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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Well.

That certainly does it.

His hand withdraws smoothly. His stare entirely level for a few, weighted beats—

And then he sinks his head to her shoulder, cheek pressed sweetly across the rise of it, the scent of lilac and leather oil almost overwhelming. The very picture of a doting cat, hunting for what it hasn't been given.

"Sorry to shatter your dreams, darling." Astarion all but purrs, saccharine.

"It was a good try, though. Truly admirable. Keep it up, and you might do well in Orlais."

Abby freezes, her expression pinching when he nuzzles against her shoulder, completely uncertain of how to receive this reaction. For a brief moment she thought she'd finally got to him, but now she isn't so sure. She certainly doesn't miss that his cheek comes to rest gently upon the spot where Ellie stabbed her, the ache dormant, but there, buried deep.

The rumble of his voice gives her a weird shiver. Maybe that's a vampire thing.

"Right.

Are you going to teach me to dance or not."

He’s been trying to rile her. To incite the worst possible mood without making a scene—

And yet, somehow, the response she gives him is the one he’d been hunting for earlier: surprise (briefly) coloring his expression as his cheek lifts away from her shoulder, those dark lashes of his blinking rapidly. He’s measuring her. Testing to see if this is a joke at his expense.

And then:

“All right.”

There’s something more relaxed in his expression, pale hand outstretched, palm upturned— the glass of wine he’d been drinking wholly shoved into someone else’s hands (much to their bewildered and subsequently ignored dismay). She’s taller than him. That won’t stop him from taking lead regardless.

“Have you ever done this before?”

His guess is no, but...

She takes solace in the brief interlude of his surprise, her eyebrows rising in silent response. Not a joke, no. He isn't familiar with her changes in mood, and Abby will take advantage of that for as long as she possibly can.

His hand is cold from the glass when she takes it.

"Not really."

It only conjures old memories of dancing with her friends or with Owen specifically, how he held her close and let her step on his feet. Abby bites the inside of her cheek delicately, caught up for just a moment, before she returns her attention to him. "Not like this."

“Try not to step on my feet, then. Otherwise I doubt they'll survive the ordeal.”

Teasing, judging by the way his mouth pulls just faintly at its edge. He can’t tell how rough her hands are through the thin leather of his gloves, but his grip is light enough to balance out any inclinations to grasp on her part. This isn’t a battlefield, after all (though it’s arguably his battlefield); there’s no reason to go manhandling everything within reach— least of all him.

So he leads with that feathering hold, other hand falling just against the no doubt taut center of her spine once they reach the fringe edge of the dance floor. There, at least, she’ll have more room to stretch her wings without figuratively falling.

“Put your hand on my shoulder, darling. Time your steps to the music.”

Like so, is the unspoken direction, as his footsteps serve as a perfectly timed example of both tempo and distance.

"No promises," she mutters, her gaze at her feet as he pulls her slowly into place like she's on strings. They are not being watched. They aren't interesting enough, not quite yet. Abby feels intensely aware of how he's bound to have more delicacy and grace in one fingernail than she does in her entire body to notice what anybody else is doing anyway.

He leads. She keeps her hand light on his shoulder, the touch as slight as the one against her spine, and listens to the music with her eyes shut before she moves. It's really nice... she likes it. It was written by a composer that she's never heard of before.

She's clunky to start with, feeling her way. In comparison she's almost wooden, her movements stiff as she tries to keep strictly to the tempo and forgoes technique, but the easy repetition oils the performance ever so over time.

A soft, stifled laugh when she steps the wrong way entirely and forces them to a juddering halt. "... Harder than I thought."

She laughs, and—

His exhale is tighter for it. A sort of faint scoff, though entirely breathless and even more silent. Less audible over the music than something else might otherwise be.

“Only at first,” he chides, mild and even. Unusual for him, moments like this. He finds the rhythm again, and coaxingly draws them into it. Slow start, smoother momentum. “But so far so...passable, I suppose.”

The edge of his mouth works its way into the thinnest of smiles, at odds with his own instincts.

“And if nothing else, you’re not stomping in the floor tiles like our dear, graceless vision over there, just across my shoulder. White gloves. Lots of feathers.”

Too many feathers. Too much applied enthusiasm. The nobleman doesn’t seem to be dancing so much as subjecting his admirers to mock-combat.

“I don’t know what’s worse: the hideousness of his efforts or the fact that each and every one of his dance partners keeps pretending that he’s a damned savant.”

"Oh, gee," she says, her voice falsely bright as he pulls them into a smoother glide over time, the steps coming easier the longer he keeps her neatly on track, "Thanks."

But it's actually... fun.

She likes the music a lot (it's exactly what she would have chosen to listen to back home in her room at the stadium), and the dance itself is technically easy, almost soothing once she finds the trick to it, the sweep of the leg, and their hands holding aloft, gently clasped.

Abby has to wonder if it looks any good from the outside. They have to make an unlikely pair she thinks, the both of them tall but herself broad and stiffly dressed; him slight, wispy yet powerful, perfectly arranged across from her.

When he turns her slightly so she can see over his shoulder, she has to disguise her chuckle ducking her head for a moment, as if glancing at her steps again. "They've probably figured out he's loaded, right," she replies lowly, amused, "From the costume alone. Either that, or he's that rough in the bedroom, too."

"Mm." He hums witheringly, "Definitely that he’s loaded."

The grin he fits her with is sly. Discreet only in that it lasts as long as his own back is turned towards that display— and gone the second he faces it. The perfectly worn façade.

"As for the rest, I doubt he’d last five minutes like that. Look at him: pampered toff, warm blooded. Spoiled darling probably tires himself out asking for breakfast or walking down his own tiered staircase to take a piss."

He's so smooth. Not for the first time, Abby silently marvels at him for it, and her gaze flickers to their target over his shoulder as he starts to slowly turn them away again.

It really is bad dancing. It's making her feel better about the few times she puts a foot down uncertainly and disrupts their rhythm, even though she's got the steps memorised by this point.

"Gross," she replies, amusement clear in her tone, "Is that kind of attitude common around here? Kinda looks like it would be."

“Amongst the societal elite?” He asks idly, making a topical assumption based on current focus rather than childish impulse. And because of it, for potentially the briefest interlude, he doesn't seem the menacing creature he so often makes himself out to be. He sounds...normal. Level.

Some might even say sane.

“It varies. Some devote themselves to one particular study, while others gorge themselves on indolence or indulgence. It’s the ones with sharp eyes you need to watch out for, though. Those distinctive few that stare too directly for a little too long.” A trait Astarion himself nurses along, in fact— and doesn’t seem bashful about emphasizing in the moment, despite the fact that this truly doesn’t smack of narcissism.

It’s level advice. Prudent advice, given the setting, and her assumed inexperience in this particular arena.

“They’re the ones that don’t squander the advantage life gave them, and they make themselves into excellent adversaries if you’re unlucky enough to cross them.”

Her attention flickers back to him as he starts talking. She hasn't heard him go on at length in a normal tone, too used to, and tired of, his dramatics. This is a nice change of pace. He's just talking to her, proving himself a wealth of information.

Maybe Abby has underestimated just how much attention Astarion pays his surroundings.

"... Like you, you mean," she finishes smoothly for him, one brow raising.

He's not speaking about himself in this instance, because he wouldn't be subtle about it if he were. He isn't warning her. Abby chooses to read between the lines anyway.

There he pauses, the eased set of his mouth thinning out. Drifting down. A difference of degrees.

It might as well be miles.

“No, my darling.” Astarion corrects soberly, drifting more into the sway of the music for a moment. Into the mild satisfaction of drawing her through it— taut muscle of her spine easily felt through her coat, just beneath his fingers.

“I’m....shall we say, a different breed altogether. A little lacking in the silver spoon department these days.”

She doesn't notice his almost imperceptible grimace, but something changes in the space between them. The mood dips, in this particular spot where they're waltzing, Astarion guiding her around in endless, fancy loops. Abby doubts anybody outside the circle of their bodies would notice it, but she does.

"Wouldn't have guessed," she replies, after a beat. It doesn't matter at all to her whether somebody has money or not. She's still getting used to what money is. Clearly having more of it is an advantage, an opportunity that does not seem to be equal.

Another glance at the idiot behind them, still dancing. Still preening, "You'd be boring if you were like them."

"I— "

Again, she catches him off guard. A right usually reserved for Fenris, in fact, and it's a testament to the sheer amount of practice that Astarion's had in this particular societal arena that he doesn't fumble in his footing for it. The glint of his eyes shifts, however. The set of his voice soft.

"Thank you."

A pause, before, abrupt as a forced shift in tempo, Astarion rushes to grin. Flashes the jagged run of his long teeth when he snorts out something akin to a laugh, browline pinching.

It's feigned.

"—I mean, naturally, of course. Just do me a favor and promise that if I ever finish ascending the ladder to Hightown's tallest towers and somehow transform into the oaf rattling away behind us, that you'll ram a stake right through my ribs and end it quickly."

She's not doing a very good job of hating him, is she.

Maybe they realise it at the same time because Astarion suddenly grins, fangy and ridiculous, his swagger returning with gusto. Is he throwing her a line? Abby can't tell but it's easier to lean into the bit, away from the moment, and grab it tightly to keep from getting stuck in the unexpected softness of his voice, or the faint surprise she's deciding she must have imagined.

"The stake is a real thing?" Even if it isn't, she does like that he plays into the stereotype, "What about the other stuff? Do..." She trails off, thinking, and promptly messes up their tempo, "fucksake- do you have a reflection?"

"Didn't used to. Do now." Astarion more than cheerfully offers, lifting his chin to new heights and— for that matter— lowering his own posture with serpentine precision to negate the otherwise obviousness of her misstep: a gesture that might be read as an olive branch to some.

Of course, it could also just be saving face, so who knows.

"Thedas changed the rules. In fact before I arrived here, I hadn't seen my own reflection in two hundred years. And some of the old weaknesses I haven't been willing to test out, for all the obvious, potentially deadly reasons: the stake through the heart being one of them. You see, formerly, it only paralyzes us. Ideally you'd then use that opportunity to drag one of our own out into daylight, where we would then quickly turn to ash."

His scoff is light, vaguely amused.

"Not anymore, of course. Not for me."

Wow. "What's seeing yourself for the first time in two hundred years like?" Personally, Abby's never been overly concerned with her appearance. She even made a point of avoiding a mirror before she left for the party. Didn't want to risk it. If she'd seen herself in these new and different clothes and thought they looked stupid, she might not have come.

Still. At least she had the option. She can't imagine never being able to catch a glimpse of yourself, but she thinks it would feel like she wasn't really there at all.

And then, as if to defang how personal that question is, she hastily adds, "I mean- I wouldn't be able to take a stake through the heart either, so. You're not special."

Edited (wheezes) 2021-10-10 22:07 (UTC)

At the words ‘you’re not so special’, Astarion laughs. It’s so abrupt, so bloody abrasive, that her decided lack of delicacy (given their surroundings) almost shocks as sharply as a plunge into ice cold water.

Or, for Astarion, hot water. Either way, though.

Still, her prior question mellows him after that, leaves him stuck somewhere between amusement and—

Well.

“Uncomfortable.” He sighs softly, letting the word form itself between the edges of his teeth.

“I don’t even remember what I looked like before all this— not that it matters, anyway. And not that you care, besides.”

Would he have looked very different? Abby has a vision of somebody with brown hair instead of white, brown eyes instead of red (those two traits strike her as particularly vampiric). Obviously, he wouldn't have the pointy teeth either... Abby finds herself appraising him for a moment, trying to see it.

But he's right. She doesn't really care, she's only curious. Not the same thing. Abby hums, before she asks again.

"How old are you, anyway?" Since she's already outed herself as a blunt asshole she may as well keep going, "Two-hundred-something?"

“Potentially.” He confesses, absent in a way that might come off as guarding to an exceptionally perceptive soul. Not from the idea of being seen through— but from himself: a feigned absence of concern, made to inspire reality.

Because pretending is always almost good enough, if you do it right.

“Like I said, I don’t remember much. Could’ve been seventy years before I was turned. Could’ve been three hundred.” The pause that lives there is only for a brief, mirroring interlude, where he pulls away for the simplicity of an expected turn, just like every other dancing pair in attendance.

“Still, it’s true: I spent two hundred years like this before coming here, give or take— so your guess probably isn’t all that far off no matter what the original sum was.”

His expression shifts ever so slightly, lips curling.

“Why do you ask? Looking for a change in species?”

Edited (typos everywhere ) 2021-10-16 10:40 (UTC)

She has her mouth open to ask another question, but his ends up making her splutter. "A change in– no."

And just as abruptly, Abby is considering herself with a white braid and bright red eyes that match Astarion's own... feels wrong, feels unnatural. No, she isn't interested in that, not even morbidly.

"Is that a service you provide?"

When he twirls her, it's abrupt: a quick lean into momentum and flow over sheer strength, given how evenly matched they otherwise are— arm catching the small of her back at the very end for a steep segue into a dip that might very well leave her draped nearer to the floor than the gilded ceiling overhead, drawing passing attention from the gathered assembly. A scant few glances, a noticeable scattering of whispers.

If their fumbling nemesis elsewhere was hogging attention before, this certainly makes for his elegant antithesis.

Astarion's smile is easy. Lopsided.

Fanged.

"On request."

Abby is less smooth and even more unsuspecting; when he shifts her weight to take it off her feet and lower her, she jolts, grips him more tightly than is strictly necessary. The breath rushes out of her when Astarion bares his teeth.

For a wild moment she thinks he's going to attack her in the middle of the goddamn hall (or at the very least drop her on her ass just to make her look like a complete idiot), and then she realises that people are watching them, and she stiffens, embarrassed, bewildered.

"... Right," is all she can think to say. Her feet feel twisted up underneath of herself: the opposite, of elegant. "Very funny."

Let her up! Now!

Poor thing.

There’s being in over one’s head, and being utterly submerged. This— told through the tightness in her posture, the spike of apprehension in her stare or the way she’s tangled her legs in a way that does her balance no favors— is undoubtedly the latter. And while no vampire can truly smell fear, there’s recognition in the way his stare shifts slightly lower for a wordless beat, pausing before he pulls her upright once more.

She’d been afraid of him in the alley. More so in his home. There’s a question to be asked, whether it’s his teeth that frighten her, or the lack of certain control his presence provides— or his own monstrosity. The fact that by nature he’s the wolf amongst the herd.

Funny, how much he fights to be feared. And how much he resents it when it comes to him of its own accord.

But that truth he keeps to himself, tucked sweetly beneath the edges of his smile.

His chin dips slightly in a substitute for a proper bow, one thumb nestled gentle as a stray breeze along the inner edge of her palm. The music, after all, has stopped.

“Looks like you’re free at last.”

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armd - 2021-10-28 10:12 (UTC) - Expand

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