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."

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:

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?"

[illithidnapped]

Emet-Selch is the taller of the two. He almost shadows Astarion there in the light— leaving the currently-not-an-elf definitely a man as nothing more than the sharp edges of his grin, the glint in his eyes, the occasional flicker of false gold.

“And what makes you think I’m anything but flawless?”

No time is wasted, gloved fingertips leading him towards the dance floor. He’s done this before a thousand times— and a thousand upon a thousand more after that— there’s no faltering in how seamlessly he reaches to fit his hands in place, not a second wasted before steps carry them both to tempo.

“This is my arena, after all.”

[illithidnapped]

“Darling, I could say the same,” He catches her hand at the tail end of that curtsey, gloved fingertips twisting tight around her own to draw them to his lips— planting a single, chilled kiss to her knuckles before releasing her entirely, leaving his subsequently empty hand tapping sweetly against the silk above his collarbone.

“I do look wonderful.”

And, just in case she might be tempted to assume that narcissism is where it ends, he deigns to add when she passes that wine glass across to him in offering:

“But so do you.”

He sips. Tilts his head slightly. Inconspicuous as he draws himself up at her side, one shoulder hovering just diagonally across the small of her back, no more than an inch between them. “And isn’t it obvious? You of all people should understand...”

What chases it is a whisper. Hushed low beneath the swell of the music that surrounds.

“I’m listening.”

[arkitect]

"Your arena, is it?"

Well, if he's going to put it like that...

He follows, at first. Just as Astarion moves right into position and into step, Emet-Selch moves along with him, not a motion wasted as he slots himself into place just as smoothly. This is a skill required of nobility, after all, and he has had ample time to practice it before while playing one part or another.

"I will allow that you did not simply say so for show," he notes, keeping his voice at a comfortably low volume-- enough so that Astarion will not strain to hear, but not quite loud enough to be too clear to others over the music. As they move, however, practiced step by practiced step, Emet-Selch observes Astarion just as much as he's watched the others gathered here so far. Moreso than them, even. He pays close attention to the collection of steps he's begun to lay out, though of course that focus isn't allowed to show externally; it will ruin the effect, if it's so obvious.

[illithidnapped]

There’s a difference between dancing with someone out of their depth and someone that knows exactly what they’re doing. Astarion, proudly enough, isn’t bluffing: for centuries he’s been the latter, the same way that a cub goes from stumbling over its own paws to perfectly leaping for prey each and every time— it wasn’t the need to hunt that made him good at this, but it was what made it part of his own instinctive legacy.

Emet-Selch, it seems, is either sharp enough or old enough to be just as skilled.

Astarion has to keep one arm held exceptionally high to balance out the difference between them, his other resting squarely against the small of Emet-Selch’s back which— coincidentally— also rests higher, and if the vampire feels absurd for taking the lead in such a scenario (he doesn’t) there isn’t a hint of it to be found in an otherwise perfectly contented expression.

The world is burning. He’s getting to dance.

“One of these days you’re going to get tired of doubting me.”

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.

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.

[arkitect]

"I tire of many things," he answers, with a light shrug of his shoulders. "And yet I continue to do them. Mayhap when it is no longer worth the thought spared, I will cease."

But he doesn't sound particularly bored right now, nor tired. There's a bit less of his usual detached demeanor in the tone of his voice, in the subtly straighter posture... and if that conveniently makes Astarion's life a little more difficult with their height difference, ah, well-- that just can't be helped. It certainly doesn't displease him that Astarion took the lead anyway, he won't fault the boldness of the move.

He won't fault it, but he will disrupt it, just to see how Astarion handles the situation. Emet-Selch waits for a step that necessitates moving a hand away, a shift in position, and finally makes his move: a graceful step in and past, abruptly reversing their positions, with a smooth motion of one arm aiming to dislodge and reposition the hand resting on the small of his back so that he can replace his at Astarion's, and thus steal the lead.

It's meant to be a quick thing, taking advantage of an opening; he's curious, after all, whether Astarion can or will deflect.

[illithidnapped]

Some like to say that demons glamor themselves for the sake of netting easier bargains. That wicked things with wicked hearts are, behind the mask of allure itself, the spiders nestled in their webs, the serpents with glittering scales. And Astarion, in all sincerity, would be the first to agree.

But for tonight, he’s keeping his claws sheathed, his fangs delicately (or at least figuratively) put away: he didn’t come here to hunt. He isn’t desperate for the sweeter taste of suffering.

In fact, more than anything, he just needs a moment to enjoy himself.

Well— that, and the opportunity to drink in Hightown gossip just as eagerly as wine.

“My my,” spoken almost sweetly, gloved fingertips turning Allumin’s own over the way someone might tip their hand to accommodate a skittering beetle or scampering mouse. An easy shift into the correct form for dancing— and it’s fluid and weightless as anything, the way Astarion easily takes the lead. Sets the both of them to stepping in time with the flow of pleasant music. “don’t you clean up nicely.”

Says the vampire that never once set eyes on the man he’d tormented.

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! ]

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! )

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

[illithidnapped]

“That, my dear, is just called flogging oneself— ”

Cut off between steps, surprise colors his expression the second he's all but swept into a reversal of their roles.

But it’s a dance, not a battle. And despite the belief of some, the two don’t intersect into Astarion’s mind beyond simple grace, fluidity in form: he doesn’t need to win at this, and he certainly doesn’t need to conquer the party at his side.

As far as Astarion’s concerned, given the tolerance Emet-Selch perpetually grants, he’s done that already.

“Cheeky.” Said with a click of his tongue, a twist of his mouth at the edge of one corner.

“So tell me,” spoken languidly, back easing in against that hold as his own slips lower to accomodate. “What’s it like to be ageless in a place like this? Does it bore you, everything you’ve seen before?”

[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.

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?"

[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.

[voidtransport]

Oh no. He thought he was ready for this but he was sorely mistaken.

His cheeks flush almost immediately at the comment, jaw tensing as he tries to swallow back his nervousness. It really doesn't help that he enjoys being teased despite how much he might try to hide or be indignant about it, and considering their last interaction over the crystal he can assume that Astarion is likely very good at it. There's the part of him that's fighting to keep his composure, to be sharp at the edges instead of ready to give under pressure, but then there's the part of him that wonders what it would be like if he just let the man have his fun with him and leave.

It's not a good time to encourage that thought. Focus.

"Th-thank you - " dammit, already stammering, that's not good. "I certainly try." There's a pause where his eyes wander over Astarion, then away as he's being lead. He knows that he should say something nice in return - it's only polite - but he's also terrified of giving him the satisfaction of a compliment so he hesitates.

Managing to gather the resolve, his eyes return to Astarion as he says, "You're not too bad yourself." He can at least be a little cheeky about it.

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.]

[arkitect]

"You would certainly know," he says, dry. Of the two of them, Emet-Selch certainly isn't the cheeky one, thank you; he settles into the steps just as easily in this position, though, guiding while seemingly giving it hardly a thought at all.

-but the question is something he does put a bit of thought into, falling silent for a few steps after it's asked.

"It often did, in the world I arrived from," is his eventual answer. "There are differences here yet. Aspects to study, variation in the workings of its magics. People, however, I tend to find the same regardless of the world they hail from-- they behave in similar ways, share similar priorities. The cycle of history in one is rarely so different from another."

courtyard

[voidtransport]

[Tonight has been a firm reminder of how much he really doesn't enjoy parties that much. An effort was made despite that, but now he's regretting not simply having stayed in and enjoying the quiet at the Gallows that surely must be present with a good number of Riftwatch in attendance here.

The chatter, the dancing, how dizzy he felt after indulging in someone's request for one, the intense amount of self-awareness needed to make sure he wouldn't say the wrong thing... It all just becomes a bit too much to deal with and he needs to step outside at the very least.

There's a bit of tunnel vision at play as he slows from a panicked trot to a halt, wasting no time to take his gloves off and undo some of the fastenings of his doublet so that he can pull it and his undershirt open to allow the cool night air upon his neck and collarbones. His cheeks and ears are red, in part from no small amount of wine tonight and the other part being generally overwhelmed at the moment. He draws in a deep breath in an attempt to level out his nerves and bring a sense of calm to his panicked lungs. With a shaky exhale, his awareness begins to open back up again and he notices the particularly graceful woman standing nearby.

Immediately, he feels bad for interrupting the serenity of her evening out here in the courtyard.]

So-sorry, I [hhhhuuuu breathes in] don't mean to [hhhhooooo breathes out] be a bother. [He swallows, then takes another deep breath in.] I will go [hhhh] breathe somewhere else.

[He tries to step away to find somewhere else but wobbles and almost falls over - hands going out to catch himself.]

When I can walk again, ah, apparently. [Allumin swallows again, throat dry from the irregularity of his breathing.] Sorry -

[illithidnapped]

It’s all the little signs. The twitch of a few fingers, the cinching of his jaw, the way his eyeline flickers— Astarion can read them like a book, and what he files away is subconscious. Simple. Less a deliberate effort, and more a reflexive understanding. Almost animal.

In many ways, he’s forgotten how to be anything else.

“Not too bad?” It’s all but scoffed, though his focus is on the dance itself, and the illusion it weaves: he doesn’t have the luxury of playing up mock offense, and instead continues sweeping his partner along with artful poise. Effortless poise, in fact.

“You’re sweating, darling. I can smell it on you.” His lips are curled into a self-assured grin, red-eyed stare unblinking as they lock onto Allumin’s own.

“I think that speaks for itself.”

[illithidnapped]

People, he says, prompting a curious tilt of Astarion’s head— one that would no doubt cock his ear if it weren’t hidden away for the benefit of this little game. His eyes seem brighter, his pupils dilated.

“Do I bore you?”