[closed] harvestmere is for lovers

[heirring]

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.

Comments

ii

[bignasty]

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.

[heirring]

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.

[bignasty]

“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.”

[heirring]

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."

[bignasty]

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.”

[heirring]

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."