WAR TABLE MISSION: Been and Drawn

[hornswoggle]

WHO: Alexandrie, Bastien, Leander, Marcoulf, & Vanadi
WHAT: The gang goes to an art show
WHEN: Firstfall
WHERE: Wycome
NOTES: ooc info + no warnings.

The hall turned art gallery for the night is festooned with a wide variety of art. There is a mingling of landscapes, abstractions, portraits, with statues positioned through the center of the venue. The room itself is lavishly decorated, with plush sofas interspersed through the room and angled strategically to provide the best views for those who tire of wandering the room. A bar has been set up offering a variety of fine Antivan wines, served by a pair of haughty, black-clad bartenders, and a trio of elegant servers have been tasked with bearing silver plates of cheeses, grapes and other cleverly skewered finger foods for the taking.

Once the doors open, the room is soon packed with a crowd of Wycome's high society, art enthusiasts, and a smattering of non-committal yet curious wallflowers, potentially here for the free drinks only. The art critics are largely easy to identify; they cluster together periodically, turned away from the knots of people passing from piece to piece, then break apart to return to their examinations. At a glance, there seem to be five critics total, though it's hard to be certain there aren't one or two stragglers evaluating the showing on their own.

There are four artists whose work has been given prime placement, and Bonaiuto Cellini is one of them, though it is likely due to his position as merchant prince rather than because of any great talent. Cellini lingers nearby the displays of his self-portraits, and it is very easy to overhear him discuss both his status as a relative amateur painter, and his belief that were he born to a different life he would have been a great proficient.

The paintings are Fine, I Guess. A series of self-portraits, done in varying palettes and perspectives, are nothing remarkable. If the subject weren't standing so close at hand, it might be even be possible to assume they bear a strong resemblance to their creator.

Agents are left largely to their own devices. The proprietors of the gallery are aware of their presence, so no entry fee has been required. Approach Cellini, critics, or other artists as you please.

Comments

good impression(ist)s; (single thread, flexible tag order)

[esquive]

Pearce has been telling her cohort that she can tell she won't care for Cellini's work clear from the other side of the room. We should find some way of intercepting her before she works her way there.

[This from the quiet and extraordinarily ginger member of Riftwatch who has materialized suddenly back out of the milling crowd. He promptly fills one of his empty hands with a glass from a tray passing within arm's reach, prompting an exasperated look from the server who must have had a planned destination for it.]

marcoulf, ota;

[esquive]

EARLY.
[Not unlike a shark meandering after a fishing boat, Marcoulf drifts casually after one of the critics. The tail could hardly be described as within arm's reach, but he needn't stray too close. The self-serious man's comments to the exceptionally square jawed woman accompanying him are easy enough to overhear: 'Serafine, attend to this brushwork here. Is it not spectacularly aggressive? A bold approach to such delicate subject matter,' and 'See the figures on the hill? Surely that is meant to represent us, the audience,' and so on.

Marcoulf is managing to be perfectly unobtrusive about his eavesdropping until the critic and his associate reach a particularly life like still life, and declares 'I detest it'.

Marcoulf coughs loudly to cover his snort.]

LATE.
[As the evening winds down and there is some room in which to do more than stalking about the hall in an attempt to head off any injury to a Merchant Prince's delicate sensibilities, Marcoulf can be found studying one of the more avant-garde collections. Is it a landscape, or is it a nude painted in ill-suiting shades? Who can say.

Eventually, after a long beat of uninterrupted silence and only after making certain the responsible artist has is outside of earshot (she is a very demure, unassuming woman and has currently been sucked into conversation with a gentleman who gesticulates broadly through every sentence)—]

I don't get it.

LE WILDE CARDE.
(you know how this works.)

post-show mingle;

[esquive]

[The Pearl Diver, one of easily a dozen public houses like it within walking distance of the gallery show, is as good a place as any to rendezvous. After a starved evening with only canapes to eat, the impressive array of small plates served in seemingly endless succession by the kitchen, is a welcome relief and the wine - Antivan, a variety - is all of a higher caliber than whatever the art show's bottle pours had been.

So is it any wonder they've stalled here for an hour? Or maybe it's been two.

Marcoulf, trapped toward the middle of the medieval fantasy booth while the others debrief (and decant) among themselves, is quietly going about his business of working cork free from next bottle of Chasilda sparkling white when the pressure—

POP! The cork rockets across the table to strike one of his companions mid-sentence.]

Ah.

[highborn]

[ Someone has, for the first time ever, been having a lovely time on a mission. This is the kind of thing he's good at, he'd be perfectly pleased never to see anyone waving a weapon threateningly at him ever again.

He's in the middle of relating some story of some humorous moment when he's assaulted, right in the shoulder, and stops with a blink and gesticulating hand frozen. A frown finds Marcoulf. ]

Excuse you. [ If he's not actually offended, then it's a pretty good act of it. He does spoil it a little with the over-dramatic press of hand to his chest, though. ] A little higher and you'd have taken an eye out. I use both of those, thank you.

[esquive]

[Yes, well. Marcoulf makes a small motion with his small finger toward Vanadai's cup. Fair criticism, but does he want a refill?]

Apologies, serah. It's not my weapon of choice.