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

[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.”

[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]

“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?”

[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."

[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?”

[arkitect]

"Do you care whether you do or do not?"

A question for a question, one brow arched in turn. It's an expected curiosity, but not one he seems like he'll indulge immediately.

[illithidnapped]

“I already know I don’t.” Astarion puffs confidently, the way his neck stretches taller with pride almost making him look like a bird fluffing its own ruff for show. The silken layering of his cravat certainly doesn’t dissuade the impression, either, spotted with flecks of gold and false pearl. High enough to almost kiss the underside of his jaw.

“But it’s nice to hear, anyway. So go on, then. Regale me.”

[arkitect]

He appears to contemplate it, over the next few steps-- perhaps considering how to word it, exactly what to say... what Astarion eventually gets, though, is a light shrug and a brief hum.

"No, I think not," he says, dismissing it idly. "Seeing as you've already decided, surely you don't need to hear it from me."

[illithidnapped]

“Fine. Then I’ll be happy to assume you’re utterly smitten, and that you’ve never met anyone else in all the Realms like me.” Light-voiced, chin still lifted, proud as anything as he slips between steps as if he were born for this.

“Because there is no one like me. Not ever before, and not ever again.”

Chaos stitched into him as surely as the gold and pearl fastened to his corseted shirt, the high rise of his collar.

[arkitect]

"And 'tis a relief to the world that there is not, I'm sure." A hint of amusement there, the light quirk of one side of his mouth, but he doesn't directly address the statement otherwise. He's lived long enough and seen enough that there are often elements of familiarity in any given person-- there's still enough he doesn't know of Astarion that there could be notes of it they've yet to identify.

"What would it ever do with two of you?"

[illithidnapped]

“Burn, I suppose.”

He snorts, so offhandedly that it’s almost lost to the music, perpetually laughing at his own jokes.

“Though as of late it’s certainly doing that, anyway. You picked a poor world to wind up in, darling.”

[arkitect]

"Well, I have been in worse-fated worlds."

Idle, nearly detached. Entirely too light for what it is, but it's something he brushes past quickly enough.

"We'll simply have to see what this one manages."

[illithidnapped]

“Worse? Worse than this?” Sharply scoffed, the edges of his teeth flashed.

“Either your luck is less than awful, or someone up there— figuratively speaking— has it out for you.”

And Astarion, otherwise miserably-fated, knows a thing or two about that.

[arkitect]

He just smiles; an easy one, pleasant enough at a glance, but not one that reaches his eyes.

"Such things are rarely so personal," is the response Astarion gets. "I would assume that, figuratively speaking, someone up there simply had it out for those places."

[illithidnapped]

“Mm. Do you know what I personally find boring?”

Asked as he leans back gracefully into that hold, spine arching just so. Peerless grace, compared to the stumbling that surrounds them.

[arkitect]

"I'm sure I will learn it regardless of my answer."

So go on, tell him, since he clearly intends to-- Emet-Selch doesn't look expectant, exactly, but he is waiting, keeping his hold steady as Astarion leans back into it.

[illithidnapped]

"Entirely cryptic nonsense." Astarion spits back, his voice suddenly as flat as the flooring beneath their feet.

[arkitect]

Ah; that just gets a huff of a quiet laugh from him in return. "The gods only know why you choose to spend so much of your time in my company, then-- but this is a pleasant enough gathering. I should like to keep it that way, for now."

Besides, there are things he prefers not to say in company, whether anyone seems to be listening or not.

[illithidnapped]

This time, Astarion's hum is thoughtful, head drifting nearer to Emet-Selch's shoulder as he shifts his footing, gaze slinking away elsewhere.

"And here I'd never fancied myself a masochist before now. Clearly the evidence speaks for itself."

He's still here, after all.

"Anyway, you can't do worse for the place than half the people already here. You'd think Hightown would manage to...oh, I don't know, draw out the high in its populace, but no. Shows me."

[arkitect]

That shift is something he notes, but allows to slide for now-- just observing, still keeping up their steps.

"Well, if you begin asking for more, I'm afraid I will have to respectfully decline. Far too much effort on my part," he drawls, dismissive. "But you really ought to know better than to expect too much of others."

[illithidnapped]

"Naturally," Astarion counters with an openly devious laugh. "Wouldn't want you to break those ancient bones of yours with anything too rigorous."

As for the rest, well. No comment on his own perpetually low expectations when it comes to people in general, all jokes aside.

[arkitect]

"Do take care, then, or I may well trip and do exactly that."

He won't, naturally, but if Astarion isn't going to let his teasing over Emet-Selch's age go-- then he's just going to have to treat him well to make sure his poor old self doesn't suffer, isn't he.

[illithidnapped]

"Is that a request for gentleness?" he asks, sweet as poured wine. Deceptively at odds with the expression he's wearing: razor sharpness lurking just beneath the dark hang of his lashes.

[arkitect]

"I think not," he says with equal pleasantness, turning to guide their steps in a different direction. "There is naught I would request of you."

[illithidnapped]

“Begging, then? Or...” He almost gasps, his eyes glinting.

“A demand.”