Romain de Coucy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
toujoursdroit) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2021-09-08 08:04 pm
toujoursdroit) wrote in faderift2021-09-08 08:04 pm
With money you squeezed from the peasants (open)
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.
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.
Ellie | OTA
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.
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.)
Re: rescue.
Ellie recognizes Gwenaëlle from Orzammar, and in fact the knife she bought her is strapped to her forearm, up one of her sleeves. It's served her damn well so far. As she draws closer and the youth begins to falter, Ellie lifts her glass to her lips, and it'll be the last time she makes this mistake around Gwenaëlle.
Ellie nearly spits out her drink at the story, and tries to discreetly wipe her mouth with the back of her hand while the young man gapes like a fish at Gwenaëlle, then mumbles a goodbye and scurries off.
Freed, Ellie hacks a laugh into the back of her hand, trying very hard to make it sound like a cough instead, but her eyes are dancing over her knuckles as she looks up over them at her savior.
"That might be my favorite scar story," she chokes out.
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“It was incredible. First time I'd ever shot a bow, actually, and I couldn't make another like it for a fucking age.” Dumb luck and Hakkon's wrath; sometimes the flutter of black wings still makes her think of Asher, pallid, going to the lady of the skies with his beard trimmed neat, promising to take her secrets with him. Safe-keeping.
The mischief lingers. “But, honestly, what's the point of a party being held in my house if I don't get to do that.” Run off dipshits, she means.
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Ellie snorts under her breath, glancing after the youth, who is eyeing them from behind a planter and pretending he's not. It seems like several others are doing the same, probably wondering who the hell Ellie is.
- and then,
"Wait, fuck. This is your house?"
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“Thomas is my cousin,” she elaborates, “and l'Duc is my grandfather. Sort of. I was passed off as his daughter's legitimate child for years, and he decided not to let a little thing like that being an illegal lie force him to give me up—when we first came to Kirkwall from Skyhold, he arranged the house for me. I haven't always lived here, but I do.”
Currently, she means. She points out Enchanter Julius, a tall, light-haired mage dressed not dissimilarly to Ellie, “He lived here for a bit in the first year, the old Forces Commander, Coupe, she made me bring someone with me for security and picking a mage was a bit of a fuck you. Ex-Templar,” as an explanatory aside. “I had never held a weapon, at that point, so it wasn't not a good idea.”
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Nobles are fucking bonkers, is what Ellie thinks immediately, because none of that makes sense to her. How can her being illegitimate make them not related? How can illegitimacy be illegal? What the absolute fuck? Of course, there was also Margaery and her brother's experience with the law, so maybe nobility just has a different rules all around-
What she says aloud, however, is probably less coherent.
"What the fuck, dude?" she says in a mumble, pulling a face, and tightening her arm in Gwenaëlle's. "Families are nuts."
... but hey, at least she's found out that Gwen's not afraid of mages, apparently.
"Why's the Forces Commander care about whether you have security?"
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“And I'm not even blood related to any of these fucking people.” But she says it fondly; Romain Charnier, l'Duc de Coucy, discovered that she was not his daughter's child, not his blood, and publicly asserted that he didn't give a fuck and wouldn't be parting with his favorite grandchild over a little thing like her being the bastard of his loathed son-in-law's elven housekeeper.
He chose her. She'll love him 'til she dies.
“—but I am to the mage, my uncle, that former Commander Coupe lives in filthy sin with out in the woods now. A pretty bit of hypocrisy, that. Anyway, he didn't know his brother well enough to know better than to give a fuck about us, so she stuck her oar in my business at every chance she got. Put a knife in my hands the first time.” Lived to regret it, although the knives Gwenaëlle stuck in her in turn were mostly verbal.
Her lips quirk. She loves and hates Luwenna Coupe in almost equal measure; she fears becoming her, she wants to make her proud. She misses her—
but she imagines what she'd think of all this evening, and it makes her laugh. Takes the edge off.
“We fell out, when I was involved with—do you know about the Tranquil?”
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But it seems like she might actually understand that.
The Commander thing she understands even if she's learnt the history of Riftwatch imperfectly. Getting bossed by a hardass of a woman convinced she had your best interests at heart.
"... yeah, kinda. People who have been magically lobotomized, right?"
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the forbidden section
She doesn't mean to be sneaky, but it turns out that expensive, well-made shoes actually make it extremely easy for her to step lightly over sturdy wood and well-
what's a bit of flirting between friends? Margaery is, after all, a taken woman for now, and she's always been loyal those her heart is shown to be promised to.
Still, if Ellie sees the sharp interest in her eyes, it's not simply a figment of her imagination or the flicker of the dim lights around them.
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"You scared the shit out of me," she says, torn between laughter and upset, and pauses, just for a second, while she takes in the look in Margaery's eyes.
The interest is definitely there, but Ellie assumes it's about the book, because of course. So she flashes her a conspiratorial smile, and tilts her head towards the book.
"Maybe."
Shifting up to glance over Margaery's shoulder, she checks the rest of the room. No nobles, just a servant or two, flitting through.
"... I'll keep a lookout. If you want to check it out."
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"Such a wonderful friend you are." she says teasingly, although it's definitely not a no and she's stepping closer and reaching out with both hands to take it after also taking a quick sweep of the room. "I wonder if it has pictures-?"
As it turns out, it does.
It's also an erotica that, if Margaery is skimming properly, is - "I think this is about a single blowjob." Her tone isn't one of conspiratorial delight, no. It's pure wondrous puzzlement and the baffled amusement is not far behind. What is so amazing about penises that a blowjob takes up the entirety of a story?
"But the artist did a wonderful job capturing the mess?" she says, turning the book to show Ellie as she very gradually loses the control over her facial muscles and begins to giggle.
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Of course, Ellie's watch on the room is immediately compromised by her looking back towards Margaery, and her guffaw at the look on her face.
She hustles back over to her side, leaning in near her shoulder to take a look at the lewd drawings. With a snort, she covers her mouth, trying not to crack up.
"Why do they always draw them so fucking huge?" she asks, her voice breaking as she tries not to laugh too loudly and attract attention. "Seriously, he could just like, prop himself up if he wanted to take a nap, what the fuck-"
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The sound is loud enough to startle even her, and she immediately brings a hand up again to smother herself - Ellie's spared from being thwacked gently on the arm as her other hand is rather occupied with holding this ridiculous book open.
"And here I was thinking it'd be difficult for him to even get out of bed with such a weight, especially when you see his sac à balles-" which is a much prettier way of saying ball sacs, thank you, Orlais. She manages to recover from her humiliation just enough to turn the page so Ellie can also see the crown jewels in their full, flesh-colored splendor.
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Ellie lifts a hand to aggressively wave the drawing away -- and stops mid wave to stare in mingled horror and fascination at it, reaching out to grasp the edge of the book for a better look.
"Does this dude just walk around bow-legged everywhere? How can he run?"
Clearly, the important questions.
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No use tugging at a string if you're not willing to see how far it unravels.
"I am assuming... ah, yes."
She flips towards the end, skimming as quickly as she can and picking up words like stay, bed, condition, service, among a smattering of others -
"If I'm stringing these words together correctly, this man woke up one day to find that his genitals had engorged exponentially, but as he was the, ahem, largest fellow in the village, men and women lined up for his services. Although I believe this is a happy ending? This blowjob we're reading about is from a man who is actually able to fit him in his mouth entirely, and that's how we, as the readers, know it's true love-"
With yet another corresponding picture.
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Ellie has a broad grin on her face, a laugh under her breath as Margaery explains. She feels like her cheeks are going to crack with the effort not to guffaw aloud-
She does, however, gasp ungracefully as Margaery turns to the last page. The physics of this shit are baffling.
"How the fuck-- is it going into his stomach? He doesn't even have enough mouth for that thing?!"
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rescue.
Which is all the warning the gentleman is allowed before Derrica hooks her elbow through Ellie's and tows her away from young bowman. It's a speedy process. His sputtering objection comes far too late to prevent Derrica from pulling Ellie all the way into the crowd of swaying partners on the dance floor.
It's only after they're more or less out of sight on the far side of the dance floor that Derrica turns with a smile to reassure her, "We don't have to dance if you don't want. It was just the first thing I could think of to interrupt him."
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She gulps the last of it, sets it on a waiter's tray as they make it past.
She's laughing as Derrica gets her to the other side of the dance floor, gasping for breath, her cheeks a little flushed. She's had enough to drink to feel lightly buzzed, and it agrees with her.
"You should've seen the look on his face," she grins, her hand on Derrica's arm. "I was sure he was gonna ask me to dance next. Thanks."
Catching her breath, Ellie settles, holding out her hands. The smile's still on her face, lovely and loose for once- evidence of a person who's forgotten to be careful. A temporary possession of the person she must have been, once.
Her guard's slipped tonight.
"C'mon. Let's not waste the song."
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But Ellie's laughing, and that dispels some of the belated concerns. Relief mingles with amusement, a smile curving broad across Derrica's face. It's all satisfaction. A job well managed, and she'd have been content to stand here with Ellie, talking until one or the other of them peeled away.
The invitation though—
"A perfect way to pay me back for the favor," Derrica tells her, taking hold of Ellie's hands. "Not that any thanks was necessary in the first place."
No reason to make this observation aloud: this is the most open Derrica has seen Ellie's expression in all the time they've known each other.
It's Ellie's invitation but Derrica gives her a little tug, pulling her onto the dance floor before any further conversation about who owes who what can occur. Ellie offered a dance, and Derrica's claiming it.
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Gene would tease her about this, she feels sure, in that gentle way of his, and she sends him a soft thanks under her breath as they go into the first spin. Even if the steps she uses aren't common in Thedas, it's easy enough to follow.
"Where'd you learn to do this?"
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"On the deck of a ship."
Part of where she learned how to be flexible, to adapt herself to someone else's motion. She'd known none of the dances that the other sailors had favored, just like she hadn't known very much of how to sail.
"Where did you learn to do this?" she returns, a little teasing.
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"Makes sense."
Ellie hums under her breath, closes her eyes for longer than a blink, and turns them. Derrica's an effortless partner, and how gracefully she follows makes Ellie feel better at this than she is.
"... another world," she says, thoughtfully, bittersweet, but more sweet than anything. She misses him and always will.
"My friend Gene taught ballroom dance. Whenever I visit him he'd badger the shit out of me until I danced a few songs with him. So I learned. Totally against my will."
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It's hard to know, what is and isn't too painful to speak of. Derrica understands that sort of pain, how sometimes it can be too overwhelming to get hands around. It's impossible to predict in herself, even all this time later. Ellie's pain seems like a raw, fresh thing.
But it at least seems to be held at bay tonight, leaving room enough to learn just a little bit.
"Do you like it?"
Maybe that's a question Derrica should have asked before trapping Ellie into a dance.
"Or is it alright, that I've badgered you?"
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Sometimes grief is too large to hold, but slowly, Ellie is making room for other things.
She curls her arm around Derrica's back, shrugging with a helpless smile, before making herself be direct. It comes out a touch awkward but wholly sincere.
"I'm the one who asked you," she points out, for all that Derrica rationalized it. Something in the back of her head trips a little, a realization about her friend, and she lightly squeezes her hand in reassurance.
"And yeah. I like it. With you, anyway. You've earned the right."
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