[ open: all arise! ]

[vorbratta]

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.

Comments

Val de Foncé || opens and closeds

[degenere]

i- dancing.
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.

[apologist]

Jehan isn’t dancing. He’s arriving, straight from Orlais to the party. Or straight from a hospitable Chantry that gave him room and board along the road outside of Kirkwall to the party, technically, which is why he isn’t even a fraction as dirty or exhausted as the recent jungle adventurers were when they first set foot back in the Gallows.

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.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[degenere]

From across the dance floor, Valentine sees the hand raised to wave. He recognizes the hand: an impossible task for someone else, perhaps, but that would only mean that someone else does not love his friends as well as Val does. Of course he recognizes the hand of a friend, and then the arm of a friend, and then, the friend.

The rest of the world no longer matters. The room narrows down to Jehan, and Val drops whatever hand or glass he was holding, abandons whatever company he was keeping, wrecks this particular phase of whatever dance is going on around him as he shoves through the small crowd to clear the distance between himself and Jehan.

"JEANNOT!"

It is with all of the aforedescribed familiarity that Val crashes into his target and dear friend of his heart. Only deep love lets him be so heedless, to ignore the crutch and any fear that a man with a crutch might topple over--of course he will not, this is Jeannot, Val would not endanger him. Besides, he throws his arms around Jehan at the point of impact; that embrace would save him, if there were a danger of a fall.

[apologist]

There's no danger. He only needs the crutch to correct the odd misstep, and here there's no stepping at all, because Valentine is closing the distance, like Jehan knew he could be counted on to do. When he's close Jehan lets go of it entirely and lets it clatter against the wall—which it does politely and quietly, like a well-behaved Orlesian crutch should.

"Val."

Less volume but roughly equal exuberance.

"A party? Why are you not weeping in your room, missing me?"

[degenere]

"I was, I was, buckets, Jeannot--"

He pulls away so he can behold his friend, but not so away that they are separated--just far enough that he can take him by the upper arms and hold him there, to be beamed at, the way someone else might beam at a favorite-- well, anything. A favorite. Jehan is a favorite, he deserves the beaming.

"I wept buckets. You may ask Freddie, Ah, we must find her--" When he removes his gaze, it is only so that he can do a sweep of the room, letting his eyes pass over all of the people that do not matter at all, seeking out the other person that matters. "--Though I think she may have left, if she was ever here at all--well, you may ask her later when you see her! She will be so annoyed that I saw you first. Unless you saw her first. You did not, did you? Say that I am first."

ii

[okayimin]

The wine and rotgut has mellowed her normal grumpy mood enough that she's less annoyed than she might normally be by Du Foncé's everything.

"You're an exhausting person," she says, mildly, "Half surprised you're not working on compiling notes to shock and awe the naturalist community with. The insects alone would have scholars talking." Is she trying to divert him from the path of being more of a pain in the ass than he usually is or is she genuinely interested in the topic.

[degenere]

"Who says I have not compiled such notes? After all, it would be the natural choice for someone of my interests to pursue. And in such a place that none have been. I would be the envy of so many. Alas," this with a cheerful smile, and a slight raise of his glass, "I will need to take more wine before I begin to tell my secrets. You might be a rival scholar in disguise. A very serious disguise."

[okayimin]

"Your future achievements are safe from me," she agrees, dry as dust, "I've read some of your work and it's fine research, but the application in my field is too limited to be worth much." She takes a drink from her own glass and adds, "Rivalries in medical scholarship is nugshit anyhow."

[degenere]

Val gasps, pleased and surprise, and turns a fresh look on her.

"You have read some of my work? But this is wonderful! What a compliment! Tell me, what was the topic? I have thought to supplement our sad little library by requesting copies of certain publications--my own work would be among them, naturally--but there would be others as well."

Well, and, wait. His nose wrinkles a bit, as a puzzled smile comes over his face.

"And what 'rivalries' might the medics and healers have among their ranks? Whose bandage technique is better?"

[okayimin]

"I've read a few of your papers on Rivani and Antivan fauna. They were well done." She won't begrudge him the compliment, even if he's a pain in the ass. "The Seneshcal has been very accommodating about finding publications, but we'd benefit from more, of course." His question earns him a raised brow and a snort.

"More who can disprove the other's treatment course to be modern nonsense or who's secretly a heretic cutting up dead bodies for dark purposes." She shakes her head, "Political trash half the time."

[degenere]

"Well, of course there must be some purpose to a body that is cut into. We have long treated beasts in such fashions, to learn more of their physiology and understand their inner workings. But a human--a dwarf," he adds, magnanimously, with a little gesture toward her, "is different than a beast. To begin with, he is less likable."

[okayimin]

"Spoken like a man who's never had to deal with a deepstalker," she says, "I'd take the pissiest Carta Duster over dealing with one of those any day."

[degenere]

Val arches his eyebrows at her, ready to challenge. "Ah, but what of an Orlesian duke? Would he be worse than a deepstalker? Would it change, based upon his title?"

[okayimin]

She raises her eyebrows right back at him, "Depends on which one of us is more drunk and whether or not one of the Mothers was watching."

[degenere]

He laughs.

"I feel that I should be offended out of loyalty, that the choice is so dependent on these conditions. But I do not like any Orlesian dukes enough. Or deepstalkers. Ah, but I must tell you, I have seen deepstalkers. My very dear friend, the Baroness Haut-Brion, has an interest in architecture and artifacts found in thaigs. Once we mounted an expedition to seek out Kal-Sharok by only our own wits. We became distracted somewhat through and it remains unfinished, so say nothing if you know of the great thaig, we will one day remount it--but in this work, I did have the opportunity to observe deepstalkers. Of course, that is not dissection. Even so."

oh my god i can't believe i almost lost this starter forgivE

[heorte]

"Yes?" is the response Val gets back.

Ellis is holding the ball in the same way he holds the many unwieldy contraptions Wysteria and Tony have foisted upon him over the course of their research: as if he isn't quite sure what he's meant to do with it but is too polite to put it on the ground.

He takes a step back from the table, almost as if considering potential retreat options. One thing he has become adept at since falling in with Riftwatch is judging when he's about to be pulled into something mildly ridiculous.

shame shame shame

[degenere]

"Yes," Val repeats, emphatically, and without pause, turns around again to grab the man by the arm and pull him closer to the table. When they have reached his end of it, he plants his hands on the man's shoulders as if to stick him into place.

"You will stay?" It is only partly a question. He peers keenly into the man's face. They are of a height so it is very easy to do. "This requires a second. You cannot abandon it."

https://media1.giphy.com/media/3otOKTjlqkF3C1XhFm/giphy.gif

[heorte]

"Why?"

Is this how Orlesians duel? And why would this Orlesian want to duel? Questions upon questions.

[degenere]

Val fixes him with a deeply pitying look. Monsieur, please.

"For the game, but of course. Now!" Sunny once more, he claps the man's arms briskly, and goes around the table to the other side.

"You will be noticing, no doubt, the mark in chalk that I have made upon the table? This is its center point, and where you must strike your ball. You give it a throw, it strikes upon the line at some point, and then it is bounced from there into one of the cups on my side. These are your targets. Have you any aim?"

[heorte]

So, not a duel. A game.

Ellis takes another step back anyway, expression resigned as he considers the instruction. He could very likely flee into the crowd, but—

"I've decent aim," Ellis admits. "But I think you'd be better served with someone given to knife throwing than me."

After all, Ellis' specialty is walking directly up to something and hitting it. Aim isn't all that important in the grand scheme of things.

[degenere]

"Ah, but that is the point. If you are very good, we will not have fun."

He flourishes a small ball that matches the one that Ellis has in hand still. And he raises one eyebrow, impeccable.

"Surely you are not scared to play, my friend."

A basic tactic. It does not matter. Who can resist, especially with Val's face smirking just so.

[heorte]

"What's 'fun' mean in this context?"

Seems a vital thing to define. The actual question about whether or not he's afraid passes without comment.

He does take a moment to bounce the ball on the edge of the table, testing.

[degenere]

"It is a game to drink, monsieur. If I make a shot--like so--"

Elegantly, he flourishes his ball before he takes a half-step back from the table, eyes the field, and gives a gentle toss. The ball arcs nicely, bounces just upon the line, and makes another arc, nice and neat, before landing--with a gentle plop--in the cup that is the top of the pyramid-shape.

Val smiles. "You must drink now from that cup. The more shots that I make--and I will make plenty, do not worry--the more that you must drink. If you are very bad with your aim, you will have more to drink than I. A glory of its own."

[heorte]

Is this a specifically Orlesian game? A shame Ellis hadn't been introduced to it when he was young enough to really appreciate it. He has the immediate sense that this would have been a welcome addition to some of the festivities he'd attended as a lad.

However—

"I'm going to have to disappoint you. I don't drink."

At which point, he respectfully leans over to surrender the ball by placing it in the middle of the table.

He's so close to escape. So close.

[degenere]

What! Val scoffs.

"What does that mean, you do not drink? Surely you require drink. A little."