faderift | [open + closed]

"I think her birthday is the best time to stand us up," says Byerly. "It's like a present to herself. Knowing she's leaving us here, stewing, thinking about nothing but her? Maker, I love standing people up." He presses a hand to his chest. "There's no better way to make someone obsessed with you."

He waves a hand, allowing Bastien's dibs (though since these two dreadful, horrible men allowed the lady to buy the first round, it really is Alexandrie's call).

The aforementioned generous lady is frowning theatrically as she reaches to gently tap Bastien's hand with the tip of her fan in a motion cleverly exaggerated such that an onlooker might think she'd thwapped him.

"You cannot dibs Fifi's wine," she whispers loudly into the lulling sound of the crowd. "She will believe I did not think to provide her a glass!"

After a pause, into the near silence presumably just before the performer steps out, she finishes with a wildly scandalized exhortation: "On her birthday!"

The lights dim, the music starts up, and a master of ceremonies emerges to begin the show. He introduces himself, the musicians, and now, with a grand gesture, the moment everyone has been waiting for: the girls, with a dance certain to drop jaws and tighten trousers, all the way from Val Royeaux!

The kickline enters, colorful ruffled skirts swirling in perfect unison. They cross the stage in a line, then converge, weaving in and out of one another, a red-painted smile on every half-masked face. The crowd, comprised of regulars and newcomers alike, is losing its mind.

To the astute eye, the elf danceuse in emerald green has a familiar frame, her sausage-curled russet hair bouncing joyfully (as the rest of her is a bit too thin to do so) as she sweeps to the center for her brief introductory solo and performs an energetic triple pirouette in two-inch heels.
The air is electric, her grin contagious as she prances to the side and makes way for the next soloist.

Edited 2021-06-11 05:27 (UTC)

"She will not think anything if she does not come," Bastien whispers loudly back in defense of his claim, despite the man introducing the act. "If she comes before I start drinking it, then she can have it back and I will tell her I am a thief, but if—"

This is where the fellow says Val Royeaux and thus actually manages to capture Bastien's attention. He may be immune to jaw-dropping and trouser-tightening, but he's a sucker for his city. (Yes, his.) Still, his interest stays mild until he recognizes Fifi—by her spinning ankles first, then by her hair and her chin—and it turns rapt and grinning instead.

Alexandrie's interest is far less quiet, the intent to continue quarrelling over the wine evaporating the moment the emerald green dress catches her eye over Bastien's shoulder and is immediately confirmed to be the unmistakable presence of La Vulpesse. She nearly chokes on her own gasp of delight as it changes direction and turns into an impressive shriek of delight halfway through.

The sound will, perhaps, be as recognizable to Fifi as Fifi was to Alexandrie.

She quickly checks on the two men. Bastien is grinning in earnest: he knows. Her head whips around to see whether or not the same might be said for Byerly.

At first, By doesn't understand. But then Alexandrie shrieks, and it takes a moment, another, and then -

Ah, yes. Now he recognizes those shapely legs. And he laughs aloud.

"It seems," he says, just loud enough to be heard over the lively music, "we'll owe her rather more than a common glass of wine after this."

The opening number concludes, giving way to a pantomime act, which gives way to a (mediocre) comedian, and so forth. The dancing girls rotate in and out of various acts, always in a different costume to better complement the main focus; sometimes they're Orlesian comtesses, sometimes they're scantily-clad Qunari with wooden horns-- and Fifi, in her second appearance, ironically becomes part of a glittering rift, waving about bright green scarves as set dressing for a slapstick comedy trio capering on the topic of, naturally, Riftwatch. (It's all in good fun.)

She disappears again for several more acts, but when she reappears again it's to shimmering violins, her white, knee-length dress and mask adorned with crane feathers, her feet in pointe shoes. The routine she performs is balletic and graceful, titillating in its way (they're at a cabaret, after all) but clearly choreographed to showcase technique rather than physical assets.

When she scurries offstage again, the lights come back up and the chatter in the audience returns as well. The performers slip out from behind the curtain to mingle with the guests, which brings Fifi, still in her white ballerina attire, at last to her table of VIPs.

She curtsies to them in greeting before stepping forward to pluck up the wine glass set aside for her.

The untouched wine glass, important to note, since she appeared in time to stop Bastien from taking a defiant sip. And sometime during that lull between her performances, he'd slipped away from the table and come back with a little bouquet. It's a fourth of a much larger bouquet, actually, being clutched elsewhere in the audience by a young man with stars in his eyes over some other member of the chorus. He was distracted and lovesick enough that Bastien probably could have plucked flowers out of the arrangement right in front of him without asking and not been stopped.

He did ask, though. No one is going to come looking for stolen flowers. The little bouquet needed rearrangement and something to tie it—a group project—and now it waits on the table.

"You are magnificent," Bastien says, standing for her, "and so sneaky."

Alexandrie has a great love of flower arranging, but a greater desire to see what Byerly's hand at it looked like and so had pushed that particular task delightedly on him whilst producing and deftly rolling one of her delicate handkerchiefs to tie it together once he'd finished.

She's reaching to fuss at the way the bow flares for the fifth time when Bastien gets to his feet, and the task is immediately abandoned to join him with such alacrity that the movement of her chair is undignifiedly audible even over the noise of the room as she turns to greet Fifi with a look of joyful abandon.

"Brava, Vulpesse! Magnifique!"

No great shock: Byerly's flower arrangement is altogether gorgeous, because he so often shows a talent for things when it seems to him that showing that talent is worth his while. Stunning ability, grace, and glorious sneakiness are all things that merit his appreciation, and this evening, Fifi has shown all three.

He doesn't get up, or say anything - but he does present the flowers to her with his eyebrows raised in a clear expression of well done, I'm damned impressed.

"Merci," Fifi murmurs with a smile almost too shy to be on the person who just flashed her thighs to a crowded room, but her eyes are sparkling with delight as she accepts the bouquet and draws it to her nose.
Breathing in the scent of the flowers, she sinks down into the chair that was always meant for her, legs folded on one side of it, and rests the bouquet atop the table so she can take another sip of wine.

"I'm glad you came," she offers, seeming rather tongue-tied; her face is covered in powder and rouge, but somehow she still manages to blush through it.
"It's nice to have someone in the audience."

“We would have been here sooner,” Bastien says, confident he can speak for all of them in this, “if we had known.”

He sits again, then gives Alexandrie a cheerfully suspicious look.

“Unless you knew.”

"Moi?" Shock! Bastien, how could you. "Mais non, I knew nothing. I am innocent." Looking over at Byerly, to see if he believes her perfidious: "The proof is that I was not shrieking excitedly on the way here."

"But none of that is important," she waves it away and turns to Fifi, "for I must know right now whether or not you have been performing regularly and not telling—" her gesture says Me!, her mouth says, "—anyone!"

"Not telling her, she means," By corrects cheerfully, and then offers his wrist to Alexandrie for a light slap.

Which is dutifully provided to him, albeit with a light caress at the end and a look of "exasperation" (fondness) out of the corner of her eye before she looks back at Fifi.

"You'll be glad to know, Madame," Fifi replies, crossing her legs as she nurses at her wine, "that this was my Kirkwall premiere. All you've missed are rehearsals."

With a self-effacing smile, she shakes her head down at the table.
"One doesn't have to be too old to age out of this business, but they've been gracious enough to let me dance with them."

“Gracious,” Bastien echoes. The word might have been scornful in its skepticism, but he’s too good-natured for that, so it’s simply disbelieving. “They have been blessed. You were the best one up there—no offense to them. They were good. But you.”

Magnificent.

He raises his glass to her and adds, as an afterthought to the praise, “Happy Birthday.”

Byerly nods emphatically and toasts as well. Definitely the best.

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it's britney bitch

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shame sign: i had this open in a tab but hadn't posted it

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