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

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]

“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.”

[molineux]

Her laugh then is real, although it sounds remarkably similar to the ones she's been generously sprinkling across the floor all evening. She is still herself, in the knowing quirk of her smile and the purposeful nature of her body language, but Astarion can most likely see the game she's playing easier than most. He's seen her at her best acting, after all, in all shades of it.

Oddly, it feels almost comforting to know that there's someone present and uninvolved in her schemes who can still sense her pretenses.

"If it please you," she hums, seizing the opportunity presented by the swelling of music as an excuse to lean ever closer, a gentle hand pressed on his chest as she tilts her head up, "That beautiful woman in the corner, hair of gold and green dress, keeps confessing to purchasing a Carnal, 8:69 Blessed, tucked away in the corner of her bedroom with the hopes she'll find a worthy partner to use it with. It is said to enhance sensation, is it not? She is most certainly on the prowl tonight."

Which could be said of any one of them, really. But another glance spared towards the lady in question yields the sight of her twirling her finger around a dense curl as she sizes up a group nearby like a cat considering which mouse to pounce on first.

"If I ever get that desperate, you must be a good friend and immediately incapacitate me."

[illithidnapped]

A true gentleman would let her hand rest exactly where it sits now, entirely dictated by her own whims— fickle or fond, demanding or relaxed. Instead, the gloved hand that isn’t curled around the stem of a delicate glass of wine slips high to wind across her own, cool even through light leather. Keeping her fingertips sprawled just across the heart of his chest.

But aside from that, he only laughs. One part wickedness, one part mirth, the span of his nose crinkling as the edges of his teeth glint.

“My dear, you will never have the wretched misfortune of being so desperate.” Pretty as she is, clever as she is, a touch too sharp behind pale eyes. “But if you happen to lose your senses, I’ll be there, bottle of poison in hand.”

Spoken with a wink, he only tips his head to steal a drink from his glass, rather than lose the closeness they’ve fostered.

“That said, I’ve certainly heard plenty of whispers about you tonight.”

[molineux]

It's Astarion. And for that, Margaery doesn't begin to immediately plot how to remove her hand and instead relaxes completely, as if her placement there is a divine right.

"You are a true friend."

She is as solemn as their shared mirth will allow, because for all his devious ways, there are very important principles and ideals they share. Which is why Margaery merely widens her eyes, expression reminiscent of a sweet doe caught for the taking, and tilts her head to make her gaze ever more demure.

"About me?" she repeats with hushed emphasis, as if it's impossible to imagine. "Surely it is all a mere consequence of still being lavished with Gwenaëlle's company?"

This is their nth event appearing together, to the rumbling cloud of circulating rumors and speculations. Margaery is happy to make them believe she's simply the prettiest and most convenient bedwarmer within reach, so long as their prolonged curiosity leads them to her trap. "I know many believe that what we have is weaker than a candle flame in the wind."

[illithidnapped]

It is a divine right. Or a divinely granted one. Truth be told, Astarion doesn’t think there’s much difference.

Still, she pulls it from him, then. A slow chuckle, dulled by the press of his tongue against the back of his teeth. It’s a good joke, all things considered. A true friend. Him.

What a joy she is. No wonder Ellie’s so smitten.

No wonder most everyone here is, in fact.

“Weak and wanted, it seems.” It’s like praise, the way he says it. And to his mind— as someone that survived only on the merit of similar plots— it absolutely is.

“But before you go getting any wild thoughts about nestling in with a bottle of Carnal, 8:69 Blessed, I’d advise considering your wealth of afforded options.”

A pause, his head tilting just so. He’s used to canting long ears towards the concept of good information, but given that he’s hidden them away for tonight, it has the added effect of making him look a bit houndish for a curious beat.

“...or are you simply waiting for the right catch.”

[molineux]

It is tempting to think of settling into a private room with a bottle of Blessed - simply to see how effectively it works and how she might use the enhancing qualities for future reference - but she is, of course, most loyal to her own image.

"Gigi is my catch," she says easily, although the devious lights dancing in her eyes dare him to counter her response with the truth. "No one else comes to mind in the nights when I long for company, although..." Her head tilts in a performance of thoughtful musing. "I suppose one can't be too careful in currying favor. The future is so unpredictable, after all."

It's addictive, being clothed in fine material once more, recognizing herself in the glossy shine of her curls and the fine cloud of perfume that follows her every movement. Even the light weight of flowers in her hair feels almost comforting. She has no illusions about her current relationship. This will not be like the sweet tales of romance she's read as a child, of finding love in the most unexpected of times and places. Love itself is an elusive concept, demanding far too much and compensating too little.

No. This is how to best preserve her own happiness.

"Just promise me that if Gigi and I part ways as lovers, you'll eventually come comfort me. A Carnal is," her eyes purposely drag down before her gaze cuts up, flashes of sharp blue amidst soft fluttering eyelashes, "optional."

[illithidnapped]

"My dearest girl," he starts, expression pinching under the weight of a predatory grin that does so much to shadow already darkened eyes.

Wine still in hand, he loops his wrist about her own with all the slow fluidity of a serpent twisting around a branch, briefly— harmlessly— entangling them both when he lifts the glass to his mouth to drink. It's all in good fun, the games they play. And in a way, he trusts her to know the steps. The borders of it. Like dancing with the right partner, their mischief is effortless.

"I'll comfort you even if she doesn't let you go."

[molineux]

The full range of her smiles come easily into play when it's like this - a fun, harmless spar where the most important rules are always followed, even if never spoken. Margaery melts into his lead easily so as not to give any spectators the illusion that he's even one step ahead.

"If that's the case, I do hope you know you may be disappointed." He gives her fluid temptation, and she returns it rather slyly, with a polite, lingering kiss to the back of his hand, eyes still focused on his, before she smoothly unravels their entanglement. "So many parties for me to dance in, so many nobles to befriend and impress. And of course," there's a glance in Gwen's direction - perfectly appropriate of a forlorn lover, "her needs will always come before mine."

Her relationship to Gwenaëlle may be a farce, but Margaery's past successes have come from dedicating herself to facades wholeheartedly, and even this moment, as fleeting as it may be, can be more than enough to destroy a ruse.

"But perhaps she'll be interested in watching?"

[illithidnapped]

He laughs. He laughs because it’s funny. Because she has him, there, so very set in the span of their game. Sly and shameless and ready to show the sharper gaze of a shark swimming alongside minnows.

What a catch she is.

Or at least— she would be, if she could ever be caught.

But Astarion is a deep believer in letting wild things run free. The ones that remind him of himself, that is.

“I somehow doubt it. But I suppose we’ll just have to see, won’t we?"

Glass of wine now thoroughly finished, he steals the opportunity to discard it by setting it down atop a passing tray of entirely full ones, held aloft by one of the estate servants. So fluid is the offense that it goes entirely unnoticed by all— save for Margaery, who stands right within full view of it. He trusts her not to tattle.

"In the meanwhile, I'd be willing to settle for a dance."

[molineux]

"I hope she says yes."

It's one last quip before she's fighting back a knowing smile at his move - she'd honestly applaud, if she could - and doing the much nicer equivalent of it when she catches the eye of one of the servants standing at alert and beckons him over sweetly to hand him her glass.

Astarion never does get a verbal answer, because Margaery's only too happy to take his arm and guide him to the dance floor, where she knows they create a stunning visage together, with the delicate simplicity of her dress and the beautiful embroidery of his sleeves.

"Is gossip truly all you came for tonight, dear Astarion? It feels a little too... easy for you, as challenges go. And rather distant."

It'd been her assumption that something much more practical would drive him to appear and engage in such a party - a specific target, perhaps, or their purse.

[illithidnapped]

“Oh darling, I’m not inclined to disagree.” Smile slow-blooming as she guides him— as he fits his hand to one of her own, the other resting along the midpoint of her beautifully arched spine in order to take lead— his own efforts nothing short of performatively pristine.

If this were a staged affair, they'd no doubt earn the highest marks.

“Unfortunately, things being what they are, my view in general these days is rather....sallow. People have a way of making assumptions.”

Subtle hints. Driven by the fact that he’s hidden his ears tonight. It wouldn’t do to outright confess the ruse where they might be overheard.

“I know it sounds absurd, and I’m sure I’ll find a way to pluck something worthwhile from this little soirée by the end of the night— or at the very least entertaining— but as of right now, I really did come here in search of a change in scenery.”

[molineux]

Hm. Any hints of a thoughtful expression are easily washed away in the instant their eyes meet again, although the understanding remains.

"You shine beautifully in the night, but changes in scenery suit you as well, dear Astarion. I'm glad you are here. Everything is so much more fun when you're present."

A sincere sentiment, although he can probably discern that she means it in more ways than one. Peace is always desired, but so terribly boring. Chaos, on the other hand, with emotions and tempers given a reason to clash? It's only in those moments that Margaery can get a clear picture into someone's heart and what they hold dear.

There's a brief pause as she twirls under his arm and gets drawn back to him like she's done this before many times.

"And do allow me to hunt with you again whenever you find the time. I need practice to get more appropriately menacing when I have a blade in my hand."

[illithidnapped]

It is a shame she’s taken.

Well— figuratively taken, given the nature of the grand ruse. Her work. Gwenaëlle’s plans. When she comes back to him, graceful and delicate in appearance beyond the fluttering of long skirts that flatter, he has to fight his every urge not to take advantage of proximity.

Instead of her lips, her cheek, her ear— all wickedly alluring to his mind— he instead speaks in the immodest gap between them, breath pooling against her skin, chilled and light.

“You don’t need a blade to be menacing, my love.”

His gloved fingers turn in her own, pulling the both of them back into proper form. Lamentable, but necessary. He won’t be the cause of any more trouble, tonight.

“But any time you want a thrill for the sake of sport, I’ll be there. Doubly so now that we’ve far too many Venatori roaming the countryside near to Kirkwall’s high towers.”

[molineux]

"Are you speaking from your heart, darling?" she counters, because the thought of being menacing to anyone, let alone Astarion, is enough to make her raise a skeptical brow despite the ache in her cheeks from smiling. Margaery can't imagine she'd be menacing to anyone except those allergic to charm, or hygiene.

The mention of Venatori makes her expression falter. While she will always argue that Diplomacy is a critical tangent of an organization as theirs, it's impossible not to feel helpless in the grand scheme of a war that requires actual fighting.

"Then you must promise me you'll be even more careful when scouting and roaming, Astarion. I know you to be fully capable of handling yourself, but it only takes one moment, one mistake." She looks at him expectantly, lips pursed in a slight pout from solemnity. There's genuine fear in her eyes that speaks of watching too many fighters killed by their own overconfidence or carelessness. "Promise me, please."

[illithidnapped]

“Don’t I always?” He coyly preens, knowing full well the lie is all too obvious.

Still, given the brightness of her smile. The sincerity it seems to spark, brimming vividly in her stare, he thinks it’s entirely worth it— playing the fool.

“I’m not easily killed. Proof enough already still lingering out in the Wastes, I’m sure.” Somewhere northeast of where they stand now, sunken in sand and soon to be forgotten. Tethered string and sunken fire pits. “I lived. A handful of Primus Taxarchis’ men can’t say the same.”

No matter how Astarion looks back on what happened, he won’t regret a shred of it, the damage he’d done.

“But if it’ll set your heart at ease, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to— ahah. Well.”