rodeo drive, baby.

[tender]

WHO: Chaos shoppers
WHAT: Preparations for fancy party
WHEN: Mid-Kingsway
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: We're here to peer pressure Ellie and acquire some fancy clothes, folks.

The invitation had said Formal attire required.

There is, of course, some question as to what exactly "formal attire" means when it's an Orlesian issuing the invitation, but without a doubt it means a trip to a certain swath of shops in Hightown where formal attire is available in a variety of different options. Does formal attire mean dresses with hip-high slits? Does it mean a silk tunic with an abundance of ruffles? Does it mean velvet or brocade or chiffon?

The shopkeepers will be sure to advise, if given even a breath of opportunity to swoop in with their suggestions. A budget? What's that? Surely it's not applicable to such a momentous occassion. Why, just step this way, look at this garment, one of a kind, isn't the color just divine—

Comments

[illithidnapped]

It's water under the bridge, their prior conversation. And at least on Astarion's part, most things are: he hisses, he spits, he begs and pleads and promises— he forgets without forgiving, or asking forgiveness, for that matter.

Some steps away, still paging through row after row of useless fabric, Astarion's expression sinks like a stone the second he sees what she's holding.

"Gods, darling, no," his tongue pressed to the back of an overlong tooth, it doesn't take more than a stride or two to reach her side for the sake of beginning to tug on this or that. Most of what she's gathered, in fact. "we want you to glow when you're there, not ooze."

[tender]

"The green isn't that terrible, is it?" Derrica questions, yielding her findings to Astarion with a small frown. There had been a discount involved, and Derrica had considered that maybe there was a possibility it would look striking once it was on her body properly.

However, somewhere in Astarion's examination, Derrica tacks on, "Are you looking for yourself too?"

There's an obvious sentiment lurking after: Don't let me distract you.

[illithidnapped]

"For this soirée? Yes, my dear. There's a difference between something suiting you," he starts, having now taken away at least a good half of her options. Likely the discounted ones. "And something being suitable."

It's for her own good, after all. The last thing she needs is to have some noble running a joke at her expense, or making an offhanded comment about her based on some utterly inane assumption.

He isn't a considerate man, but he knows this world. Deeply.

"You'll thank me for it later— and besides, I've already found exactly what I needed, so I'm all yours, now."

[tender]

"Tell me about what you've picked out," Derrica prompts, passing him to begin sorting through what's left in the crook of her arm, and hang them one by one on the hook beside the curtained fitting area. Her fingers linger over the fabric, blues and reds and purples, gold detailing and sashes and draped necklines. "Unless you want me to be surprised when I see you there."

Whatever arguments she might have about what's suitable, whether or not it matters if she impresses. It doesn't feel as if the stakes are particularly high for this gathering. It's Romain and it's his family, and it's no bearing on Riftwatch business that Derrica can tell.

[illithidnapped]

Astarion, in contrast, unceremoniously dumps the unworthy garments aside atop the nearest waiting lounger. The staff seem irritated by it, of course, but given that they're only staff, if need be Astarion will simply claim to be a servant in the employ of some such noble or other with only the haughtiest of sway (they never check, after all) ensuring they'll shut up as soon as they open their chatty little mouths.

His delicate hands clasp, he's practically preening.

"It's a simple little thing. Appropriate, but not too daunting. I need to slip slowly into Hightown's circles without making a splash, otherwise too many feathers get ruffled. Too much gossipmongering and resentment when it comes to change." A Rifter elf with grand aspirations might seem farfetched to some, but stranger things have always happened— and Astarion has faith in himself, more than anything else. He won't just fluidly assimilate like Thranduil. He'll do more. Better. Burn brighter, if the world doesn't end between now and then.

"You'll see it at the affair itself, but in the meanwhile..."

Dresses. Now.