faderift | With money you squeezed from the peasants (open)

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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.

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:

Your Presence Is Requested; His grace le duc de Coucy invites all members of Riftwatch to his residence in Hightown on the evening of the 15th day of Kingsway for a celebration in honor of the 18th birthday of Thomas Charnier, Marquis de Soissons. Formal attire is requested. Festivities begin at sunset.

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.

image of hands touching, one gloved one bare.

image of hands touching, one gloved one bare.

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.)

image of toasting champagne flutes against a blurred background.

image of toasting champagne flutes against a blurred background.

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.

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His lips twist sharply, he reads the edges of her expression exactly for what they are, and all the restlessness it probably masks.

“Say it a little louder, darling. I don’t think the loitering spies heard you.” Tongue to sharp teeth, contentment bright-bloomed and brilliant. How he’s worked all evening to make sure everyone’s at ease among gilt finery.

How delighted he is that she isn’t.

“Did you talk to her yet?”

"Oh, come on. Anyone with half a brain is thinking it."

Ellie smiles back, knowing he loves it, loves this, and is probably in the same boat, all told. Astarion loves a fuss.

She gives him a fond squeeze around the back of his shoulders, then scoffs under her breath.

"Who?" she asks, though she has some idea.

He does love a fuss. Insatiable bastard that he is. And to that extent—

“The gleaming star of the ball herself, of course: Lady Tyrell.” he’s murmuring it, leaning well into her tightened hold like the starved creature that he is. Attention is, after all, attention.

And hers ranks higher than most.

“It doesn’t hurt to talk, after all.”

"I'm going to kick your ass all around this ballroom," Ellie hisses through her smile, but doesn't think for a moment of pulling away. She cuts off for a second as they go into a twirl, then grumbles against his shoulder as she comes back, hiding her face in order to grump properly.

"Haven't had the chance."

What she means is there's a lot of people around her, and Ellie doesn't do so well with that.

And the rest of what they'd discussed.

"What about you? You're chatting up a lot of people tonight."

Get in line, Ellie. There’s a queue for that.

“Work, not play. Or pleasure for that matter.” Woe is him, what a selfless creature he is.

“And besides, after my little tiff with our dear Gwenaëlle Baudin, I need to do all I can to endear myself to the rest of these charming fools.”

Ellie's eyebrows lift, and she's about to ask whether it's something she can help with, before Astarion, predictably, reveals that he's pissed somebody off. Bless him.

"A tiff?" she asks, giving him a doubtful, knowing look.

She knows Gwenaëlle and Astarion, and she doesn't imagine it's anything less than at least a minor sort of explosion.

"The hell'd you do?"

“What did I— nothing!”

He emphasizes the gap so sharply between the t and h that the word nothing might actually have become two.

And then, in a move that might well be interpreted as something romantically playful by anyone keeping tabs on them from afar, he briefly sets his chin atop her head, quelling the accusation and his own response to it all in one very absurd go.

“I simply offered to help her. Fat lot of good that did.”

Humans have shit hearing, all things considered. The music, slowed to something less enchanting, affords them enough space that he’s confident enough no one can hear them, between loudness and distance.

Edited (ahah) 2021-09-16 21:57 (UTC)

Said move also completely and utterly hides Ellie's face, and the way she sputters into his shoulder, her shoulders trembling with laughter that she does her best to keep quiet. She can just imagine how that went over with Gwenaëlle.

"Ohmygod-" she manages, gulping air, turning her face into his neck- the gossips may have some golden moments to talk about, if they're watching.

"Okay, but how did you offer to help her?"

“With something I’m not at liberty to discuss, given the....nature of this event, shall we say.”

It’s low, his voice. Lower than it’s been before between them, and that alone might say more in regards to what sort of assistance he’d been trying to lend.

“If you want to know more I’ll be happy to tell you later. In private.”

Where they won’t be overheard.

"Starting to get the picture."

Ellie gives his hand another squeeze, letting the humor of it fall away. She adores the old bat, and she likes Gwenaëlle, but she can see how they wouldn't exactly rub together like silk.

"Sounds good. I'll need to wind down after this party anyway. Rather go with you than back to the Gallows, if you're not going home with anyone."

If he was, she would really prefer to make herself scarce.

"Ahah." It's a lower sound, that particularly insincere laugh. The one that always crops up when he's got something buried and doesn't intend for the whole world to know about it.

Just maybe one person, instead.

His thumb pinches faintly against her palm, a warmer sign of gratitude: someone else might've let it slip, after all. Where he lives. And if— even at a distance— someone were to overhear that, all the false gold would peel right off of him in an instant. The shine utterly gone.

"I'm afraid my home isn't suitably tended to at the moment. But...if you're not the sort to mind a little lack of polish, well. I'll be ready when you are."

It's the end of the night, after all. They've all likely drank, and chatted, and argued, and flattered, and danced to their fill— much like everyone else still lingering at a more subdued pace. If he takes his leave now, it's entirely possible Madame Baudin will exhale with so much relief it'll blow the rest of the guests right out the front door.

And wouldn't that be something.

Someone else might have, but not Ellie. She knows Astarion's hiding his ears for a reason in this place, same reason she's not planning on using her magic here.

"I'm there to see you, not your housekeeping," she reminds him with an eyeroll, but enjoys sounding vaguely pompous anyway. All the better to blend in, right?

The whole thing kind of makes her want to break down laughing. It's a breath of fresh air after a somewhat stressful night, and she gives a nod.

"As soon as it's not, like- rude. To get out of here."

He twists his next movement— forearm slithering deftly beneath her own, smoothly turning what would've been a simple sidelong step into the sort of arrangement used by aristocracy on parade: his arm wrapped around hers, tucking it in across his chest at an angle, striding fluidly on that forward momentum towards the edge of the dance floor.

"Our departure is never rude. Only fashionable. And enviable."

Smooth. Really fucking smooth. Ellie moves with it, hooking her arm around his and letting her hand settle in his grip, heading toward the door with her head up.

It might've been a brilliant exit, if Ellie hadn't chanced a glance at the rest of the dance floor -- and spotted Abby, dancing with Loki. With a smile on her face and her cheeks flushed and eyes bright, enjoying herself.

They've managed to stay out of the same room for most of the night, and it's worse because Ellie wasn't expecting it. She misses a step, catches herself, her hand like iron on Astarion's arm as she turns herself straight, schooling her expression until they can make it out the doors and into the too-humid night air.

He feels that tension. Sees her eyeline.

It doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together. And it doesn’t take much now to ease her grip with a little squeeze of his own. With how he supports her weight when she steps too harshly, a brace to keep her from falling.

“Easy, daring,” he murmurs, low near the shell of her ear. The sort of bristling he’d been afraid of, that. The kind of thing he’d intended to avoid.

But some things, he thinks— with a cast off look to Gwenaëlle somewhere far across the ballroom floor— just can’t be avoided.

“Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

The air outside is cooler, once they’re there. The walk back is long. And Astarion’s languid, preening demeanor changes the closer they get to his Lowtown home: by the time he unlocks that creaking iron door to his flat, he’s hunched forward like an animal— sharp and keen-eyed, more than aware of how their finery makes them more target than pedestrian.

“Inside, my dear. Quickly.”

Ellie is more than thankful he's there. The instant support almost comes as a surprise, but she nods through it, even if she stays relatively quiet on the way back. It's late, and almost everyone who would still be up isn't up to much good.

Where Astarion has his ready defensive posture, Ellie moves like a predator despite her size and bearing. She keeps hold of his arm, silently scanning all the shadowy corners, the twisting alleyways, and is very aware of all the knives she brought to this incredibly fancy function beneath her incredibly fancy coat.

After glimpsing Abby like that she almost hopes someone will try.

However, they get inside without incident, and Ellie shrugs off her coat, draping it over the back of a chair -- with it gone Astarion will be able to see evidence of leather sheaths concealing blades in convenient places along her thighs and forearms.

"People been messing with you?" she asks.

“I like to mess with them first.” He snorts back proudly— but the words, of course, mask something of an obvious truth.

Astarion’s made enemies here simply for existing, from the moment he set foot in Kirkwall. That’s just how it is. A menace and a magnet all in one.

The door is locked, patted for its trouble, and then he’s tugging at his own collar on weary approach, free hand used to throw stale wine into the fireplace (more of a pit, really, but who’s counting) before pouring out two fresh cups without much care.

“I irritated the Hells out of her, you know.”

It’s a proud confession. An offered counterweight to the sight of Abby laughing and dancing.

"Good."

Ellie shows teeth, half-smiling to herself as she flops down into one of the barely-holding-together chairs, crossing both her arms over her middle and grazing her fingertips over the ties at her throat, loosening her own collar, then undoing her gloves, rolling up her sleeves, physically casting off the roles they've put on for the night, letting more of herself peek out. Literally so, in the case of her tattoo.

The tension slowly starts unwinding, and she lets herself actually smile when Astarion hands her a cup. They've had drinks at the party, but friendship always lends stuff a different flavor.

"Oh yeah? What'd you do?"

Astarion, meanwhile, takes the bed behind her, hooking the corner edge of that chair with his foot and dragging it near enough to him so that she's well within reach. Childish tomfoolery. His own brand.

"Got her to make a deal with me. That she had to pay attention to me instead of trying to ignore me, and that in exchange, I'd let her enjoy the rest of her night in peace and— relative quiet."

His snort segues into a chuckle.

"If she were smarter, she would've asked for more than just a night."

Ellie gives a soft sound under her breath as he drags the chair close, managing to balance without spilling her cup, but she shoots him a disgruntled look over her shoulder all the same, and tucks both feet up on the edge of the chair. She's small enough to do it.

"Do you just have like- this pathological need to piss people off?"

She tips her head back, closer to him -- her hair's down and clean for once, tied just halfway back with a silk ribbon, which is hanging on for dear life by now.

Ellie appreciates him for it, and is exasperated by it at the same time.

He draws in an overlong sip of wine before setting his cup aside on the barrel that serves as his nightstand— long fingers reaching out to begin the tedious work of untying and combing out her hair.

"Obviously. It's fun."

And, more importantly, makes him feel better.

"Don't you?"

Ellie's eyelids flutter. It's a tender touch, the kind she has never in her life known how to accept, but Astarion and his utter lack of boundaries push past the strangeness with barely a hitch. No expectations, no ulterior motives. Just touch, because they're people and they're starved for it.

It takes a moment for the question to filter through the haze of alcohol and his long fingers, lightly tugging.

"Mmmh. Depends on the person? I mostly just have a natural talent for it."

"Well you certainly charmed me." he counters coolly, twisting his knuckles just so to section out her hair within his grasp. Simple movements.

"You just have a soft spot for assholes," Ellie says with a huge grin, taking a sip of her wine. She can't turn to look at him without ruining whatever he's trying to do back there, but hopefully he can hear it in her voice.

"What? Nonsense." Astarion scoffs in return, before—

Before thinking of Fenris. Of Ellie. Of Emet-Selch, even. And how he's all but bitten so many others for their sincerity. For the way they look at him, and the sort of apprehension it strikes in turn.

"....maybe a little."

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