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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

Ellie laughs, this time freely. Alcohol might be contributing to it, but it still feels good. Warm. It doesn't die off, it settles.

Her lips rest on the edge of her cup, and she concentrates on the feeling of his fingers moving through her hair.

"Maybe just a little," she agrees, smiling against the rim. Her shoulders have relaxed. "But I'm kinda the same, so."

“You like me,” he counters with a vivid little snort, already beginning the careful work of weaving her hair together in artful strands.

“Ergo, you aren’t the same at all.”

Ellie laughs again, her eyes falling mostly shut, and she makes a low sound.

"Feels good," she says, the alcohol loosening her tongue. "Tell me what's going on with you and Gwenaëlle, before I start falling asleep?"

"Stop ruining my plans."

Gentle, chiding in the way that it's more of an obvious joke than anything else.

But then he exhales slowly, letting his fingers work for a moment or two longer. Maybe hoping she will fall asleep like that.

“I told her I wasn’t interested in friendship. That it wasn’t something to be trusted. Relied on. That I wasn’t stupid enough to go baring my soul and thinking it’d get me anything but trouble in return.” He was honest with her, in other words— and look where that got him.

Astarion leaves that to sink in, much like the wine they’ve had all evening, before adding, quietly:

“....also I slept with her husband.”

Ellie sticks out the tip of her tongue, though he may not actually be able to see it with the angle, and sits and listens. She wonders if Astarion realizes what it sounds like, telling her this when he's sitting like this with her. Maybe some normal person would call him out on it, push him to define what the fuck this is supposed to be then, if not friendship.

But Ellie's not interested in that, or in pressing him. Partially because she's not interested in being pressed, herself. It's a mutual understanding, and it suits her.

Ellie deliberately keeps her cup away from her mouth, waiting for him to finish- she doesn't imagine that Gwen would take offense to just that.

... but there it is.

"Jesus Christ," Ellie mutters, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "That would do it."

"What?"

The sort of what that denies blame. The sort of what that implies it is, in fact, unfathomable, even in hindsight. He draws the braid down, finally, tying it off with that stolen ribbon before smoothing his palm across the whole of her scalp, erasing any lingering flyaway strands.

"I was offering to sleep with her, too. It's not as if I was leaving her out in the cold."

There are plenty of strands that resist being tied back, and as she tilts her head to look at them, they fall softly around her face, escaping to frame it.

"Remind me how you're still alive. Holy shit, my dude."

Ellie looks very much like she's about to break into unholy laughter.

"Is she at least mad at her husband, too?"

Well. He tried.

Shifting back with a snort, he reaches for that previously half-touched glass of wine, continuing to sip at it as though it's nothing more than reflexive, rather than desired: something done just to be done.

"Incandescently." Astarion breathes, just against the lip of his cup. "But she was before then, too."

And the sigh that chases it is— despite everything— sober. Walks the line of self-awareness. "I thought if I lent her a hand tonight with her little scheme, she'd realize I was— that I wasn't— mm."

"Trying to hurt her on purpose?" Ellie supplies, her voice settled into a kind of understanding, if not exactly sympathy. He did a dumb thing, but Ellie doesn't believe that he was trying to be a douche on purpose. Not in this instance.

Not that he couldn't- but there's a difference between hurting someone because you wanted them hurt, and hurting someone because you didn't think it through.

"I don't think she gives a damn whether I meant to or not," he admits openly, convinced of every last word: Gwenaëlle is a force unto herself, and the way she sees the world doesn't exactly align with the world as Astarion knows it. And maybe, in truth, they're both a little skewed.

The product of their respective anguish. All splinters and sharp edges.

"But if she knew she wasn't nothing to me, that I was still willing to help, it might at least ease off some of the sting."

His shoulders shrug. His voice a vexed, throaty mutter.

"Instead she threatened to have me thrown out into the street. And given that it was her estate, she certainly could have."

"Not sure why she didn't. I'd have had you out on your ass. Him too, actually."

But Ellie's never been married, especially not to a guy, so she really can't say what she would've done. Gwenaëlle is a goddamn mystery in more ways than Ellie's comfortable with.

Astarion seems more motivated by rejection in this case, but she can't quite put a finger on it either.

"Did you mean to? Hurt her?"

"Oh," Astarion puffs, almost a pfft sound, no doubt waving a hand in dismissal somewhere behind her head. "He was already out on his ass. That was the part where I came in."

Like wine or painkillers, he supposes. Temporary relief, and not to be repeated, if what Thranduil said was true— and Astarion has no reason to doubt it. A pity unto itself.

But not an unfamiliar one.

"And look, I enjoy a little entertainment as much as anyone, but seeing as how they were— as she herself put it— estranged, and how she'd already offered to spend the night with me once before provided I had a place for it that wasn't just a Gallows bunk— which, at the time, I didn't— I assumed we were all essentially simpatico."

Still, the throaty sigh that lives between that confession and the next is a segue into mellower sobriety. A little less conversation, a little more weight.

"As for the rest, I suppose there's no denying it. If I was smarter, I would've just lied: told her we were the closest of companions, that she had my every confidence, that I'd never dream of turning tail in alarm." He purses his lips, sucks at the edge of one overlong incisor in thought.

"But I wasn't smart. So."

"... huh."

Ellie drapes both arms across her middle; she's not sure if she's just fuzzy from drinking too much, tired from Astarion's fingers in her hair, or if she's just burned herself out tonight on the constant socialization with strangers, trying to be polite. Charming.

But it still doesn't make sense to her. Perhaps someday she'll come to understand a bit more about Gwenaëlle, but for now... parts of this are muddled, and she can't guess at her feelings.

"You know there's a middle ground between lying about being besties and fuck you and your friendship, right?"

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