faderift | Spies vs. House Party (Closed)

"Full boning provides more protection against a blade than leather," replies Yseult, also not at all joking. She taps a finger against one of the garment's ribs in demonstration. Hearing no further protests as to the fit, she ties off the laces and tucks the ends neatly away before removing herself back toward the dressing table. She is already dressed, in a gown of deep emerald and drakestone bronze, hair tinted slightly darker and redder than usual and artfully massed in a style more restrained than present Orlesian fashion.

"And yes, it will make it difficult to forget the posture you're meant to adopt. Can you manage the rest?"

Somehow Ellie doesn't think that Yseult will laugh if Ellie repeats full boning in a jokey voice, so she refrains for the moment, nodding. If someone did try to stab her, they'd have a rough time of it there. Good luck hamstringing her too- hard to tell where her legs are.

Unfortunately, most of these gowns make her throat and chest a tempting target by leaving them mostly bare.

The gown itself is lovely, a deep blue that's almost black with modest lacy edges on the bodice and sleeves.

"Yeah, I've got it-" Laces and clasps and ribbons Ellie is blindingly quick with, once she figures out how it all goes, and her missing fingers don't slow her down. She tugs here and there to straighten it, then heads over to Yseult.

"It's the hair and makeup that's gonna stump me," she admits.

(She might have done something with her eyebrows, but now they'll never know.)

Ellie's role will be as the companion to her wealthy merchant widow, she'd explained, a young woman of slightly diminished circumstances (in comparison), less fashionable, more reserved. The handsome but modest gown in a shade that's flattering but dark won't stand out for good or ill, suiting the aim of blending into the background. Yseult gives the dress a look over and nods her approval.

"We'll keep it simple this time," she says, gesturing Ellie to the stool in front of her. "I don't imagine there's much call for it where you're from."

Part of the learning process had been picking something out of the Scouting closets for the role, and Ellie's glad to see that it's met with approval. She nods back, pleased with herself. Even if she hasn't spent a lot of time around the upper classes, she knows enough to have a general sense of how people of different people should acceptably present themselves.

It also helps that looking lovely but plain, appropriate and forgettable suits her purpose.

It takes a second for her to figure out how to sit in all of the skirts, the corset straightening her posture dramatically, and she lifts her head to glance into the glass.

"Nah. Maybe in the Before times, but definitely not nowadays."

She frowns at all the jars, the implements, the colors. It seems chaotic and overwhelming.

"I can paint and stuff, just haven't tried it on my face."

"That's not surprising." Nothing about their little jaunt to the Crossroads' recreation of Ellie's home was conducive to skincare. But, "similar concepts," Yseult says as she takes the seat beside Ellie, facing toward her. "Light and shadow. It might have been better to first demonstrate on myself, but we can have a real lesson another day when we've more time."

She has been studying Ellie's face from this short distance for a moment, and now turns to collect a pot and brush. "Luckily we've the same complexion, so no need to find your shades. You want to begin with this," she dips the tip of the large soft brush into the pot, "Lightly, all over. A sort of circling motion with the wrist."

Edited 2023-06-25 18:13 (UTC)

"Sounds good to me."

Even if Ellie has never seen the merit in taking the time to paint her face for beauty reasons, personally, her interest has increased dramatically now that she's realized she can use it for the purposes of disguise. She understands light, shadow, color-work, contour. It'll be interesting to adapt her skill to something like this.

Some of her interest is innocent. A new thing to learn, a form of playacting. The rest of it is deadly serious. This is another form of power. She's no little girl just coming into her own. She's deadly, and has been for a long time, and this will make her even more dangerous.

Thankfully, Yseult knows all of this.

Ellie closes her eyes, studies the movements and how they feel on her skin.

"All over," she says, when her lower face isn't the object of Yseult's attention. "Like making a blank canvas."

"Exactly," Yseult confirms. She's quick with this stage but thorough, brush dabbed precisely around Ellie's hairline, smoothed toward an ear, under the line of her jaw. "Orlesian commoners will layer this on like a mask, but Anders prefer a more natural look. Thankfully."

"You can open your eyes," she says as she trades brushes, dipping the new one into a pot of rouge and tapping most of it back off. "We want you a bit wan and not quite as pretty," she explains, "So very little of this. Just a swipe here and here, and then we'll blend and balance." This takes another brush, another shade, two, careful swipes and swirls. The end product is subtle, but seems to deemphasize the angles of Ellie's cheekbones and jaw.

"Compare that to--" Yseult turns her head, gestures at her own face, which has taken a heavier application, freckles blurred away beneath the cosmetics, hollows and angles hidden and then painted back on. It's not an Orlesian's full-face spackle, but it's more than actually necessary. "What does this suggest to you about us?"

Ellie makes a sound of assent, a hum under her breath because she can't nod, lowering her eyelids to glance in the mirror and watch how Yseult blends out her features, making her look like someone else.

Not quite as pretty, Yseult says, and Ellie's never particularly thought of herself as pretty, so it's surreal to see the features of her face that she hasn't realized were appealing get muted, blurred. There's no disguising her eyes, but she has defined features. A pronounced but delicate jawline, high cheekbones. A graceful arch to her nose that Yseult blurs out, makes her features less distinct, forgettable. her upper lip gets less pronounced, cupid's bow softening.

She's shocked by the skill of it. Just a little work with shadows and she looks like she could fade into a background. Even the color of her cheeks is muted.

"... I look..." she trails off, watching the difference in the mirror. If she were to see the two of them together, she'd have made some instant assumptions and probably not even realized it.

"Older," she says, surprised. "Not by much, but like- past the age people usually get married here." Her voice settles, slipping into work mode. "Might not even WANT to, since it doesn't look like I'm interested in drawing attention to myself, and might get uncomfortable if I did. It looks like I'm not wearing any makeup," she adds, "and probably don't go outside much." The lack of color, the blurring of her freckles.

Ellie tilts her head, and catches that in the mirror her eyes look calculating, alive, and it somewhat ruins the effect of the dulling makeup, makes it all the more obvious that her eyes don't match her face. She'll have to be careful of that, if she wants to successfully play the part.

"You look like someone who enjoys being social," she says. "Mature and respectable but like... in a used to taking charge way." She's hesitant, but here she starts throwing out assumptions. "You're used to people looking at you, you're comfortable with it, and you probably want attention. Maybe a widow, or married but um, adventurous."

Another glance in the mirror.

"If I saw us together, I would assume we were family of some kind, since our social circles probably aren't the same ones. And that you were encouraging me to get out of my comfort zone and meet people instead of buryin' my nose in a book."

The last part slips out, and sounds very real. In fact, a little Texas twang colors the edges of the last few words. Joel had said that more than a few times.

Yseult's mouth--a dark but vibrant shade of red--curves slightly as Ellie answers, approval tinged with perhaps just a hint of pride in her own handiwork. That little drawl adds an arched brow, the expression exaggerated by the increased difference in shade between hair and skin.

"That's precisely right," she says, "A respectable but mildly adventurous widow of a certain age and comfortable but not extravagant wealth is welcome in most conversations but too common to be memorable. Her mousy companion can pass unnoticed." She picks up a brush as she's talking, reaching past Ellie for one of the pots, and adds a shadow beneath her jaw, then nearly hides it. It ages her a few years further, adding just a hint of carefully hidden jowl.

"Who's voice was that?"

Ellie pays attention to the technique. It's almost startling how easy it is to paint on skin like this. The illusion's up if anyone gets too close, realizes it's makeup, but she doubts anyone would, much less recognize her. In this dress, anyone who sees her would have trouble attaching this person to Ellie.

"Man, you made it work, though." Ellie sounds impressed, but eager, too. Now that she can see the trick of it, she wants to apply it. To tweak it, to adapt. She was raised to survive, and this is a broad new set of skills to help with that and pull beyond it.

A small smile twitches at the edge of her mouth at the question, warmth mixed with sadness and loss. She's not trying to hide a thing right now.

"... Joel," she says softly. "I didn't have parents, but I did have him. He was an old smuggler who took me in. He taught me how to fight, how to survive." Just those few sentences explain a lot about her.

"I was kind of a loner as a kid, used to it being just the two of us." Trust issues, Riley had said. "When we finally ended up living in safe place, with people my age, he'd get on my ass like that. Get on out there with some kids your own age. Make friends. Normal teenage shit, Ellie." The twang has it coming out like shee-yit and Elleh.

Yseult twists to eye the hinge of her jaw in profile, fingertips smudging some almost imperceptible edge of that shadow until she's satisfied with how it fades. When she is, she finds Ellie's eyes in the mirror, settling her focus on this answer. She's a good listener, attentive without the keen focus that adds pressure, and if everything she learns gets added to some mental personnel file, it doesn't show. Her smile mirrors the tenor of Ellie's--warm and empathetic, some faintly wistful curl to the corners of mouth and eyes almost concealed beneath the cosmetics.

"It sounds like he cared for you very much. I'm sure he'd be pleased with all the friends you've made here," isn't a question but has an upward lilt to it that doesn't quite presume to know for sure. "It's an interesting accent. Normal teenage shit," she tries, and it's close, but not quite. A frown, an adjustment, mouth pulled crooked, talking out the side of it. "Normal teenage shit," is spot-on but bizarrely out of place from her mouth, and she shakes her head.

"For another time. Ready?"

Edited 2023-07-04 19:19 (UTC)

Ellie has always assumed that Yseult's overall interest in her has been professional. That her kindness is real, but ultimately guided by their work. Ellie's impressionable after all. She knows she is, and operates best on personal loyalty.

It could all be a ploy. But who cares if it is?

(Ellie tries to tell herself that it doesn't matter. And so far it hasn't.)

"Yeah, I think he would," Ellie says quietly, heartfelt, then snickers under her breath at Yseult's scary-good attempt at a Texas drawl. "Normal teenage shit," she says one more time, leaning on the drawl, and then laughs out loud when Yseult nails it.

"That's terrifying," she says honestly, but she sounds impressed and delighted, actually.

"Ready." With a nod, Ellie takes a breath, lets her expression go more slack, mouth downturned, eyes a bit wider and less focused.

Yep. Ready to play the mousy companion.

The truth is both more and less complex than Ellie imagines. Maybe someday teasing it out will prove necessary, but for now Yseult just muddies the waters by flashing her a wide, slender smile in answer to that delighted reaction, and then points a finger at her in the mirror as Ellie's expression dulls. "Good."

There are shawls and bags to gather up, a last check of the hairpiece that has shortcut the need for lengthy styling (she'd once spent two hours a day on it while posing as a lady's maid, Yseult told her earlier as she curled the pieces nearest Ellie's face with a hot iron) and a hired carriage to call round. The trip to the mansion is a short one, and they blend into the stream of arrivals without issue. There are introductions, and for Yseult there is small talk, wine, a dance or two, while Ellie is left to haunt the sidelines, watching the flow of people through the room, guests and servants both, observing the comings and goings from the hall to the east wing that is their next destination.

The unexpectedly busy hall to the east wing: as she watches, a servant posted before the doorway checks more than one guest's invitation before permitting him to pass deeper into the house, before refusing entry to a pair of well-dressed young men despite their blatant offer of a bribe.

A number ends and Yseult's partner returns her to the sidelines with a bow. She links her arm through Ellie's, snaps open her fan, and makes like they might head for the refreshments. "What do you see?"

Ellie grins briefly at the praise, then has to fix her face again, but it's easier this time. The hairpiece blends into her hair seamlessly, just enough to be proper and pretty and utterly forgettable.

She sticks to Yseult's side like the somewhat nervous ward she's playing at, and if anyone looks at her and sees her nerves and discomfort, it plays well into the guise they've picked for the night. They part, and Ellie is keenly aware of where Yseult is at all times. She nurses a lemonade in a corner, finds a couple of outskirts of groups to skulk in, and otherwise avoids having any reason for anyone to approach her and offer to fill a name into her dance card.

There are a few other, similar young ladies, and none of them know each other either.

Keeping her head down, Ellie silently maps out the servants as much as the nobles, noting the general rotation of each, the ones who are gossiping, the duties being shirked. When Yseult comes back to her she takes her arm, clinging to her a little. It makes it easy to lean in as if for comfort.

"Two of the servants are flirting every time they cross each other in the garden," she says, starting with the lowest stakes first. "They're starting to annoy the others, who are promising they won't cover for them if they sneak off together."

She leans in a little closer, not-so-subtly pointing at the smallish lemon cakes, as if to recommend them.

"Restricted access to the back wing, though... not accepting bribes either. I saw those two guys who got turned away. That's probably where we need to look."

Ellie pauses.

"I saw a servant enter another part of that wing with a key. There's a door in the garden."

The fan is a useful tool for concealment but also it's uncomfortably warm and stuffy in the ballroom, and Yseult gives it a more than token flutter as they wend their way through the refreshment line. She scans the cake options with feigned interest as she listens, a hum of acknowledgment for the information Ellie has gathered. A cup of lemonade is collected as she considers their options, the sweating glass pressed to her throat.

"Could your ability let us pass the gatekeeper unseen? We know at least some guests are permitted in that hall," she explains aside, "But we've no way to know how conspicuous we may be taking the garden entrance."

Ellie stills against her side, gives an affirmative noise under her breath.

"Yep," she says, taking the opportunity to put down her own empty glass -- or at least appear to do so. Instead, she deftly slips it into one of the hidden pockets of her voluminous skirts. It won't shatter too easily, and Ellie's had hundreds of opportunities to appreciate the versatility of readily broken glass.

"We're lucky it's a hallway and not a door."

Yseult's path takes them back into sight of that hall and its guardian, pausing near a hothouse palm tall enough for fronds to arch over their heads.

"Thirty seconds to get past the checkpoint and around the corner," she estimates, while sipping lemonade and idly scanning their fellow guests. "If our information is correct the office is second from the far end. If the hall is clear we proceed like we belong. If not-- how long can you hold your breath?"

Ellie's expression is a study in demure, lowering her head to peer through her eyelashes, following Yseult's eyeline like they're having a conversation about the party itself, the fellow guests.

She smooths her hand shyly over the front of her dress.

"Two minutes," she says decisively. "I've done three, but that's pushing it."

And, because it's necessary: "Squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no, three for wait and see."

They did something similar on patrols.

"More than that would've needed a warm-up," Yseult agrees.

A middle-aged gentleman with bushy sideburns and jarringly chartreuse cuffs angles their way, looking at Yseult with a beadily hopeful gaze. She lifts her fan and turns to Ellie behind it. "Laugh like I've made a mean joke." She casts a disdainfully fleeting glance over the would-be suitor as he catches the seeming insult and decides against interrupting after all.

"Will I be able to see you?"

"Mhm."

Ellie's eyes find the man just as Yseult draws her attention, and she lifts a hand to cover her mouth, like she's choking back a slightly horrified giggle and struggling not to look at the unlucky soul.

It works like a charm.

From behind her hand, she murmurs: "Yeah, but it won't be the same. You'll see." There's no real explaining what the world is like when you're invisible, but it's different. There'll be no danger of forgetting that they're doing something decidedly supernatural.

They should have practiced this before they left, but there wasn't much time and if she's honest, Yseult had hoped it wouldn't be necessary. Stupid, to neglect such an obviously useful tool, not to at least eliminate these unknowns. But here they are.

"Alright. The next palm, by the pillar there. Just between them we should be out of sight for a moment. We'll go invisible there, and then straight down the hall."

She finishes her lemonade and abandons the glass on the lip of the palm's pot, one slow deep breath in and out before she snaps her fan shut and is on the move.

It's the type of situation Ellie's had more times than she can count. Forced to adapt on the fly, to make use of what she has along with her trust in her partner. It's the kind of skill that can't be taught, only honed.

Ellie nods once, then falls into step next to Yseult, timing her breaths, getting several deep ones, slowing her heart rate. She's practiced on the rooftops of Kirkwall, in the caves along the coast, and in the midst of war engagements. Timing it properly is not a problem.

Between one step and the next, they disappear. Ellie remembers to cover her chest with her hand. To close her eyes.

And then they are in it.

Yseult will be able to breathe normally, it's only Ellie who has to hold her breath. They stand the same world, in the same place, but shadowed. Colors appear less glossy, the sounds muted- though if they focus on any one thing it will jump back to looking and sounding as it should, surrounded with that halo of shadow.

Ellie alone looks real and unshadowed next to Yseult -- with one change. In the center of her chest bears a light, bright blue glow. The same shade as pure lyrium veins. It appears to be no particular shape, and it's clearly shining through her skin, like it originates in the center of her, somewhere.

The light of it shelters them, a soft, pleasant tingling on their skin. Ellie switches from linked arms to holding Yseult's hand, and nods at her, encouraging her to go on.

Edited 2023-07-05 00:21 (UTC)

It's good that Yseult isn't trying to hold her breath, because her heart rate jumps at that shift, and the unexpected sensation that raises the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. It's all objectively perfectly fine, odd at the worst, but the prickle of magic and the way the world dims and focus narrows to tunnel vision together grate at her like the grinding squeal of bone on bone. She breathes through the adrenaline, forces herself to look carefully around to see if anyone has noticed, and, finding none, gives Ellie a nod and a single squeeze of her hand.

The crowd is thinner here away from the ballroom, and it's easy to dodge the few that pass or linger. Yseult leads the way past the servant manning the hall mouth, her skirts caught up in her free hand to avoid any suspicious rustle or breeze as they pass. The carpet makes silence easy, and lets them move briskly down the corridor toward the turn.

The hall isn't empty. Ahead of them, a couple stride arm in arm down the center of the hall, pace leisurely, seemingly unsure which door they're looking for. Yseult gets as close as safe and then moderates their pace to match, glancing to Ellie to check how she's doing. It's only been about a minute, but the sudden slowdown makes it feel longer.

Ellie holds her hand tighter, looking for that nod, then relaxes her hold when she's sure she won't pull away. It's a really freaky thing to go through, and Ellie's only brought a handful of people with her like this. Most everyone finds it unsettling.

She easily follows Yseult, hitching up her skirts with one hand. Blue's power doesn't make them silent, just invisible. They dodge on through, keeping quiet, and Ellie keeps up beautifully -- a childhood following Joel through active battlezones would do that.

Ellie checks the hallway front and back and finds no eyes. They're directly behind the couple, pacing them. She drops it, just for half a second. Just long enough to take a deep breath in through her nose. They flicker back into existence, just long enough for Ellie to fill her lungs with air, like a swimmer.

In front of them one of the couple shivers and rubs the back of her neck, but doesn't turn around.

Ellie squeezes Yseult's hand. Good to go.

Yseult glances over as the power flickers and Ellie breathes, and then stops suddenly, hand tightening, as the couple ahead of them make a sharp stop and pivot, turning back to the door they just passed. Yseult and Ellie have to backpedal out of their way, but the turn to a door lets them then continue on around and past, Yseult walking backward another moment until the couple finish lingering, giggling before the treshhold, and the door is firmly shut.

Then: quickly down to the end of the hall, an ear held next to the office door for a moment before she produces a set of picks from her hair and, once Ellie has shifted her grip back to her arm, makes quick work of the lock.

Once the door is locked again behind them she gives herself a discreet shake as the magic fades and looks around, the space an unremarkable example of a lord's study, complete with heavy desk, shelves of leather-bound books, an animal head (here a Hunterhorn ram with its great curling horns) mounted between the sconces.

"It will most likely be some sort of ledger separate from his real accounts," she says, moving around the desk to test the drawers, "But it could be disguised."

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