faderift | [closed] harvestmere is for lovers

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[closed] harvestmere is for lovers

WHO: Val, Wysteria, & A Bunch of Rubes
WHAT: A perfectly uncontroversial fundraiser
WHEN: The first day of Harvestmere
WHERE: The Asgard Estate in Hightown
NOTES: If you received one of Wysteria's invitations at the beginning of ~~September~~ Kingsway and your character would have agreed to show their face, then here's what they signed up for. With thanks to Ceeeee/Eppy/Beka for the NPC profiles; if we run out of comedy NPCs to match up with, ping me at

prosodi and I'll cram in a few more.

Per certain written invitations judiciously dispensed in earlier weeks prior, on the very first day of Harvestmere a bizarre conglomerate descends upon the Asgard Estate in Hightown. And while it's true that the state of the household might be somewhat controversial—it being appointed in a very Tevene fashion in accordance with the taste of its proprietor—, for almost a full hour it seems the evening will proceed in the manner that similar benefits must: doomed to be somewhat stilted, punctuated with rather too much polite laughter and the occasional tactless question, but generally inoffensive for all involved. While the members of Riftwatch and the invited would-be benefactors mingle over respectably appointed boards of hors d'oeuvres and various (entirely optional) dances are led under a string quartet's guidance, Wysteria plays at the role of host in an effort to see that everyone is acquainted and in good spirits be it emotionally or in the liquid sense.

However (for there must be a however), the evening takes rather a sharp before dinner.

At some point, the music recedes and everyone is ushered into an adjacent room where a series of chairs are arranged. One might be expecting someone to play whatever charming instrument is near the front of the room, but alas. Instead, Miss Poppell gives a very charming introduction to the evening's main event - a small auction, the lots of which "You should all be well acquainted with by now, but will secure your seating arrangements for dinner," - and surrenders the floor to Monsieur de Foncé so that the bloodbath may begin.

Each attending member of Riftwatch (excepting Val, Wysteria, and Leander who somehow landed being Wysteria's personal guest rather than a victim of their machinations) will be called up in turn and introduced either very faithfully according to a description they provided or one written for them, and auctioned to the highest bidder. Very stealthy members of the company (or indeed a selection of especially mortified guests) may have an opportunity to slither out a side door once the bidding starts, but it may honestly be less embarrassing to just go with it. Surely everyone's had enough to drink by now to ease any potential sting, correct?

Once the bidding ends, everyone will be shown to dinner where everyone is arranged according to the auction's results so that the "lot" is seated to the left of whomever won their bid and forced to either endure or enjoy their company for the duration of the meal. Afterwards, the party—or whatever remains of it, given various escape attempts or whatever surprise pressing business or headaches might have been claimed in an effort to beat a more polite retreat—retires back to the first room for dessert and drinks, a few rounds of cards, and the last exhausted dregs of conversation before at last winding to a close.

Entertaining? Debatable. Gauche? Perhaps more than one might prefer. But no one dies, so it hardly can be called a disaster as far as Riftwatch interacting with the public goes.

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i. MINGLING
If it weren't for the flashing green anchor bright through the netting of her delicate lace gloves and a certain skill for carrying a conversation long past its point of exhaustion, one might be forgiven for at first mistaking the young lady playing at host for someone else. For certainly has Wysteria never seemed quite so fashionable as she does this evening, dressed all in a deep emerald color and studded with the aforementioned lady's second best sapphires - all altogether shockingly flattering picture even as she buzzes about between one knot of people at the next in an effort to jumpstart any lagging conversation. She is all bright smiles and cheer, in a boisterous good humor that is blatantly artificial to anyone who knows her well and pleasantly sweet to anyone who doesn't.

In lieu of feeling any anxiety for the evening whatsoever, she is instead seeing empty hands filled with glasses of (respectable, if not exactly excellent) wine, descending upon unprepared audiences upon which she might foist her slightly overtuned company upon, or engaging anyone who might make the mistake of attempting to blend in too well with the wallpaper in conversation.

For all her assurances that participation in most of the evening's events would be optional, everyone is evidently strictly required to have a pleasant time whether they like it or not.

ii. POST-AUCTION
Given the last minute nature of the seating arrangements, there is naturally some disorder which overtakes the transition from the room in which the auction was held to the dining room. While everyone is sorting themselves accordingly to their name cards on the table, and figuring out which sits and which side of whomever else, there is a very narrow opportunity in which someone might catch Wysteria out as she oversees the controlled chaos of the arrangement.

"Forgive me, Lady Burbidge," she is calling, the woman in question answering with a look so cold that it is a wonder Wysteria doesn't freeze to death on the spot. "Yours is the seat just to your left. Yes, precisely. That one there."

iii. AFTERMATH
Every party, even ones so greviously awkward as this one, has its stragglers. When the last non-Riftwatch hanger on finally departs, Wysteria at last deflates onto one of the gilt laden Tevene-styled settees in the parlor with a glass containing an exceptionally stiff drink. It is, as it turns out, far more pleasant to attend parties than to be in charge of them and despite having sat for an extended period of the course of dinner, this feels like the first moment over the entire evening in which she has been able to breath.

"Well," she says, to no one in particular. "That could have gone far worse."

And then she downs the vast majority of her drink.

iv. WILDCARD
[Ping me at

prosodi or just hit me up with something and I'll roll with it.]

"Oh, to be sure." To her dubious good fortune, Byerly is nearby. And he looks, well - great, honestly. Parties are his scene; he takes to them like a particularly odious goose takes to water, and this one has clearly left him cheerily energized. Although he's sprawled in a chair, with one leg hanging off the right arm altogether and an elbow propped up on left, his eyes are sparkling and his toe is tapping.

"My only regret is that the lovely widow Ó Ruadháin didn't seem quite ready to take me home with her. Next time, I suspect."

"I wish you all the best of luck with your courtship, Ambassador," Wysteria says into her glass as she hooks her elbow onto the arm of the settee. When she has finished her drink, her lace gloved palm is ready to set her cheek in.

Gods, what a relief it is to be finished with this whole hurrah.

—Well. Nearly.

"You better," he says with a grin. "That courtship will likely be paying your salary, at least in part. The amount of money she has - and unlike many dreadfully wealthy people, a willingness to part with it. At least to those with wit enough to impress her."

"How unexpectedly generous that you would turn so much of your newly acquired assets over to Riftwatch's coffers. But I suppose it would be only fair, given my kindly introduction between the pair of you."

She could do with another drink. Instead, she sets the glass aside and absently rearranges the skirts of her borrowed dress.

"I'm sure Lady Rutyer will be heartbroken only for a short time."

"Heartbroken?" Then, with mock offense: "Miss Poppell, get your mind out of the gutter this instant. It is an intellectual courtship." Then, shaking his head - "Honestly. I'm a married man. How dare you."

She cuts a long sidelong look in his direction. After a lengthy pause in which it seems her stare may do all the communicating for her, she finally says, "Apologies. My mistake entirely, Lord Ambassador."

That earns a laugh.

"You've become so cynical of late," he says cheerfully, taking a sip from his cup.

"Perhaps," she says, pulling her feet up under her skirts and onto the settee. She has spent enough time sprawled across or curled up on Alexandrie's furniture to not be too uneasy about putting her slippers on a cushion. "You merely have happened to catch me in instances where I have no reason to less so."

She has been perfectly cheerful and gregarious in every other hour of the evening, thank you.

And here, with her chin in her hand, her attention wanders from him elsewhere. It is possible that someone might yet materialize to save her from this conversation - dear Alexandrie, of her Leander acting in his role as her companion for the evening, or perhaps even de Foncé looking to discuss their bottom line...

A moment, and then a sigh. He lets his head fall back against the chair behind him.

"Because I induce this disagreeability in you," he says, drolly, "because I am such a disagreeable fellow. Yes; of course; duly noted."

She doesn't exactly roll her eyes back to him - no, by the time she is looking at him she is the very image of good cheer, sweet as something honeyed -, but the air of it has a way of lingering.

"Not at all Mr. Rutyer. It has nothing to do with you whatsoever. I'm merely tired as it has been a very full evening, you see. Would you care for another drink? I am somewhat of a mind to fetch one for myself."

"Very well," he replies mildly. "Flee from my company. You have my permission."

"That has nothing at all to do with what I asked, Mr. Rutyer," continues in that breezy, light note. "If you would prefer to fetch me another drink I would hardly be opposed."

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For the occasion, Leander appears in his favourite jacket, freshly pressed: high-collared, slim-waisted, the belted skirt open in front and hanging from his hips like long tassets, cut just below the knee, in a low-chroma teal so dark it appears black at distance. (He'd complained mildly to the novice clerk—an inferior black, this tint, surely a dying error—and thus scored an affordable discount.) Beneath it he wears a vest of green fit to suit Wysteria's dress, and, as an added touch, both his index and middle fingernails have been painted to match her borrowed sapphires. Altogether, it's a look undeniably evocative of a mage's robes, in tailored fashion.

Between this, his eyeliner, the mostly effective taming of his hair and the slight blush he's wearing thanks to just one glass of wine, in his own humble opinion, he looks quite fine. It's a shame he's not on the auction roster—a tragic fundraising error.
In his own very humble opinion.

On the spring cleaning project being developed by Enchanters Julius and Leander in seeming perpetuity:

"I don't know that it can be perfected, really—or that either of us would care to say so if it were. Messing about with it is more than half the fun. We ran out of dirty chimneys months ago, besides. There's scarcely anything sensible left to test it on."

"Then I see no reason why you shouldn't transition into the insensible. Have you and Enchanter Julius considered that you might eject other things at force other than ash and soot - something light and similarly diaphanous, of course. It would be the height of amusement to, say, project little bits of colored paper down the chimney of a certain Division Head who I shall not name but has been kind enough to join us for the evening."

If asked, she might agree with Leander's evaluation - it is a shame he's not on the auction roster, for she imagines he would fetch rather a good price. But selfishly (and rather myopically, given that the whole endeavor is somewhat self serving in the most immediate sense), Wysteria can't help but be a little personally gratified by the arrangement. There is something very satisfying, she thinks, about this arrangement of matching colors and charmingly clever exchanges shared in an alcove that is just private enough to warrant proper discussion of less popular subjects and just public enough to be seen. It makes her feel far more legitimate, in the way that having something no one else does often is wont to do, and guarantees her the pleasure of interesting conversation for the evening. If that isn't worth forfeiting a little coin, then the thesis of the entire evening is undermined before it's even truly begun.

(Anyway, the color in his face is charming.)

"Though for my part, I'd be most interested in the question of duration and how the casting might be modified. I understand that a glyph once written can be triggered by even non-mages - that indeed that is often the desired result. But as for the longevity of the thing itself—I'm curious if you've experimented with modifying how long the glyph might linger if left inactivated."

"Oh, extensively. You've touched on the perennial problem of mine casting. You're aware the charge tapers off after a time—generally, one must choose between a short-lived glyph with a full charge, or a longer-lasting one that may well be useless by the time it's triggered."

Lifting his glass to his teeth, more for the effect of casting an impish look across the rim than an appetite for more wine, "I'm enjoying the notion of Enchanter Julius causing mischief, by the way. Not sure he's the type for it—but then, I've never asked."

"The man does have something of a focused and businesslike demeanor, I grant. But he is quite patient. I believe you might work him up to it by degrees."

—Is tossed off the cuff with very little deviousness. Her own sip at her held glass is almost entirely to do with appetite.

"And have you found anything effective to combat that problem? I confess, I find the idea of glyph work over, say, enchantment in certain instances very inviting. The element of flexibility appeals. But—" A pause, as if a thought has only now just occurred to her. Whatever it is is tucked hastily away. She has asked one question already.

Whatever it is, he's not letting it get away that easily. Licking his lips after this last performative taste, like a cat over a bowl of cream, catching the thread with a single claw and gently tugging—

"But?"

Ah.

Well.

"It is somewhat off topic," she delays by way of explanation. "A fairly useless tangent in relation to the clearing of chimney's in any case. And it may be a silly thought entirely, given how a mage might usually be expected to operate in the field of combat."

Here, a person might be expected to pause and allow their hesitation to be either encouraged or dismissed. But Wysteria soldiers nobly on of her own accord.

"I only wondered if the size of the glyph plays some role in the capacity of its charge and the duration for which it might expect to hold it. There is very little in the reading I've done regarding the specifics of dimension, standard or otherwise, either because it is irrelevant to the scholar in question or because it is meant to be a matter of course for the intended audience."

A hand envelopes Wysteria’s elbow as she shouts, gentle as a labrador retriever’s jaws wrapped round an egg, and just as inescapable. Sylvester Dumas a large man for such a narrow opportunity, and the great void of his absence across the tidy arrangement of his name card at a table could strike her before the ale on his breath does, from above and behind.

“Lovely evening, Miss Poppell,” he commends, and firms his grip to draw her aside, whether or not she’s turned: “If I could have word.”

He is wearing a nicer gambeson than the usual scat brown affair he lumbers around the yard in. This one is blue, and the buckles are silver, with spots of tarnish in the bends here and there where he couldn’t quite be bothered.

“I have a few concerns I’d like to review with you before you climb out of a window.”

Nothing in his voice betrays anger, but there is a acrid bit of flash to the steel of his eyes when he shows her his teeth, and the sweat at his temples has bristled his whiskers into raised hackles, borderline frenetic.

Either a very sensible person or a slightly guilty one might feel a distinct pang of dread in reply to that soft, firm hand closing about their elbow. Wysteria Poppell is, for better or worse, neither and so merely slants a poorly disguised slightly exasperated look in the Captain's direction. With the emphatic motion to leads one of Alexandrie's servants to spring in to tale over the organization of the table and the guests about it, she allows herself at last to turn into the hand and take account of him.

"Through a window in this dress? I think not, Captain," she says, the very definition of sincerity and a concession to the frazzled quality in the air about him. "Shall we step out into the hall?"

She's already moving, using her trapped elbow as the hook to guide him by.

“At this point I think we both know it’d be a mistake to underestimate what you’re capable of,” Dumas is quick to counter on the subject of dresses and windows, but he does have the presence of mind and societal training to sweep her up and down with a look, as prompted. “But you do look stunning, for a monster. Appropriately poisonous.”

He releases her, the better to square around on high, once they’ve reached an alcove private enough for his liking. They don’t have to go very far. Less far than they probably should, considering:

“I would just like to clarify very quickly whether or not you expect me to bounce around on this old nag or if the gig ends at dinner.”

Somewhere in there are several half completed interjections along the lines of "Why thank you, Captain," and "Poisonous," and so by the time he reaches the point and gives her pause to respond properly, she is more than ready to do so—

—if not on this particular subject.

"Really Captain," she squawks just loud enough that it might prompt pause from anyone else they might not have the most desirable distance from. In the aftermath, she lowers her voice to a more appropriately viperous hiss: "I don't know what you think this is, or what gave you such an ignoble impression of the evening, but I assure you that I have no interest whatsoever in compelling you to do or indeed say anything with or to Madame Galanis that you would rather not."

Which seems like a reasonable stopping point, however— "Save perhaps to implore you not to describe her as an old nag as I believe her escort may take exception and I must insist that any disagreements be settled outside this house, out of respect for Lady Alexandrie."

The hood of his brow hardens at her squawk and he bucks his teeth, offense stiff up behind his collar when he straightens away from her, not unlike a dog anticipating a swipe from a cat.

Or a viper.

Clearly it wouldn’t be the first time.

“Well I’m sorry, madame, but I’ve never been prostituted before without my explicit and knowing consent,” Dumas’ own indignation pitches high and tight into crosstalk over hers as it goes on, volume dialed down in parallel by some miracle of presence of mind for their audience. He leans back in close to her level to add: “I noticed you and your greasy little Orlesian cohort never went up on offer.”

A stout sweep of the butt of his hand clears his breast of non-existent crumbs. He straightens again, and treats himself to a drink off a passing tray.

“Insist all you like. I’ve taken shits bigger than you and Lady Alexandrie combined.”

There is a particular shade of red she is sometimes prone to flushing when especially apoplectic; it's creeping up the back of her neck now.

"Monsieur de Foncé, who might be described any number of ways but who is neither greasy nor little thank you, and myself are the hosts of the evening and therefore obligated to converse with anyone who feels compelled. You however may ignore whoever you like. All that is required of you is that you sit in the chair beside Madame Galanis. So," she snips, very curt indeed despite the whispering volume and a naked attempt to retain some modicum of both her dignity and her very fixed smile. "If you would prefer to think of the chair as having been— having been traded rather than your obliging charm for the length of dinner, I will not stop you."

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[closed] harvestmere is for lovers

wysteria | ota

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a break from mingling

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