in blood sometimes, et cetera. And that's why—well, that and the fact that it isn't really a secret any longer, in any meaningful way, when so many people within Riftwatch already know, so why not—he mirrors her forward lean and lowers his voice to a volume fit for sharing confidences.

"I have had a lot of training. But my bardmaster took me because I had made friends with all of the city guards, so I suppose some of it came naturally."

Her gaze sharpens when he leans closer, something predatory lifting it's head briefly before settling back down under the whisper haze of wine.

"My dear precious one is a songbird," she says, earnestly sweet and affectionate when she smiles at him, mindful not to raise her voice and mimic the volume of his. She maybe horrid at courting nobility, but she is very good at following instructions, even if they're not spoken. She continues: "It hardly surprises me you were well loved. You were deplorably sweet to me the first time we spoke."

"Deplorably," he echoes, with a mix of mild disbelief and mild amusement, because what a funny label to apply to sweetness. "Because I said you were a person?"

She leans forward to tap him lightly on the tip of his nose, all fond affection. "Exactly that, and you did it terribly sweetly."

She's going to make him blush—if only because he's better at blushing intentionally than he is at stifling an accidental one.

"I was not even trying," he says, and puts his hand in his chin to consider her. "What do you think makes a person, if you are not one?"

"I did grow up around people who weren't reavers, you know," she says, huffing in mock offense, but she does give it some thought, "People don't like being things. Even useful things. That's why that little war with the mages and templars happened, wasn't it? Both were tired of being the Chantry's belongings."

“But you don’t mind it?” Bastien asks.

"Oh no, quite the contrary!" She's terribly earnest in this, brows wrinkling sweetly, "I can't imagine living so chaotically without a guiding hand. As it happens, I had to endure it for some time after my Beloved died and it was awfully distressing."

The remnants of good humor slide off his face, replaced by concern, a little sadness. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Was that very long ago?”

She reaches across to pat his hand gently, "You are sweet, precious. I suppose it was a year or so now. Time didn't hold much meaning to me for quite some time, so I can hardly say." She smiles a little wistfully, "My only regret in that is it makes it very difficult to gauge how much to take from the Venatori before they die."

[ open: all arise! ]

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