With money you squeezed from the peasants (open)

[toujoursdroit]

WHO: Open to all Riftwatch agents who care to attend. Plus-ones allowed within reason.
WHAT: The duke de Coucy is throwing a celebration to mark his eldest grandson’s 18th birthday, which he would do anyway and which is definitely not a blatant attempt to keep said grandson from running off toward the nearest opportunity for combat.
WHEN: Mid-Kingsway
WHERE: The de Coucy property in Hightown. (The servants are spying in case you break anything.)
NOTES: If you’d like your character to come but think some maneuvering would be required to make it happen, hit me oocly and we’ll figure it out. Similarly, if you need or want a starter with Romain or an NPC, just let me know.

The engraved invitations only go to a select few: the division heads and project leaders, Alexandrie d'Asgard, Petrana de Cedoux and (after some deliberation) Hugo and Jehan Mercier d'Annecy. Others, without a specific addressee, are posted in common areas in the Gallows including both dining halls, the herb garden and the game room:



Those at ease enough or bold enough to take him up on the invitation arrive to find the duke’s Hightown residence lit with a mixture of opulent scones, torches and enchantments. Once admitted through the outer gates—the servants at the door have a list on which one’s name must appear, seemingly including every member of Riftwatch—guests will be ushered a short walk back from the street to the house proper. The foyer boasts more servants, ready to take any outwear (the weather does not dictate it, but fashion may), as well as any gifts for the marquis.

Guests are then shown through to the ballroom. While it is generally used these days as a training area, it has been converted back to its intended use for the evening. The space is brightly lit and features a small but talented collection of musicians. The center of the room is clearly intended for dancing, but chairs and railings along the edge of the room provide a place for those who need a breath or who simply prefer conversation to dancing. Staff circulates with wine and hors d'oeuvres (mainly local shellfish and assorted pastries from Romain’s imported Orlesian patissier). In addition to their fellow Riftwatch agents, guests may run into carefully selected individuals from Hightown society, gratified to varying degrees at having been included.



Those who find even the edges of the ballroom too much may discover that the lower level of the two-level library is open, though servants pass through with enough regularity that it is not truly private. (Assuming one thinks servants count, of course.) The upper level is roped off. Anyone attempting to make their way up will be gently but firmly redirected by the staff. The lower level, however, does offer a few tables and various comfortable chairs and chaises, good for quiet conversation or simply a break from the crush of society.

About two hours after sunset, dinner is announced. All present guests are shown into the dining room. Those few in attendance who have seen the duke’s estate in Orlais, or even his home in Val Royeaux, would know this room is smaller than either. Everyone is seated comfortably, but in addition to the long, rectangular table at the room’s center, a few smaller circular tables hold the overflow. The seating has been chosen carefully for status, affiliation and balance of conversation. The duke heads the long table, and his grandson Thomas sits opposite. Thomas, like his grandfather and younger brother, is masked, but those who chat with him will easily be able to determine his buoyant mood from his voice and manner. The food is excellent, if less varied and exotic than it would have been had supply lines not been so constrained. (Romain thought to bring a few things back from his most recent trip to Orlais and finds himself glad of it now.)



After dinner, guests may resume dancing and gossiping in the ballroom, or engaging in quieter conversation in the library. Or they can make their way out to the courtyard in the rear of the property. While Hightown’s constraints mean the outdoor space is not extensive, it is walled to offer privacy from the nearest neighbors and boasts a water feature, impressively lit in honor of the occasion.

The duke circulates throughout the party for the evening, seemingly doing absolutely nothing other than chatting with his guests. Yet somehow after he passes through, any guests with empty glasses find someone offering to fill them, any low-burning torches are promptly replaced, and any guests causing a scene are discreetly spoken to or, if necessary, shown into a carriage that will take them home. In addition to Romain, guests may have a chance to speak to the guest of honor, Thomas, or to his younger brother, 15-year-old Raoul, who has been given a special dispensation to stay at the party as long as he likes and is seemingly determined to make the most of it. The festivities will drag on until dawn, for those most committed to a bit of merriment in the face of invasion, or at least most committed to eating the duke’s refreshments and drinking his wine until they’re cut off.

Comments

local bat | ota

[illithidnapped]

I: FASHIONABLY LATE

Astarion makes a habit of recycling.

The emptied bottle of wine Thranduil had abandoned in Astarion's Lowtown flat (an unspeakably beautiful vintage, in fact) now filled once more to the brim with local swill from none other than the Hanged Man. A fresher cork, a little deft work in sealing it off and— voila, as the Orlesians so often say: one pristine, expensive gift for the host.

He holds it in the crook of one arm as he loiters outside, waiting with all the removed patience of a cat on a ledge somewhere near the entrance’s artfully sculpted stonework. For what? Well, you’ll have to ask him, because otherwise he seems to be entirely content right where he is, watching the crowds stroll by like an overly excitable procession.

II: SCHMOOZE IT OR LOSE IT

This is where he belongs. Not amongst the chalk and ash of Lowtown, not by the dockside stench of brine and beast— but here, where the scent of lilac and leather oil clings tightly to his person without being choked out by just about everything else.

His ears are carefully hidden, tucked away within a nest of silver curls. A bit of fun, really, as there’s nothing he can do about his eyes or teeth, but everyone loves a good game of dress up every now and then. A little game of make-believe. His dress is fairly simple, aside from sparing ornamentation here and there: the glint of gold (fake, of course, not that anyone here is keeping track) offset by the dark fabric of a loosely styled shirt, feathered embroidery patterned across its sleeves. It’s not as ostentatious as it could be. It’s not even as grand an outfit as the one he’d come to Thedas sporting, ruined now, and hardly missed.

No, aside from a gleaming glimmer of gilded embellishments here or a soft word spoken there, Astarion’s perfectly content to behave himself without peacocking for all the world's attention.

And to keep his ears fully attuned to the gossip fluttering its way throughout the party.

PROMPT II: SIDE B

Still, loiter nearby long enough (or if you've unfortunately been conversationally held hostage by an irritating nusiance), and he might be the first to ask— delicate hand outstretched:

“Care to dance?”

III: WILDCARD

[ooc: you know the drill, mix and match, swatch prompts, make your own, add in any kinds of wild details, I'll happily play along— and so will Astarion.]

side fuckin b

[arkitect]

He has, largely, been content to observe; this is not an unfamiliar scene for him, but it is one he tends to be just as content watching. Listening, as well. For the most part he can be found on the fringes, maybe chatting with a few others here or there, though he seems perfectly comfortable here rather than appearing to need any sort of nudge. He's doing fine, thanks.

But that offer earns an arch of one brow in response, before the corner of his mouth quirks. "I may care to," he answers as he accepts Astarion's outstretched hand, "so long as you are capable enough."

ii.

[molineux]

There's already a telltale flush to Margaery's cheeks when she approaches Astarion, although in true, ladylike fashion, nothing else appears to be rumpled or out of place on her person. She's been watching him across the room, caught between twirling with lords and friends and waiting for the perfect opportunity to catch a moment together.

But her steps pause to take in the sight of him - a little bit of theatrics and a lot of genuine appreciation - before she curtsies like she would for a lord. "You look wonderful," is her greeting, as easy as anything, for stroking Astarion's ego often feels much like petting a cat. And it helps that she's able to be honest: the dark colors and the gold help bring out the lively red of his eyes, and with his silver hair and the stately embroidery, he's impossible to miss even with all the finery surrounding them.

A servant passes by with a tray of wineglasses and she manages to flag him down, taking two with a soft thank you and turning to offer one to Astarion.

"Why is it that you're not where you deserve to be, at the very center of attention?"

side b /peers thru my fingies

[voidtransport]

When he hears the voice the invitation is from, it is, unfortunately, a voice he has strived for weeks not to forget. To be on alert for, prepared. The keen-eyed would be able to tell there is a brief paralysis, a sudden shock to the invitation - and most might attribute it to a simple surprise followed by a gratifying relief at the freedom the invitation implies.

Allumin downs in one swallow the remnants of his glass of wine and sets it aside, a soft "will you excuse me?" to the person he'd been speaking to before he turns to the one inviting him away.

He himself is dressed in something that is sort of a compromise between his usual proclivities, the fashions of this place, and the advisement of a friend: a black, partially skirted doublet with deep red lining and gold-colored trim over an ivory shirt (and gloves to match), accompanied by black pants with similar trim and tall boots that reach up to mid-thigh. It's not usually his preference to dress in such dark, bold clothing but it's good every once in a while to step out of one's comfort zone, right?

As he looks over Astarion, he has to remind himself to appear unaffected, confident, grateful. It's not fair that such an attractive and devious voice would belong to someone so physically attractive as well. A blush across his cheeks aside at the sight of the man, Allumin manages to keep his composure pretty well as he places his own hand upon the one offered.

"With pleasure," he says, doing his best to keep his voice level.

i.

[indissection]

Sidony has never been the type to dress down for an event and this is no different; here to impress she's dressed in all black, showing off as much as possible while trying to reign some kind of respect for her position. She is still a wife, after all, and married to someone with some level of importance these days - she has to keep that in mind, no matter how much flattery and ridiculousness she wants to portray.

She doubts Byerly would care too terribly, but she keeps it in the back of her mind all the same.

(He will likely be seeing his paramour all the same, so all the better for her to enjoy herself).

Spotting Astarion, noting the wine, she raises her eyebrow and walks over before she makes her way inside, arms crossed behind her back as she smiles.

"Lost, darling?"

side b!

[notathreat]

It's the first time she's seen him, really seen him, since that night on the crystals. Sure, there was shopping involved, but it wasn't about them that day. This, despite being surrounded by people, surely is.

Ellie might be into women, but she can admit that Astarion's objectively gorgeous. Moreso in his somewhat understated clothes than he would have been in something as ostentatious as he projects himself to be. Ellie doesn't say anything, she's not keen on feeding his enormous ego, but maybe the appreciative look she gives him is enough as she grasps his outstretched hand.

She doesn't say anything as she steps close and settles an arm around his shoulders, her gloved hand on the back of his collar, but there is a sense of relief as they move into the first turn.

Even if she was pissed at him, even if some part of her is still hurt, she missed her friend.

"... do you not sweat?" she asks softly as they follow the steps, and Ellie actually manages it without difficulty. "You smell like flowers."

margaery tyrell | open

[molineux]

I. BALLROOM

It's obvious that Margaery's in her element, graciously accepting invitations for dances from anyone who seizes the opportunity to ask and sweetly apologetic when she missteps. Perhaps it's the stunning dress and the delicate thread of flowers that run through her curls or simply the infectiously joyful atmosphere of the party, but she seems far more at ease and settled than she has for the past few months.

Or focused, as some might observe.

No matter. Whether it's pressing a cup of wine into someone's hand or gently wheedling for a dance with her big, pleading eyes and soft pout, no one can escape her good cheer tonight.

II. LIBRARY

The socializing is briefly put on hold for a bit of exploring, as Margaery often does when she needs a brief change of pace, or a moment to herself, and the quiet of the library is perfectly inviting when paired with a great number of options for seating. She has the good sense not to touch more than is polite, acknowledges each servant she passes with a smile, and stares longingly up at the second floor before finally wandering over to sink down on a comfortable chaise.

Her hands smooth over the folds of her dress, back ramrod straight even as she seems to be lost in her thoughts. It's only when she hears her name being called that she looks up, smile spreading like a perfect mask blending itself into her features.

"Would you care to join me?"

III. WILD CARD

let me know if there's any specific scenario you'd like to play out! happy to write custom starters or plot. c:

i. ballroom

[voidtransport]

It's one of a handful of moments where he finds himself alone on the edge of the room, but chooses to stay and watch people dance versus his natural inclination to go read in the library. He doesn't see himself often going to parties in the future, but it would be nice to be more familiar with the dances here for preparedness-sake and so he studies. His eyes work hard to follow the flow and form of different leading dancers, trying to take in obvious or subtle differences to discern what varies from personality, skill, or any number of other reasons.

As he watches, his eyes start to wander away from simply observing the mechanical aspects, and his gloved hands clasped neatly together in front of his torso begin to fidget with the ruffled hem of his shirt. The smiles, the laughter, even some of the expressions of surprise as someone finds out they got more than they bargained for from their dance partner... he feels jealous. He wishes that he could enjoy something like this more, to not be so afraid.

And then there's a wine glass being placed into one of his hands, and he blinks, looking to see what's going on and who is responsible. He'd expected maybe Loki or perhaps even Benedict, but is instead surprised to see a jovial and radiant woman he has not met yet (at least in person).

"Ah - thank you, uhhhm," he manages to say before his mind goes completely blank.

ballroom

[toujoursdroit]

The evening's host has done very little dancing, largely because he is old enough that he feels well within his rights not to and because few people are bold enough to ask him. But that does not mean he is absent from the ballroom; in fact, it is where he spends most of the evening apart from dinner. He eventually finds himself at Margaery's elbow.

His voice is pleasant when he asks, "Are you enjoying the evening, Mlle. Tyrell?" The sharp attention he is giving the question may not be immediately evident, between the tone and his mask, covering more of his face than the masks of most other Orlesians present. Being of interest to Gwenaëlle is sufficient to make someone of interest to her grandfather, but Romain has decades of experience at playing his hand close to the vest.

2 nerd it up

[earpiest]

“Thank baby cheeses.” Waverly exhales her relief, gesturing at the masks.

“I’ve always been good at names and faces, but add in these and a world of new social mores to learn and suddenly,” she makes a little one-handed whoosh gesture, “goodbye confidence.”

She moves to the seat, but is looking at the books on shelves as she does. “How’s your night going?”

the mistress of the manor | open

[elegiaque]

Resplendent in red, Gwenaëlle Baudin does indeed expect to be praised for deigning to attend a party hosted in her own home. Even if she had been assured—sincerely, she knows—that she didn't have to attend, she's made enough of a splash in Hightown over the past week or so that it would have drawn notice if her cousin's own birthday celebrations were of visibly lower priority. So, she compromises: she puts on a fine dress, she lets one of the maids at her hair, applies fine red gems along her cheekbones in lieu of the traditional masque, makes a point of inviting Margaery early to get ready with her upstairs and arrive not by the door but the grand staircase...

accompanied by her dog, nearly so large as either of them. Hardie is her constant shadow, enforcing a certain amount of personal space, and as ever coping better with the crush and crowd than she does. When she settles in at a corner table near the fireplaces with a deck of cards and her younger cousin, he lays down at her feet—relaxed but alert, and indifferent entirely to the rigorous and involved discussion of the rules of Wicked Grace, the theory of how best to cheat, and the promise that if she sees John Silver she will wave him over to teach them how to count cards.

(She doesn't know John Silver knows how to count cards. She assumes he does.)

Gwenaëlle does not seem likely to dance, albeit less unlikely than those occasions upon which she'd been a living chandelier in the center of a dress bedecked with lit candles. She has one glass of wine next to her and drinks it slowly; surrenders Margaery to a succession of dance partners with tolerable grace; lets Thomas work the room a bit and make his way to her rather than the other way around, so she can give him his birthday gift personally.

(She had insisted that she would not give him a second birthday gift, that they had already celebrated as a family, that he had gift enough then. He is not surprised enough for it to have been convincing.)

Eventually, she slips out into the courtyard garden, and while she is not immediately visible in the pool of light that spills from the open door when it is opened or the lit up water-feature, smoke curls up into the night air from within a small maze of rose-climbers. It is not tobacco smoke.

[toujoursdroit]

At some point when Margaery is off dancing, she finds her grandfather at her elbow. His voice is quiet, but she has no trouble hearing him; long practice at judging his volume in a crowded room serves them well.

"It has been a pleasant surprise to have you so visible for so much of the party," he says. "I hope you do know I was sincere, when I said you needn't come at all." It's a little bit arch, but at the same time, he knows how he can be. (At least with his grandsons. Thomas, and to a lesser extent Raoul, are both skilled at reading the various expectations layered in a simple response, the more so for a few years at their grandfather's elbow due to the war.)

He deigns to scratch Hardie behind the ear when he pads over, a subtle gesture that might read as surprisingly affectionate to any guest that catches it.

[illithidnapped]

"Your student doesn't seem to have much of a heart for the game." Astarion comments blithely on approach, one arm tucked behind his back, footsteps so soft as to be silent, even in properly heeled boots. Few would notice that little detail of course, particularly when the rest of the estate is so aflutter with music and wine and chatter like there's no tomorrow.

And if Corypheus succeeds, there may very well not be.

His head tilts when he stops somewhere just behind her, away from Hardie's own positioning by the fire.

"I could always help with that, you know. Wicked Grace is something of a hobby of mine, after all."

By which he means he eats because of it— sleeps under a stony roof because of it: the benefit of fleecing fools.

[molineux]

It's easier to keep an eye on Gwen than most might think; between all the coy head tilts and the facade of giving someone her total attention, Margaery picks up on the tension between Gwen and Astarion. It's as obvious as a beacon of light in darkness, as heavy truth always is when it's surrounded by frivolous fun, and while she feels a sense of urgency to follow the luxurious red velvet out the door, a conversation with nobles is not one easily pushed aside by smooth excuses.

Especially if she means to build up a solid reputation as a sweet, naive darling who is easily impressed and titters over the smallest displays of power and wealth.

By the time she manages to extract herself to the garden, wisps of a telltale scent are strong enough to greet her before the heavy blooms of the evening. "My darling." she murmurs tenderly, when she finds Gwenaëlle's form silhouetted by moonlight, wary to drop their charade even for an instant. Her hands reach for one of Gwen's, seating it comfortably in her lap. Her affection isn't entirely false, as there is genuine concern resting on Margaery's brow as she asks, "What happened?"

holden | ota

[acreage]

BALLROOM

Dressed the part in dark, finely embroidered clothes, and at ease in a crowd, James Holden looks and feels less out of place than he might have feared. He smiles and mingles at the periphery, stays closer to fellow Riftwatch attendees than those out of Hightown.

Though it's possible he accidentally gets drawn into conversation with one anyway. He nods along and drinks from his wineglass as they talk, but if he catches a familiar person's eye, there might be an element of pleading to his look. Help.

He'll dance if asked, and with only a token protest; and proves to be less unskilled, despite his claims, and more unpracticed, sometimes unfamiliar. He's coordinated, able to follow cues, and doesn't step on any toes.

COURTYARD

Eventually, he'll have his fill of socializing. Or maybe just take a break to get some air. He ambles outside, takes some time to consider the beautiful water feature, tip his head up to watch the stars. The twin moons don't even feel alien anymore.

If someone walks in on his reverie, he'll ask, "Tired of dancing already?" and look over with a smile.

WILDCARD

[ feel free to leave me something or ping me to discuss another scenario! ]

Courtyard

[youwonscience]

"Nah, it's not my kind of dancing." Cosima's in a well-made but unfancy outfit of trousers and a flowing white shirt, but they're mainly a frame to set off the long, embroidered coat that serves as her interpretation of formal attire. Her hair is tucked up into a large bun and she's wearing several rings in addition to her usual jewelry.

"Also," conspiratorially, "I was thinking of having a smoke. Want to join me?"

Lady Alexandrie | ota (will style match)

[coquettish_trees]

For all she has gotten used to the flow of other environs, it takes only one look to understand that this is where the Lady Alexandrie belongs. She glides effortlessly on the eddy and flow of the gathering like the swan of her birth family's crest, resplendent in a high court gown of white and gold with a half-mask to match, lips and eyelids and cheekbones shimmering with gold dust, her hair swept back, threaded with a favourite ribbon and dotted with pearls cunningly carved to resemble sprays of small flowers. For this particular occasion, in honour of the Duc and his family, she has eschewed almost all of the hybrid fashionings she had taken up upon her marriage... but even so, her husband's presence lingers in her jewelry; the cunning little golden snakes with emerald eyes that curl around the pearls of her earrings, the strings of the same around her neck fastened by clasps resembling serpents holding their own tails, the gold and emerald serpent ring that is a bit too broad for the delicate finger that wears it despite being sized to fit, and rather than the swan of the de la Fontaines the feathered wing that curves gracefully from one side of her mask issues from the back of the stylized serpent-dragon of House Asgard.

Her bright laughter lofts easy and silver above the chatter in the ballroom, and the Lady it issues from is seemingly tireless and always willing to take the floor for dance after dance after dance; an effortless partner for those familiar with the steps, and one quite able to make a less skilled dancer look as if they know precisely what they're doing.

Whomever is sat next to her at dinner will find her a delightful companion, sparkling conversationalist, and a social saviour if they've no idea what to do with all the forks.

Even with all her ebulliance, there is a chance for a slightly quieter Lady at the end of the evening as she stands in the courtyard with half a glass of champagne in her hand, her arms folded beneath her breasts against the light chill of evening as she watches the light play over the water.

( Or you can hit me up if you want something different! )

[bouchonne]

Byerly isn't wearing a mask. He never has, not even during those early days in Val Royeaux, when he wasn't so certain who he was; he could have, could have worn the mask with the stylized curling ram's horns belonging to his mother's family, but instead he found that he preferred the custom of going bare-faced. He never was sure why. National pride? Perverse delight in the gaucheness of it? A fear that he truly, truly did not belong?

Well - regardless, he's a familiar sight now, bare-faced, in clothes that are (out of respect to the Duc's tasteful home) elegant in cut and color. Strikingly beautiful in his plainness, the unadorned sweep of his eyelashes and pout of his lip. Standing, like he's stood at so many other parties, just a little bit outside the center of the action, a hand in his pocket, a sardonic little smile on his lips: an entertainer when an entertainer is needed, but more often just an observer. A stranger.

He catches her gaze. Bows when he does. Lifts an eyebrow - he doesn't need to use Bard sign to make clear his invitation to her to dance.

brother gideon | ota

[venenifer]

I. The Ballroom

Were he not the head of Project Haven and therefore somewhat obligated to help Riftwatch cut a good figure among the locals-- whom he has personally been trying to schmooze for refugee aid, after all-- the short, dour elven Chantry brother would not be caught dead in a place like this. There's a cagey look about him as he stands all swathed in black, swirling a glass of wine for the sake of occupying his hand, his dark gaze cutting all about the ballroom and no doubt planning an exit strategy.
He's a fish out of water, hoping to be noticed by the right people but not, Maker willing, approached by them.

II. The Library

Finding respite in the quiet of the room, Brother Gideon stands with his hands folded behind him, his posture still and pensive as he scans the titles on the shelves. Eventually, he selects a book and removes it carefully to flip through, utterly absorbed in its contents to the extent that he doesn't even hear someone approaching.
When they make themselves known, he jumps in alarm, dropping the tome on his foot with a hissed expletive.

III. Wildcard

ballroom

[cozen]

Is Bastien the right people?

Probably not.

And he's also approaching.

He's dressed well enough to blend in with the crowd, and no better, save for his face, which is painted pale above and midnight blue from the line of his mustache down, jaw to jaw to chin, evoking a full beard. In Orlais this would not stand out. Here it does, a little.

He stops beside Gideon with a wine glass of his own, looking ahead with him rather than at him, and says, "Not a dancer, Brother?"

Ellie | OTA

[notathreat]

► Bowsplaining

Ellie loathes these sorts of events, this one a little less than usual. There's still some element of being made a spectacle of; but at least all of Riftwatch is in the same boat. It doesn't come with the skin-crawlingly disgusting feeling of being a performing animal.

That said, some of the outfits the nobility are wearing would put any of the Cardinals to shame, and the masks are seriously off-putting.

Ellie herself isn't wearing one, but she likes to think the blue coat with golden accents and ruffled shirt make up for it. It's far more striking than what she's used to wearing, even when it comes to formalwear, but with the gowns around her it's practically conservative.

(She hasn't realized that the style she's chosen makes her stand out; whether it's in a good way or a bad one remains to be seen.)

For the first part of the party, Ellie nurses a glass of something amber-colored and tries her VERY best to avoid a young man who is repeatedly trying to give her tips on bowmanship, because she made the mistake of mentioning that she's an archer.

If someone she recognizes from Riftwatch passes, Ellie will fix them with a look and mouth a very strained help me.


► The Forbidden Section

The library is a natural draw for Ellie, moreso since she is finding her skin crawling with the overstimulation of so many strangers. She retreats into the stacks of books and lovely shelves, wandering through and taking her time with reading the titles, now that the alphabet has given up its secrets.

She stops at one of the shelves, crouching down with a creak of her breeches, and tilts her head to sound out the title under her breath.

"... Hard in Hightown?"


► Wildcard

[ooc; Hit me up, or let me know you want something bespoke.]

rescue.

[elegiaque]

It isn't completely unusual to see a woman dressed thus at one of these—out of the ordinary way, mostly in such a way as to indicate specific sorts of context. Probably she is a warrior, and probably she is not looking for a husband. Occasionally this means being left out of the ladies' conversations and instead engaging in the vigorous practise of armchair marshalling historical battles with cigars, or whatever it is boring old men do, and occasionally it just means being engaged by optimistic youths who think the best way to impress a woman is to be confidently wrong at her area of expertise.

Gwenaëlle observes this for a few moments longer after Ellie catches her eye, and then draws up with a soft whisper of her skirts beside the young man in question.

Possibly she has something of a reputation, because he's starting to falter before she's even opened her mouth.

“A wyvern once bit me so high in the thigh,” she announces, “that he damned near gave me terminal head. I shot him in the eye.”

(It actually might have been two different wyverns, but it all got a bit blurry after the first part of that story.)

When he does not immediately take the hint, she adds, “Shoo. Go wish Thomas a happy birthday.” (She pronounces it Tho-mah, because they are terminally Orlesian.)

allumin | OTA

[voidtransport]

ballroom

Despite his awkwardness in conversation, as predominantly a resident of the fringes of the room he spends more time locked in little chats here and there than he does actually dancing. Fine to follow, but not to lead - and has probably disappointed a couple people by turning down a dance when saying as much. But for those willing to guide him along the dance floor, he graciously accepts.

Sometimes when he's not occupied with anyone's company he can be found watching dancers glide across the center of the floor with intensity as he tries to commit steps to memory the best he can. When he's not too nervous to forget how to stand with proper posture, he looks rather refined in his black skirted doublet with red lining and gold-colored trim over a ruffled ivory shirt, with black and gold pants as well as ivory gloves to match. His simple but well-made black boots (goodbye all of his moneyyyy) go all the way up to his mid-thigh, and his hair is kept simple in a long braid that reaches his hips.

Other times, you might overhear him telling carefully filtered (to the best of his ability) stories of things from his home world at the request of a curious Thedosian. Between one where he and his friends prevented the assassination of a famous author, the framing of his friend for a crime he didn't commit and the subsequent endeavor to arrange a case in court for his freedom, to one about helping free someone from a circus that kidnapped people, there are a small handful of tales he tells for anyone keen to listen in.

library

Were it not for the gentle reminder from the staff, he would probably have missed dinner from getting carried away in the library. Both before and after dinner, he can be found looking at different spines upon the shelves and occasionally casting a wistful glance towards the off-limits second floor.

He really wants to know what's up there but it wouldn't do to get in trouble, so he doesn't even attempt to go up there. Instead he is - in an attempt to not upset the host, staff, or any other guests - exercising much restraint in taking books away from the shelves one at a time to read them over at least a bit before putting them away to take another. No big, ridiculous piles of books in his arms today.

At one point, a title of one book catches his eye, and as he reaches towards it to take it off the shelf, his hand lands on someone else's reaching for the same book. "Oh - pardon me," he says, cheeks turning a bit red as he draws his hand back with an apologetic look.

Later in the evening he can be stumbled upon seated somewhere, reading poetry from a book credited to an Ilde Sauvageon. It is not terribly often that - outside of wrestling with unsavory memories as they come - Allumin is faced with such gruesome yet elegant frankness and the evocative expressions on the pages of the book force him to feel things he likes to pretend don't exist within his own heart. His eyebrows draw tight as wetness clouds his vision, a hand covering his face while the other carefully holds the book open upon his lap. While his better judgement might tell him to stop reading, dry his eyes, and pull something safer off the shelf, it does not win as he continues to turn page after page.

wildcard
[feel free to toss something at me if you like! if you wanna share a table with him during dinner and wanna chat to work something out, we can plot it out. /finger guns]

ballroom (stories).

[cozen]

Allumin began telling one of these stories to a Hightown resident, perhaps, but Bastien fell into its orbit and joined in the listening. So when the nobleman's attention is stolen by a lady and he's swept off into the dancing, Bastien steps easily into his place.

"What was the circus doing with them?" he asks. His accent is thickly Orlesian, and his clothes impeccably unnoticeable—not underdressed, because that would be noticed, but exactly the correct amount of dressed, in muted and unmemorable colors—and his face painted in lieu of masked. He has one of the hors d'oeuvres in his hand, poised to take a bite, as soon as he's sure: "Please don't say cannibalism."

sidony venaras ( ota )

[indissection]

ARRIVAL/BALLROOM.

Sidony knows enough of the parties of nobility to recognise that arriving late is the most fashionable and appropriate option, so she arrives a little after all the others might expect her to. If anyone asks she is more than content to blame it on the time it took for her to get into her dress and her hair, both of which took hours to get into. The things one does for fashion, truly.

When she does finally arrive she swans around, smiling and nodding at people she knows and recognises - and those she doesn't, offering tight little curtseys and looking near identical to a proper noble lady. Anyone would imagine she was, as if she were back home, that her mother and father were watching, rather than the woman who ran off with the local Riftwatch scoundrel.

No matter what happens she seems to be smiling, settled on her face as if she is comfortable.

In the ballroom she settles quickly into the motions of being at a proper fancy party, drink in hand and eyes dancing around the room. She's ready and prepared for anyone who might wish to take her hand, if anyone dares to approach her.

LIBRARY.

There's no denying that Sidony is a reader at heart, beyond her beauty and previous nobility, so the chance to slink away and find herself in the library is something she can't simply give away. Wandering around gives her a moment of respite, a moment to breathe, and she relaxes a little as soon as she enters, leaning against one of the bookshelves.

After a few moments she starts to walk around, fingers brushing over the spines of the books, devouring the titles with wide eyes. It's obvious to any onlookers that she's clearly enjoying her time here, that she's happy to be in the midst of leather and parchment compared to all the eyes of Hightown society - if only because she's not entirely sure how many of them might look at her now.

She was a noble, once, and now? Now she's simply a surgeon. An important job, but one they would turn their nose down nevertheless.

WILDCARD.

( Find Sidony elsewhere (courtyard, dancing, dinner, etc!) or PM/discord me for something personal! )

library.

[cozen]

When he hears footsteps, Bastien’s face—painted in the style of an Orlesian commoner, polite among the masked nobility—lifts from the book he’s curled over, all bent knees and crooked angles in one of the Duke’s comfortable chairs.

He sits up straighter, when he sees who it is.

“Madame,” he says in greeting. “All danced out?”

john silver / ota.

[hornswoggle]

ballroom

While John has no intention of dancing, he does have every intention of mingling. Who would John be if he passed up the opportunity to make connections?

Comparatively, John's dressed almost too sedately for the event. But the draw of John Silver is entirely that he presents himself to be exactly what he is: a pirate. The dramatic sweep of blue coat, crutch, and ornate belt are more effective than anything closer to formal attire might have been. It's a novelty. It opens doors for him on curiosity alone.

Though still, eventually, having parted from a corpulent man in a purple velvet, John turns to the nearest Riftwatch member to say casually, "We need to make a note somewhere that Lord Winslow Flavia is overcommitting himself in his vineyard investments."

libarary

But eventually, the charm of mingling with Hightown elite stretches thin, and John excuses himself from the ballroom in search of—

Not quiet, exactly. But perhaps less well-frequented locales. After all, there's only so often one can be expected to affect rapt attention to Lady Lavena recount her last trip to Wycome, or Serrah Virgilio's search for a portrait artist.

Which is how he comes to be in the library, despite his largely tepid interest in reading material. The bigger draw is the chaise and the fire and the relative absence of Hightown society.

"Have you attempted the upper level yet," John asks, winding his way to the open chaise. "Or am I the only one curious as to what's being kept out of sight?"

wildcard

[ do whatever. ]

flint.

[hornswoggle]

derrica / ota.

[tender]

ballroom

Truthfully, this isn't exactly Derrica's scene. She isn't much for high society; the last time she was at a party like this, it was an Ostwick estate for a kissing event, not for a birthday, and there had been an assassin in the mix.

Comparatively, this is likely to be the better party. (And not only because she was able to buy a new dress for it.) Even if Derrica can't be entirely sure there isn't some crossover between Ostwick and this party, it doesn't dull her hopes for the evening.

It's easy to be in high spirits. It's a nice evening, no sign of immediate disaster, and there's an abundance of people to dance with. It's easy to enjoy herself. And once she's relinquished by an enthusiastic, well-dressed Marcher at the end of one song, she spins over to the first familiar face to extend a hand and request, "Come dance with me."

courtyard

Though inevitably, Derrica winds her way out to the courtyard, all the way down to the water feature. The garden is mostly unoccupied, with a pair of socialites at the far end already drifting back towards the ballroom. Derrica watches them for a moment, before turning her attention away and descending towards the center of the courtyard towards the fountain.

The structure is narrow, but tall. A little more ostentatious than seems to make sense, but still, pretty. Derrica can balance on the edge of the fountain and trail her hand in the water. She flicks water from her fingertips, straightening at the sound of footsteps.

A small, welcoming smile accompanies the question: "Tired of the dancing, or tired of the party altogether?"

wildcard

[ do whatever. ]

ballroom

[acreage]

"I'm going to step on your toes."

— is warning more than threat, but he smiles as he says it, reaching out to take her hand. He's not as lost in the ballroom as he'd felt at Wysteria's wedding; and, like at the Tourney, there's something heady, catching, about good cheer in people he cares about; and it's hard to deny Derrica.

"You look like you've been having fun," he adds, following her to the thick of the dance floor.

loki; will match format!

[icasm]

dancing shoes

Anyone who has met Loki for longer than five minutes would be correct in surmising that he loves an event. A party, a concert, a dinner, what have you. He's dressed in a green and black brocade jacket with gold buttons and accents, a black shirt, and black trousers tailored within an inch of his life. Oh, and the shoes, can't forget the shoes. His mask has horns on it that are a bit ostentatious for the event (or any event, really), and small gold filigree snakes in the greenery.

He doesn't manage to dance with Alexandrie at any point in the early evening, which is something of note. He does, however, make it a point to offer the chance to dance to anyone from Riftwatch, especially those he recognizes (even if they're playing at being a wallflower) with a flourish and a bow.

"It would be a shame not to dance for at least one song."

en la biblioteca

After dancing and before dinner, Loki can be found casually chatting up the servant who has turned him away from the second level of the library; he doesn't seem to have taken the redirection at all personally, and the servant in question is only the slightest bit annoyed to have been roped into this continued conversation in the first place.

A few moments later he can be found tracing his finger along the spine of several books before he pulls one down from the shelf. Poetry, apparently.

Instead of taking a seat he just stands there with the book, but his expression is amused at the very least.

the courtyard

The man who had danced not long after sunset, prior to dinner, and the man currently standing near the water feature in the courtyard are two very different animals. All the vivaciousness from earlier seems to have faded into the background as Loki stands there, rolling a coin across the knuckles of his left hand.

While he's definitely facing the water, his eyes are out of focus, seeing something that isn't entirely there.

[ if you would like a bespoke starter, just let me know! also, wildcards are welcome. ]

la biblioteca.

[cozen]

Bastien makes no attempt to creep up on him unnoticed; he's not that kind of sneaky. So first there are footfalls (soft boots), then his shadow, and then himself—in quite understated formal attire, neither noticeably under- nor over-dressed, with maquillage in the Orlesian fashion. (The Duke probably would have forgiven him a bare face, among all these Marchers and Riftwatchers, if he even deigned to notice. But if he did deign to notice, Bastien imagines he and the Duke both would have known that he should know better, and that would be unbearable.)

Anyway. No creeping. There is plenty of notice before he's in front of Loki II, ducking sideways to look at the cover of his book while he asks, "Is it terrible?"

Cole | OTA (with one closed for a bat)

[helpinghidinghaunting]

Fearing the Foyer - for Astarion

The guards eyeing Cole on the way in made him nervous enough, if he's honest. He already feels out of his element, scrubbed, hair oiled and slicked back away from his face, and his scrawny body laced into red and black finery, dark leather breeches, and high-heeled boots well beyond the shredded leathers he had at this point worn for years. He looks quite nice, if pale and gaunt. He also looks wildly uncomfortable.

"Maybe this is a mistake."

He casts Astarion a baleful look, tugging at the collar of his doublet.


Languishing in the Library

Almost immediately upon entry, the thrumming song of so many people in one place overwhelms Cole. He walks into the Ballroom, trying to bear it, telling himself to try and fit in, try not to scare anyone -

But then he's turning on his heel (these shoes are so pinchy, they're not broken in like his and the heels are too high) and vanishing from sight, reappearing in the most secluded corner of the library that he can find. He's found himself a chair to perch on, crouching on it instead of sitting, head tucked down as he tries to steady himself.

There's so much pain here, with so much glitter pasted over it. Cole wishes dearly he could just disappear into the night, but he's promised himself he would try, he would stay.

He just has to calm down first.


Despair in the Dining Room

Oh. This is a lot of food.

It is also a lot of silverware, even on those outlier tables.

Shaking fingers slide across one of the forks, then another, brows knitted together in plain confusion. Cole doesn't usually eat; he gets hungry, but he's gotten used to it, giving his food to people who will actually die of the starvation. Now he is in a position where not only would it be rude for him NOT to eat, but table manners are at play.

But he knows absolutely nothing about table manners, and from the looks of everyone else here, eating with his hands is probably not what he's meant to do while acting like a human.

Nervously, his blue eyes dart around - and perhaps they lock with yours, an unspoken plea.


Blitzed in the Ballroom

Finally feeling somewhat bolstered and brave, Cole makes his way into the ballroom. He is offered some wine, and after a moment of frowning at it, he accepts it. Briefly, he thinks about what Astarion had said about alcohol, staring down at it...and then taking a sip. It's not the red stuff - it's got a golden color to it, very sweet as it washes over his tongue.

It tastes...nicer than he expected.

An hour or so later, he is a couple more glasses in, leaning against a wall and watching the whirl of dancers through very wide, bleary eyes. His gaze is unfocused, somewhere in the middle distance. He feels...weird.


Compassion in the Courtyard

The cool late night air feels better than almost anything the Spirit can remember. He's laying in the grass to stare at the sky, doublet unbuttoned halfway down to allow some of the sweat to evaporate from his chest and neck. His hair is disheveled, the neat comb from the beginning of the night now turned into a shellac-ed mop of blonde sticking up at weird angles.

Shutting his eyes, he lays there, just...listening. To the night, to the songs of the people around him.

If you approach him, maybe he will hear yours.


Panic at the Disco (Wildcard)

((Anything goes, please feel free - just let me know whether Cole would be drunk or not based on the time of night!))

[illithidnapped]

“Why in the Hells would it be?” Astarion scoffs, seeming far more irritated by that uncertainty than understanding of it.

Because the night is rich with wonder, the sound of music already wafting— and between the perfumes and colognes and the fainter scent of food drifting from elsewhere, there’s something electric in the air itself. This, to him, is ambrosia. Sweet and alluring. The meaning of life—

Or at least the fun of it.

“You look fine. Stop fidgeting.”

abby a. (open)

[armd]

𝐟𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐫? 𝐢 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫

There's nothing quite like a baby's first formal event. Where Abby comes from, it's considered 'dressy' if what you're wearing doesn't have a hole in it, and she's never worn something tailored to her frame let alone an outfit involving velvet. Maybe she scrubs up alright, she can't tell, but can you believe she brushed her hair before braiding it tightly back? And she... silently doesn't mind the jacket (don't tell Loki) about as much as she thinks that it doesn't suit her at all, but her uncomfortable shuffling around in it will ease as the night progresses.

For now she's content to lurk in the corner, not nearly as conspicuous as she thinks that she is, and people-watch for inspiration on how to act.

𝐧𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐩𝐮𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫

The ballroom is breathtakingly beautiful. For Abby it's like something straight out of a book, and she's more than happy to think of it as Victorian-influenced. It tickles a nerdy part of her soul. She would so much rather this be a stand back and watch moment, but it's doubtful that anybody is going to let her linger on the sidelines for too long.

Anybody who tries to get her out onto the dancefloor will be refused, as politely (and firmly) as possible. "I don't dance." Doesn't even know how. Hopefully declining isn't really rude in fancy-speak, or something (she doesn't get that either). She's not attending on her best behaviour as she is on... very standard behaviour, albeit with a touch of self-awareness to it.

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐠𝐨, 𝐣𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬

The courtyard is more her style, where she's seemingly free to yank her collar open a little and stop straightening up so much. She comes to a gentle repose on a cool stone bench with her legs splayed, hands resting clasped between them. Abby still can't get over how different the night sky is. Every constellation is unfamiliar to her.

Maybe that shouldn't be the weirdest part of this whole experience. That should be reserved for the water feature, which is, in all fairness, very... charming, but clearly pointless. Abby examines it critically with her hands on her hips.

"Is something like this supposed to be impressive? It's so wasteful."

-- Okay, hopefully nobody with clout was within earshot of that.

𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞

(I've got a few ideas for library shenanigans/getting caught having a cheeky explore if anybody wants something different or closed. Likewise, if you've got ideas, I'll always play along!)

for gwen

[armd]

The thing about the servants dedicating their time and energy to corralling errant members of Riftwatch is... all you have to do to get by them is wait until they're shooing somebody else out of spaces they're not supposed to be in. Then, you can slip by. Abby takes one such chance, opening a random door along the hallway as quietly as she can and pushing it lightly flush behind her before anybody can notice.

Nobody calls after her. She's safe, inside of what looks like a– reading room? Abby's gaze sweeps across it, and lands squarely on the writing desk, unassuming, and off to the side. The lid is locked, which is disappointing, but at least she can think of sitting in the regal armchair in front of it and penning a letter in ink, and that mental image is satisfying. It evens out.

It's a huge room, a few doors attached. A balcony. Trailing curiously toward the back reveals the biggest bed she's ever seen in her entire life, crowned with an equally large bearskin that Abby can't help coming close to touch. She rubs her index finger underneath of a long, protruding incisor, and glances up to see–

"... Hi." A cat, staring back at her from the middle of the skin. Its gaze is sleepy, and accusatory. Abby doesn't know why she's whispering to it, but that doesn't make her stop. "Sorry. Go back to sleep."