[OPEN] FRIGHTENING FESTIVITIES

[heirring]

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: Celebrating a totally 100% legit wedding.
WHEN: Summerday
WHERE: Edlingham Hall, the Vinmark Foothills
NOTES: cw: Spectral Violence and Ghostly Gore; if you don't want to deal with the spooky ghost adventure half of the evening, feel free to say your character went back to Kirkwall early rather than staying the night.

PARTY;

A few hours' journey from Kirkwall, the great old shape of the house known as Edlingham Hall rises up from out of the Vinmark foothills. In the decades (ages?) since it's abandonment, what must have once been a very imposing stone structure built in the mountain's shadow has given way to age and the elements. What remains is unequivocally a ruin, albeit a stunningly elaborate one. It's a place of columns and alcoves, gutted passages and weather worn stairs leading to the skeletal remains of old towers and chambers, with everything turned to varying shades of brown and green and as it's been grown over or into by the surrounding landscape. There's hardly a roof remaining to be found in the whole of the place.

Luckily, this particular party doesn't require one. In what might have once been the titular hall, a series of tables and benches (borrowed from the Gallows, thank you very much) have been set up around a stretch of cracked tiles which has been more or less cleared for dancing and everything has been lit amply by a collection of merrily burning braziers.

Party-goers will be treated to a host of entertainment, included but not limited to: at least one speech (thank you, Provost Stark), a half dozen toasts, a rather impressive spread of Orlesian-styled cuisine (no doubt prepared by someone devastated to be expected to do so under such rugged conditions), quite a bit of rather good wine, music, dancing, and a few more avant garde Rifter-influenced party games including a vaguely wyvern-shaped pinata and some heinous game called Snap-Dragon.

And if none of that sounds like a good time, then there are ruins to explore, discreet alcoves to investigate, and a campground pitched in the ruin's shadow where one might retire early from the party with only a stock level of scorn.

AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT;

An eerie mist begins to stream from the cracked tiles of the dance floor. Riftwatch does not count a fog mage among their midst. Was one perhaps hired? Is this a trick of some science? A peculiar feature of the weather in this region? Such murmurs begin to circulate as the mist continues to thicken, and rise, and sour to a sickly pale yellow. It clashes with the decorations. Its touch seems to wither the impossibly sumptuous meal, curdling cream fillings and souring fine meats.

And then the screaming starts.

In the stone frame of an upper window, see her: a woman, in a long pale gown, with a horrible wound around her neck. Her slippers peep over the sill. Blood begins to drip down her front as her mouth opens, and opens, and opens, until her jaw rests upon her bloody chest.

Guests seated at the table will feel some creature bumping against their legs--something big, and solid, and hot, and hairy. When they pull away in horror, they will find nothing at all beneath the table. But the growling will not stop, nor will the crunching of teeth on bone.

The twisted figure of a man rises from a pile of tumble-down stone. His limbs hang at loose and unnerving angles. One arm has been crushed and droops down too low, brushing at his warped knee. His face is a mask of pain, and his left eye bulges as if ready to burst. Pressure has thrust his circlet of gold low on his brow, cinching his balding head. He shuffles toward the party, reaching with his ruined hands for human flesh. Or perhaps a cup of wine.

A headless body comes running out from the rotting main keep. It is wearing armor but is otherwise without identity. From its stump of a neck sprays a great geyser of blood, spatting party-goers and the ground and the food and whatever else is in its way. Its graying hands are reaching, but without a head, its path is random and monstrous, trampling over anything and anyone without regard. Or it would, if it weren’t spectral.

The ghosts must be stopped. Find the source of the haunting or this marriage will be ruined.

Those not interested in tracking down the source of the haunting will soon discover that the fog which has wreathed Edlingham Hall has become quite impenetrable. Attempting to escape the grounds will result in being impossibly turned around and eventually spit any would-be escapee back into the ruin. Solving the mystery may be optional, but experiencing the haunting by the aforementioned ghosts (and any other thematically appropriately specters your heart might desire for the convenience of creeping out your characters) apparently isn't.

Comments

GHOSTBUSTERS;

[heirring]

With escape from the Hall blocked by the impenetrable fog, it's up to intrepid ghost hunters to find the source of the haunting. The ruin is home to a fantastic variety of spectral manifestations taking on the gory shapes, sounds, and gruesome deaths of the ruin's long string of previous occupants. And while the projections themselves are intangible, there is something very real lurking in the ruin alongside the party goers. What begins as relatively minor poltergeist activity - a brazier falling over, decorative streamers coming unpinned - intensifies as any self-elected ghost hunting parties begin to move in the "right" direction.

Eventually, using the tried and true "you're getting warmer" in proportion to the intensity of the haunting technique, a group will stumble upon an overgrown passage cut into the very stones which make up the ruin's foundation. This passage will lead to an underground crypt populated by a host of statues depicting the denizens of the Hall (including what must have been a beloved hunting dog). Each statue has an urn balanced in its upturned hands (or between its front paws).

The oldest statue is wearing a very real ancient battle helm matching what remains of a particular headless ghost's armor. The old Tevene helm has been spellbound with a spirit which has, over many many ages, become just powerful enough to get inventive. The crypt will need to be infiltrated, various ceremonial swords made into projectiles dodged, and the helm will have to be destroyed or dispossessed to end the haunting.

((ooc: one group thread, no tag order, chaos reigns. Start wherever you feel compelled but give folks time to pile in before getting to the crypt and solving The Mystery. Feel free to make up reasons for your character to come in late or leave early as the spirit(s) compels you.))

[kantikoy]

After drunkenly attempting to herd the non-combatants or otherwise not so useful members of the wedding celebration away from the fog, and finding that task apparently impossible, Adrasteia has had enough.

There are so many broken glasses. Her carefully arranged decorations are mostly ruined. The food has almost entirely gone off as a result of all these shenanigans and she's drunk, she's tired, and she isn't looking forward to having to clean any of this up later.

So.

Armed with her staff (because she's a Warden battlemage, who would travel somewhere and leave their staff behind?) which had been tucked away underneath the table of wedding gifts, Adrasteia hisses at the specter of a small child reaching up at her with no hands, just bloody stumps.

"Get. Away. From. Here." She slashes at the ghost which dissipates in front of her.

wysteria | ota

[heirring]

party;

At every wedding Wysteria has ever been to, the newly minted husband and wife sit at some remove and are expected to reign over the party in its entirety like a miniature lord and lady of some importance. But candidly, she has always been of the opinion that it seemed quite dull not to be able to enjoy your very own party and so Wysteria has judiciously neglected to mention anything about that particular Kalvadan tradition to anyone who had asked after them during the event's planning stages.

Wysteria—in her best rose-colored dress and faintly clinking from the collection of copper coins tacked decoratively along the hems, draped in strands of what must be borrowed pearls—lasts in her ceremonial post at the head table for only an hour or two. During that time, she is game enough to weather various toasts and speeches, accepting congratulations and handshakes and whatever wishes (well- or otherwise) which might come her way.

But once the wine has had a little time to flow, Wysteria cheerfully contrives to be whisked off to the dance floor by any willing partner, or insinuates herself into enthusiastic conversation—("I imagine it is very like the Crossroads, in a sense. It is the Fade, and the places where Rifters comes from as the destinations one might reach through the eluvians. Only rather than passing literally through the mirror, only the Rifter's reflection travels through it. A copy, as it were.") ("If you were Queen Anora, what sort of suitor would you wish for?") ("Were it not prohibitively expensive to experiment with, I might wish to explore the utility of a sort of...lyrium lacquer as a way of temporaily boosting enchantments.")—with anyone (un)fortunate enough to be drawn into her orbit.

ghost adventures;

The first piercing scream curdles along the length and depth of the hall. The music shrieks to a halt. Dancers pause mid-stride. From where she has retired once more to her seat of the head table and was a moment ago neck deep in an perfectly enjoyable argument-slash-debate over some passage out of a recently published treatise dissecting The Canticle of Benedictions Through a Wartime Lens, Wysteria loudly barks out a thoroughly displeased:

"Why must this always happen?"

And then the night goes thoroughly to shit.

wildcard;

You know. Whatever.

enthusiastic conversation

[kantikoy]

"Hold on."

Adrasteia blinks at Wysteria seriously as she runs through her mind what the other woman just said, and then runs it through again in order to be sure she heard right.

"You think that the Rifters here are just... reflections of their real selves?"

enthusiastic conversation.

[ipseite]

“I think of it more as divergence — I would not wish to imply of either of ourselves that we are, in some fashion, lesser than what we left behind us, and it is a difficult enough thing for some to stomach,”

not her, granted; it is freeing if sometimes complicating the way that she thinks of herself, her history, and her relationship to what she knows followed after it.

party;

[archademode]

"Lady Poppell, my congratulations to you." Armor an unsettling mien besides rose lace and pearl droplets, he bows his head with no less grace for all the harshness of his own regalia. Something he trusts she'll forgive, knowing all past exchanges held in private.

He’s brought wine, of course, though the purchase made far too late (her announcement had been...unusually quick in nature, though marriages of arrangement often are in his experience) to make his gift anything even slightly exotic in nature.

Still, it’s a finer bottle by local standards, wrapped with care and granted with just as much of it, setting it gingerly atop the table at her side.

"It does us all benefit to see you flourish so."

A pause lingers there at the edge of formality, before a faint edge catches just beneath his tone:

"I trust he is a worthy match."

party

[acreage]

"I'm not much of a dancer," is his warning.

But he's warm, indulgent, as they make their way out to the dance floor. The truth is, whatever his hesitation when she'd asked, it's hard to deny her. This is, after all, her wedding day, and it's nice to see her enjoy herself like this.

party;

[sparklequeen]

Glimmer is still getting used to this whole Thedas thing but having a nice, normal party to go to where people drink and eat and have a good time? That's refreshingly normal after the last few months. So she stuffs herself with the food and the wine and eventually finds herself stumbling up to the head table to offer her congratulations. Dressed in borrowed finery (mostly in blues, oddly) She makes a sort of bowing curtsy (she is not used to wearing skirts most of the time) and rises with her circlet gleaming on her forehead.

"Congratulations. And many happy returns on the day!" That's what you're supposed to say, right?

"This is my first party in Thedas and it almost feels like home."

dance floor

[degenere]

At some point, or perhaps even points, the bride and groom do find themselves the opportunity to dance together. This is both customary and expected of them.

During this time, the music is quite loud, and while Wysteria and Val remain remarkable as the celebrated couple of the evening, the attention is largely elsewhere during the dancing as everyone concentrates upon their steps and their partners. And even if that were not the case, who could blame the happy couple for finding a moment of intimate conversation to themselves?

"You are very wrong about Suard," Val is saying, intimately, into his wife's ear, "and I can tell that you did not read a word of the Verreau that I left for you to read. How else can you explain your incredible opinion of Suard's findings in the Brecilian Forest? If you had read Verreau you would understand Suard's position."

dance floor

[overharrowed]

Enough time has passed that she's had dances with her new husband and, presumably, some of the friend she's closer to when Julius turns up with a small bow. It is doubtless outside influence that he's dressed in a tunic and trousers, but it is Julius's own eye that led to fine tailoring and fabrics sturdy enough for outdoors but decorative enough for a special occasion. His dominant color note is a muted gold shading into a warm brown, and if it sets off violet particularly well, that's hardly an accident either.

"I was given to understand," he says with a faint smile, "that I have offered insufficient dancing at Riftwatch events in the past. Will you help me in my project to make up the deficit?"

ghost

[muckspout]

"This happened to you before?" He asks lightly.

He had just been about to tap her shoulder when the screams started echoing. He hasn't been to many weddings, but he's familiar enough to know what is supposed to happen.

Ghosts, on the other hand, he's less familiar with.

"Congratulations!" He offers warmly.

jone | ota.

[poleaxed]

Because it's a wedding, Jone didn't bother bringing arms or armor. Her intention was to scrub herself clean and drink and dance. And she does-- looking cleaner than usual, hair carefully pulled back in a neat braid, Jone is content on the dance floor. In the lulls between songs, (a) she's only interested in pulling more in, grabbing the hand of passers by. "C'mon, this song's just grand."

Of course, it can't be a normal wedding, no. There have to be ghosts. (b) Seeing a headless knight approach, Jone screams and throws an instinctual punch. Her arm clangs on dirty metal. "Fuck!"

But she seems to be rallying for another strike, holding a nearby chair as a weapon.

Later, she can be found quite scuffed up and dirty, (c) trying to corner a dead woman, all over with blood. In her sword hand is a lit torch, and the other hand is using a dinner plate as a shield.

Desperate times, you know.

c.

[littlemissfutility]

Beth's tired and merry--and sober, for that matter--when everything goes to hell. It's a familiar kind of fear at the back of her neck, seeing the dead shamble forward from the darkened parts of the ruins.

I did this, is her first thought. They're here because of me.

She still has her knife on her, even though it's a party. (It's not like she has anything fancy to wear, anyway. She did the best she could, but who's going to be that dressed up on a camping trip?) And right about now, it comes in handy. Scurrying around, stabbing things where she has to, trying to figure out who to talk to in the chaos--at least she's prepared.

She doesn't hesitate when she sees an unbelievably tall woman brandishing a torch at a walker. (They probably aren't walkers. But they act like them--) Marching up to the dead woman, Beth grabs her by one shoulder and stabs her in the temple, right where her jaw and her skull join.

Byerly, ota

[bouchonne]

i. party
[ Byerly is drunk, and he is playing the fiddle magnificently. Absolutely magnificently. No matter what you think about the man, he is a talented musician, able not just to play a reel or a ballad or, hell, improvise something at a moment's notice, but to sometimes even do so while participating in the dancing himself. As long as the steps are familiar, he can skip them lithely, participating in a gavotte or a quadrille without missing more than a note here and there. ]

Hey! [ He cries at the end of a song, and then throws back a glass of wine in two gulps. ]

ii. ghost
[ By the time the ghosts show up, Byerly is properly shitfaced. And so his reaction to this spookiness, this truly terrifying monstrousness, is to grin and laugh, and say confidingly to his neighbor: ]

You know, I feel a bit like this is a metaphor.

iii. wildcard
[ you know how it goes. ]

i

[lumelume]

Hey! [is echoed by the drummer, whose shirt came off a long time ago-- never mind why-- and he's a grinning mess of sweat and curly hair as he shakes his hands out to ease the soreness from hours of keeping the beat.]

zoya | ota

[novokribirsk]

party

You'd never know that attending wasn't Zoya's idea. She wears her long hair in an elegant twist, woven with a ribbon of midnight blue. Her dress is the same color, shimmering silk that flatters her figure. Her only jewelry is a silver bracelet at her wrist, studded with bone. It's possible that she's blown whatever cash she received from Riftwatch, so far, on this dress and having a kefta made. But she has priorities.

She doesn't particularly give a damn about the bride or groom, but she applauds politely at the right times, listens to speeches without (much) comment, drinks in time with toasts. (The wine, at least, is nice.)

During the dinner she may frown at some delicacy or other, but pride keeps her from asking what a particular dish is supposed to be. Still, her hesitation may be noticeable before she tries some new food or other. She doesn't immediately move to stand when the night turns to dancing, but she does watch, and she may consider invitations.

Surprisingly, she's keen on Snap-Dragon. Pomdrakon she calls it, and reaches for burning raisins without fear, eats them with relish.

Eventually, she seeks some time alone — and may be found passing through erstwhile hallways and alcoves of Edlingham Hall, considering a staircase, or a flaking, faded painting half grown over with ivy. Or maybe she notices someone else looking around, and her voice rings out jarringly above the faint ebb of the party:

"Don't touch that door. Unless you enjoy pieces of architecture smashing your skull."

spooks

Saints, she knew coming here was a bad idea. She might not have guessed that there would be hideous ghosts, it's true, but it's the principle of the thing. What matters is: she was right.

She'd attempted to clear the fog, at first, instinctively raising her arms to summon a gust of wind that had done absolutely nothing but knock over a table and shatter a particularly expensive-looking vase of flowers.

She can be found facing down the headless body, her arms outstretched, curls falling out of her coiffure, and a look of pure disgust on her face. She snaps,

"Can't you do that without making a mess?"

Again: priorities. What is she supposed to do, run around with a dead man's blood in her hair and splashed across her dress? Revolting. But she's unafraid, moves with easy grace as she summons, truthfully much more comfortable surrounded by shambling ghosts than she had been during the festivities.

wildcard

[ you know what to do ]

party @ the dinner table;

[kantikoy]

"It's veal," comes the unprompted answer to the unasked question. The elven woman who has spoken up Zoya may have noticed welcoming people earlier as they came in, or listening to the complaints of the head chef for this little shindig. "It's not bad, actually. I think you should try it."

Presuming she eats meat, which... well. Adrasteia doesn't know anyone who doesn't, so that'd be new.

dick | ota

[nonvenomous]

PARTY:

Why.

Why is he here?

Silas is here because he was invited. The entirety of Riftwatch was invited.

He’s notable on the celebration’s outskirts only for his stillness, at odds with lively dancing and raisin-snatching while he watches the glitter of Wysteria’s dress while she whirls, raucous laughter over splashes of burning brandy, and so on. He has a drink in hand to blend, and is finely dressed in a dark blue jacket with copper buttons, no open evidence of any knives on his person.

Having obviously learned from past experiences, he is well back enough to avoid being snatched directly onto the dance floor while he’s busy skulking.

ALCOVE:

Caught out one too many times, or simply left to his own devices, he eventually retreats into a darkened alcove to smoke. The music is muffled from here, fiddle and all, traces of conversation and laughter harder to hear.

He raises the match before it goes out, lifting long shadows across mossy stone and flows of ivy trailing upward. After a time, Thot appears atop the edge of a crumbling wall to keep a lookout, black on black in the dark.

It’s not quite midnight yet, but who’s keeping track on a night like this?

alcove;

[kantikoy]

"Oh, you came!"

Adrasteia spotted Richard earlier but there were too many people between the two of them for her to say anything; she didn't want to scream towards him across the 'room', as it were, so she's pleasantly surprised to have found him again after he disappeared earlier.

She looks up and spots Thot and smiles before turning that same smile on to Richard.

"Would you be interested in dancing with me?"

adrasteia | ota

[kantikoy]

early arrivals & setting up;

It's barely sunup when Adrasteia, in a green and cream dress (Riftwatch colors! kind of) arrives at Edlingham Hall along with several wagons of borrowed Gallows furniture, braziers, and party decorations.

She's busy for the next few hours running around, lifting things with her small but strong arms, listening as Pierre, Madame d'Asgard's personal chef, yells about the time constraints, the lack of amenities, and how it is frankly quite insane to expect him to pull a party of this size out of a ruin in the mountains, a few servants, and one mage.

Adrasteia nods along, understandingly, as she winds streamers around pieces of pillars and stuffing the (slightly misshapen) Wyvern pinata full of small wrapped candies and treats. There's also an open bottle of wine next to her that Pierre declared was not up to snuff for cooking; she may be taking sips from a glass of it.

It may be early, but this promises to be a long day.

Feel free to interrupt her as she busybodies around, or to have ridden up into the mountains with her; she won't have turned away assistance.

the party underway;

The bottle of wine that Pierre had 'gifted' her has long since been finished, and Adrasteia has not stopped drinking as people began arriving from Riftwatch in droves. She welcomes most of the arrivals in person, in the earlier part of the day, and thanks them for coming, pointing out where the food and games are.

Once people are eating, and dancing, she stops with the greetings and decides to enjoy herself, which means occasionally sampling the food, or putting out a brazier that got knocked over (by the wind?), rehanging streamers, or simply coming up to someone and asking "Would you like to dance?"

She won't be too put out if you say no.

a haunting we will go;

Adrasteia is good and drunk, come midnight, and she frowns at the fog rolling in, peering at the sky first before sweeping an arm to try and cast the fog away.

It doesn't work, and that just has her frowning more deeply.

Then the food turns bad and several specters show up and Adrasteia literally throws her hands in the air. "What is going on?"

haunting

[lumelume]

Mado has stepped carefully to put his back to Adrasteia's, close enough that they can speak quietly and positioned such that they can call out in warning to one another, if necessary.

"I don't think this is part of the party," he whimpers, clutching his tambourine to his chest.

petrana de cedoux | open

[ipseite]

party

Despite some misgivings — that were not shared by her companions for the event — Madame de Cedoux arrives for the Poppell-de Fonce nuptials in the company of Julius, Marcus, and (most importantly) Vysvolod, who looks to have been groomed as well as given a violet ribbon to wear in place of his usual collar. It is violet, matched to the vibrant royal hue of the velvet riding habit that Petrana is wearing; a colour that quite probably no one present has ever seen her wear, and of a fashion just distinct enough it might be correctly deduced to be, as she is, Lamorran. It is, if not the finest thing she now owns, certainly more than fine enough to fit Wysteria's brief for an elegant juxtaposition with nature: the outfit is complete with matching gloves and hat, the latter tilted fashionably over curls pinned elaborately enough someone was probably paid for their trouble and the high collar covering her usual adornment of jet. She has a small, neat pair of amethyst earrings with drop pearls, and it would be fair to say she's pushed the boat out on this one.

While it is her inclination to hover near her companions, partly of preference and partly because she isn't entirely sure that unleashing Marcus on a wedding is the cleverest thing she's ever done, it is possible to catch Petrana apart from them (if not, generally, from her dog: he is a frankly enormous wolfhound who will be inspecting all approaches) as she is quite possibly not actually capable of attending any sort of gathering without making a game attempt to mingle, network, and manage.

She always seems to have a drink; she is almost never seen drinking it.

haunting

( i'm going to tag out for this, but please feel free to wildcard me or hmu for something specific. )

[poleaxed]

Jone feels a sort of agnosticism toward dogs that borders on parodic. Having spent so much of her late youth and early adulthood in Orlais, where she was simply the Fereldan, dogs are an odd, strange sore spot. She doesn't like them. She doesn't hate them. She's never had one. She doesn't want to.

Possibly it's that strange bitterness that makes this dog-- clearly a fine hunter in potentiality at least, yet wrapped in a bright bow-- so hilarious. Jone, sitting at a nearby table, drops food off the side for him to eat. It's a strange sort of pleasure, being able to afford this level of waste, dropping food off for hounds like some lord.

When Jone catches sight of her, it's pretty bloody obvious who the owner of the dog is. They match, and ain't that grand? Jone's face splits into an unbeautiful grin. "Hope he's not a gift. Might eat the bride."

tony stark. ota.

[propulsion]

SPEECH;

Somewhere in the middle of the toasts, Tony Stark, dressed in a suit of deep crimson velvet, cleaned up nice and neat, aggressively strikes a fancy cheese knife against a crystal glass filled with something that is not the colour of wine, but is probably straight up liquor, and he starts to give a toast as well.

Or that's what you'd think it was, until it keeps going, and is in fact, a speech. It has been going for several minutes now.

"—which isn't to say that marriage is like being trapped in a house that's on fire," Tony is saying. "I'm just saying that between these two, the risk becomes exponentially higher, and that's when they're actually getting along."

His non-drink-wielding hand spreads. Am I right, folks? Anyway.

"Oh my god, I almost forgot that one time we filled the basement with noxious flammable gas 'cause of this bad reaction with the corrupted pyrophite? Do you remember?" is addressed fleetingly at the bride herself, before pivoting back to his rapt audience. "And immediately ventilating meant absolutely creating a fire hazard throughout that entire block of Hightown which is extremely not up to code, but at the same time, in not doing that, we'd be potentially creating a situation where the whole house? That we were in? Would explode catastrophically and kill us and everyone within a half mile radius," and he laughs, easy, "so good thing it was raining because we definitely had to ventilate anyway, and looking back, I'm like, that's so us."

A fond pause, and then a gesture;

"Circling back, I just want to put it out there that I saw this whole thing coming a mile away. There are not two people in Thedas who are more perfect for each other than Val de Foncé and my very good friend, esteemed colleague, and I want to say, like, little sister sort of dynamic, found family thing going on? Wysteria Poppell. We are all extremely fascinated by what's happening here, and wish you many years of marital bliss. Mazel tov."

He hefts his glass in their direction, and knocks it right back.

GOOD SPIRITS;

For 70% of the time, Tony is in good spirits, on account of the good spirits he is imbibing. He will dance, equal parts likely to invite a lady onto the floor as he is to accept an offer. He will swing at the piñata. He will play cornhole. He will sit and talk and be gregarious.

The other 30% kicks off when he wanders away from he festivities, into the ruins, holding his crystal glass of something or other. He considers the contents, the temptation to just down it, and then sniffs and with a casual flick of his wrist, splashes the contents out into some crumbled stone corner, and sets the glass down on the outstretched hand of a stone statue.

"Keep the change," he says, and moves out further into the ruins, not flinching at the sound of the glass slipping off its precarious perch and shattering on the tile.

BAD SPIRITS;

Tony is too drunk for this, but will absolutely try to haul off and punch the nearest ghost, sending himself into staggering chaos against the nearest table of fancy cakes and dessert wines.

bad spirits.

[poleaxed]

By this point, Jone is hungry for a fight, ready to go, ready to forget whatever frustration she's feeling in a brawl. Tony barreling past her and into a carefully balanced tower of tiny cakes takes the wind right from her sails, and a grin resurfaces on her face.

"Maker, but you don't mess about, do you?" She doesn't know who this man is, but decides she likes him purely because it's easier, in this moment, to do so than not. Standing between him and the approaching ghost, Jone squares up for a less desperate fight.

Val de Foncé, groom || ota

[degenere]

i - party.

Even when one is disinherited, one may remain socially in favor among certain sets--as a novelty, as a bold choice in guest, as a true friend who simply must be in attendance to certain gatherings--and so Val de Foncé is a veteran of weddings. This is, of course, his first as a participant of an elevated nature. He takes well to the role. His clothes are very new, and very fine--a tailcoat in a lighter blue than he normally favors (robin's egg, it might be said) with silver stitching, cut in the elegant and very modern fashion of Orlais to show off the fitted and high-buttoned and deeply patterned waistcoat. The cascade of the cravat is like a waterfall, the silk draping very finely. He is maskless, and where this might be scandalous in other circles, here it seems quite natural. Would not a groom want to meet his bride bare of face, taken as he is?

Like Wysteria, he does not remain in his place at the head table for very long at all. He takes time to eat the meal, accepts whatever congratulations are offered to him, joins in the toasts--and before the night has grown very old, even makes a toast of his own.

"Madames, monsieurs, and everyone in between, please! Raise your glasses--they must be full glasses, in Orlais it is bad luck to toast without a drop of wine--so fill them, if they are empty, and raise them high to this," a grand gesture toward Wysteria, as he spins on his heel, "ma cœur, ma puce, ma crevette en sucre--my wife! There is none finer among Riftwatch--my apologies to all others, but there is no competition. She is most clever, most beautiful, most argumentative, goldest of hair and sharpest of wit--truly, a specimen among specimens. To think that it took a Rift to bring us together! That such things would be possible. It is fate, to find such a love, and upon this day, I am the luckiest. Drink, to my wife, and to love!"

Soon after, he's off among the guests. And he must be enjoying himself, because there is a mania to him. Here he is, dancing, and pressing anyone reluctant to join in with the dancing with great cajoling. "It is bad luck to refuse to dance with the groom! It is tradition, in Orlais, to accept his invitation. You must."

Then he is conversing, laughing at jests, clapping people on the back when they make particularly witty or astute observances. And, of course, arguing. "But no! If one really wishes to understand the historical understanding of the mating ritual of the dragon, then Pretre must be read first. Of course we now, these days, have preeminent firsthand accounts. But the scholarship conducted by Prete cannot be argued with as a valuable resource. She was so right, about so much!"

Yet even his arguments do not last long. He tires of them quickly--much more quickly than usual--and cuts them off by physically turning away and seeking out a better conversation, ignoring any attempts to engage him again, as is a groom's right.

ii - ghost adventure.

Val is pouring yet another glass of wine when the crushed man rises from the rubble. The fall of rock is positioned right behind the drink table--and even if it were not, the specter lunges for the bottles with a drunkard's keen eye, mangled hands reaching.

Val sets down the wine bottle. He picks up his glass, drains half of it in one go, then turns to whoever is stood beside him.

"I am not, perhaps, dreaming? This--" The ghost, whose progress is impeded by his twisted legs. "This is really happening? At my wedding? A spirit?"

iii - wildcard!

party - conversing

[youwonscience]

Cosima hasn't had a chance to see Val in more than passing since she returned, but she has plenty of leftover goodwill from their scientific endeavors during her previous trip to Thedas. It's with real enthusiasm then, that she congratulates him when the flow of the party draws them together.

It's probably inevitable, though, that they end up talking about dragons.

"OK, but like ... no one has actually ever explained to me, right. Are drakes just immature dragons? Or are they a totally separate thing, the way ponies aren't just young horses? Because it's been bothering me, and I feel like some people will tell Rifters anything, 'cause it's funny." She's got a glass in hand, but the intensity is mostly just temperament and only a little bit alcohol.

Mado | ota

[lumelume]

I. Wedding Band

Perhaps everyone was invited, but Mado was invited with purpose: he is here to play the drums, and that is exactly what he's doing. His generally cheerful countenance has given way to a frenzied energy, expertly and elaborately keeping the beat using only his hands on a pair of goblet drums, a bodhran, a tambourine, whatever's called for in any particular dance.

He does have the habit of speeding things up, but only in the interest of making the steps more lively and the energy higher. It's never by accident.

II. Breaktime

Occasionally, between songs, Mado will slip away to the food table to pile up on snacks and keep his buzz going. He can be found at these times wolfing down canapés like he's never eaten before in his life, but is quick to pause and chat should somebody flag him down.
He's not sober, per se, but he could be a lot drunker too. Maybe he just holds his liquor well.

III. Spooky Scary (first come first serve)

When everything explodes into ghosts and screaming, Mado's first instinct is to leap into the arms of the nearest person, hugging around their neck for support.
He doesn't weigh too much, at least.

IV. Wildcard

nikolai | ota.

[rezni]

party.

Both bride and groom are relative unknowns. However, they're soon to be coworkers, and certainly that's more than enough reason to be present at a somewhat questionable wedding ceremony.

What better opportunity is there to meet all the people supposedly dedicated to the same cause than at a party with drink in hand? He couldn't have asked for better circumstances. (Ha.)

Ergo, Nikolai is mingling. His route takes him through the crowd, making him easy to draw into conversation or onto the dance floor, or maybe you need someone to challenge to a game of snap-dragon? Just say the word, and Nikolai's your man.

exploration.

Typically, a monarch is expected to be present, highly visible and affecting genial enjoyment of proceedings when invited to make an appearance at any sort of festivity. But it does beg the question:

Does a visiting monarch need adhere to that rule when no one here recognizes him as a monarch?

Clearly Nikolai's decided there's enough doubt as to the necessity of adhering to familiar protocols to edge from the midst of the celebrations to the stairs and the alcove overlooking the main room. Crouching, he runs a gloved hand across the carvings, careful not to apply undue pressure or disturb the overgrown ivy more than necessary. None of it is familiar, unsurprisingly, but it's interesting to see some commonality in the pattern.

Not that he gets to continue that train of thought, interrupted by another intrepid explorer.

"It's in surprisingly good condition, despite the fact that the roof's fallen in," Nikolai says, straightening and turning towards the sound of approaching footsteps. "I admit, I'm sorry not to have better light to examine these carvings by."

Is this a bigger draw than the wedding party? Well, maybe.

wildcard.

do whatever, i'm down for it.

exploration

[sparklequeen]

Glimmer has taken the chance to get away from the hubbub of the wedding. She's flushed slightly from the several glasses of wine and ducks into one of the many overgrown alcoves--only to find that it is already occupied by one of the other guests. She blinks, takes a moment to process what he's said. Dressed in borrowed finery and with her regal circlet set on her forehead with its singular white gemstone, she makes quite the figure as she stumbles in.

"Oh, yes. The roof..." She looks up for a moment and tries to fight down the slightly drunk feeling threatening to overwhelm her. Really she should have slowed down earlier. She touches a hand to the side of her head.

"I might be able to help with that--" She flicks her hand and a softly glowing orb of light manifests itself above her palm. Leaning forward she holds it out towards the carvings and faintly lilac light floods the small space.

"Is that better?"

Diana | OTA

[truthtied]

i. Party

In deference to Wysteria's sensibilities, Diana does not show up in her usual preference for draped gowns, rather a dark blue Orlesian gown, as understated as an Orlesian tailor could be compelled to make it. The skirts have more volume than she's accustomed to, occasionally leaving her to contemplate narrower spaces, not entierly clear on how to negotiate around them. Despite the skirts dilemma, she's intrigued by the dancing watching on the outskirts unless she's pulled in to join.

The dragon piñata is met with bemusement, she really hadn't expected the suggestion to expand beyond one questionable garden party.

ii. Ghosts

The gown does not survive the headless ghost. Which is the best that can be said for the gory scene in general, accompanied by the low growl of some irritable creature.

"Well, I suppose other than making a mess and being rather horrifying, this one isn't as bad," Diana says, busying herself with flipping the table clothes up onto the table. She doesn't expect she'll find the beast in question, but it does cover up some of the phantom gore.

iii. Wildcard

i.

[kantikoy]

"Oh, I love your dress," Adrasteia says, having stepped away from the dancing for a moment to mingle on the fringes. She doesn't recognize Diana by presence, but would by voice. "It's a lovely color."

bastien | ota

[cozen]

party.

Bastien spends most of the evening behind either a cello or a lute, draped across a chair and around the instruments with a casual, lazy-looking affect that belies both how good he is (very) and how seriously he takes this unpaid volunteer role (extremely). He keeps wine at his feet, one eye on his more freewheeling and athletic bandmates, and his other eye on the energy and mood of the attendees. But despite that eye-crossing multitasking, he can carry on a conversation if someone has a seat nearby. Especially during the more sedate songs. Especially-especially if someone would like to bring him a plate of food.

And he isn't literally chained to the chair. He can be intercepted on his way to fetch himself seconds on the food, and maybe thirds. When others have the music covered well enough without him he might slide up next to a wallflower to ask, "Do you dance?" And when there's a lull in the dancing, he spends a decently long break strolling through the ruins, enjoying a cigarette and making a game of finding and throwing stones through each of the crumbling windows he passes.

haunting.

The same way his first instinct when he's hurt is to smile, his first instinct when the screaming figure appears—pushing his growing wariness at the fog over the edge into proper alarm—is to laugh.

That doesn't last long.

There's a knife in one boot and a dagger in his cello's traveling case, to which he rather calmly returns the cello, like the precious treasure it is, before thinking about anything else. Just as he shuts the case, the headless body careens past, spouting blood. Bastien steps back and holds up both hands in its wake, splattered and looking about the same level of aghast most people would demonstrate if a carriage had thrown mud—but for him, that's a big display.

"Shit," he says. A quiet, I'm not made for this, frightened sort of shit.

wildcard me.

party.

[deuselfmachina]

"This is why I could never be a musician."

Like most Orlesians who learned Trade later in life, Florent speaks much faster in his native tongue, which isn't so much skill based so much as the way the language itself operates. Each word strung together in a cohesive stream of sound. It's nice to return to, now and then, and so Florent addresses Bastien as such as he arrives nearer. He is dressed for the party in draping, shimmering articles of clothing, shades of bright blue and violet, and dustier dabs of matching colour in the corners of his eyes.

With a plate of food, too, which he hovers up a little like he will be playing keep-away before lowering it down for the other man to take from. On it is a selection of bite-sized morsels, but plenty of them, and only half of them is cake.

So that was nice of him. "All of the hard work," he explains, glancing out towards the party where people dance and speak and laugh over the subtle song being played currently, "none of the attention."

beth.

[littlemissfutility]

Look, Beth's not going to turn down a party when she's invited. Even if she's not all that prepared to dress up nice, she manages to find pants and a shirt that aren't spattered with blood--and, out in the middle of nowhere, she figures she can probably get away with the hunting knife at her waist.

She hangs back for a lot of the dancing, though it's less for lack of interest than lack of experience. And she's a little fascinated by the food, trying little bites of everything and maybe asking you if you know what this or that is.

She sings at least one song for the sake of the festivities. Maybe more--maybe up on stage, maybe just for an audience of one or two.

It's when the ghosts come out that things shift. The warmth drains from her face, replaced by a brittle sort of determination, clenching her knife and her jaw both. When she fights a ghost, she always aims for the head. And she's as quiet about everything as she can possibly manage.

After, once whatever happened is over, she finds a quiet corner to hunch up in, an empty dark window to stare out of while she hugs her knees to her chest.

[ ...or something else, hmu or wildcard it. ]

[archademode]

It would be best if you left.

[Most have already gone, requiring no additional cause or care in the wake of the wedding’s ghoulish conclusion. He lingers still to ensure nothing further goes awry— that the work of those who put to rest restless bones will stay as such, and that Wysteria and her betrothed will sleep at least a touch easier tonight knowing there will be no long-lasting repercussions.

He stands near when he approaches her tightly coiled figure, armor still fitted with lingering blood and a few specks of fragranced debris. He’ll tend to it later.]

There is nothing that remains here to be seen to.

[Says the man that remains, seeing to a great deal.]

vanya | ota

[wearyallalone]

party

Vanya was not sure how optional the optional wedding party was, so he's erred on the side of caution. His best clothes are not especially flashy, but they do fit well and are in good condition, at least. (It occurred to him while packing that he's never had to attend a formal event as an adult without having a dress uniform; it's an odd realization and makes him faintly wish he had a Riftwatch alternative.)

Dinner is easy enough. He knows what's expected and can make polite small talk with whoever ends up sitting next to him. He may even relax a bit, if the conversation goes well and he has a glass of wine or two (though he's nowhere near drunk at any point in the evening). He is, of course, sure to congratulate both bride and groom, despite being more or less a stranger. It's what one does.

After dinner, he's at a bit more of a loose end, though he seems content enough to listen to the music and nurse a bit more wine. He'll talk with anyone who approaches him, and he won't refuse to dance, if asked. But left to his own devices, he stays to the periphery, a tall man doing his best impression of a pillar.

party - closed to Benevenuta

He notices her working her way toward him at some point before she actually makes it. When she arrives, he says, "You're looking well," both because she is and it's enough of a habitual greeting that it's nearly a joke. "Are you enjoying the wedding? It was very generous to invite all of Riftwatch, I think." The impression he's gotten is that both spouses are a bit prone to large, semi-planned gestures, but still. Generous even so.

haunting

Vanya didn't come expecting ghosts, but he's arguably better suited for this than for a party. He notices the cream curdle at the touch of the fog and he's already moving to retrieve his sword from the tent where he'd stowed it before the screaming begins.

While his initial intention was to join those hunting down the haunting's source, he gets separated from that group early on. Rather than trying to find them again, he begins systematically searching for guests who may be panicking or otherwise in distress, with the idea of steering them into clusters that can allow for both better defense and perhaps the calmer agents to prove a tether for less calm colleagues. He'll doubtless encounter both those who might want to offer help and those in need of it before the situation resolves.

wildcard

[Choose your own adventure.]