player plot | meanwhile, in orlais,

[cozen]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Orlesian hangout interlude
WHEN: Late Wintermarch 9:50
WHERE: Halamshiral
NOTES: OOC post including some historical context that didn't fit well into the body of the log here. Mentions of fantasy racism and related violence in the log text. Use CWs for threads as needed.

There was a time not very long ago, like just six months ago actually, when the Baroness Egelatina de Martigny was only the Lady Egelatina de Martigny and it seemed possible she might die that way. She'd spent her entire adult life on the modest allowance granted to her by her aunt — several years younger than her, as these things sometimes happen — who held the title and the family land. But now her aunt is dead, the new Baroness de Martigny is in charge, and this winter she is starting off with a bang by filling her freshly reclaimed ancestral property with professors, artists, and Riftwatch.

This is not madness. Egelatina is savvy and mindful of her reputation. But the reputation she cultivates is one of a knowledgeable, eccentric supporter of arts and cutting edge ideas. She loves interesting anecdotes and shocking company, so long as the shock isn't that they're boorish or foul smelling. Whatever aid Riftwatch can provide in that endeavor likely to be rewarded: she's freshly rich, childless, unmarried, and without any close heirs, and she has disclosed an intention to spend her inheritance on her passions, causes, and friends rather than die wealthy and have everything go to her excruciatingly dull seventh cousin.

All of this to say: through her old pals Alexandrie d'Asgard, Byerly Rutyer, and Bastien Bastien, Riftwatch has received an invitation to send representatives to stay with her for a week in snowy Halamshiral.

HALAMSHIRAL.

Halamshiral as Riftwatch finds it is a sea of small houses and single-story workshops and market squares, though the hilly terrain and strips of snow-coated greenery that the city's original elven planners left behind mask the extent of the sprawl from any viewpoint outside the High Quarter. The main streets have been rebuilt and improved upon; while the nobility generally won't deign to visit themselves, rather than sending their staff, there are some charming market squares, affordable taverns, and the shops of tradesmen and artisans. On these streets Halamshiral is a city like any other, save that the majority of its citizens are elves.

Venture off those streets, however, and find clusters of shacks among patches of half-completed reconstruction — walls half finished, stacks of rotten lumber that never made it into the shape of a house — and pockets of outright ruins, evidence of the fire and violence that caused them still there. The poorest and most neglected denizens of Halamshiral, mostly elven but some human now as well, live in lean-tos and shabby tents around the edges of these areas.

That they live on the edges, specifically, is due to the hauntings. Typical for sites of violence and fear, the veil has thinned in Halamshiral. Glimmers of past conflicts show through it — a glimpse of ghostly elves cowering before Chevaliers, spirits clashing in the Exalted March of the Dales, an elven lullaby from an unseen source. Shades and demons of despair or rage may lurk in the dark corners of ruined buildings. Inquiring among the locals will reveal the troubling news that these occurrences have become much worse over the last month or so.

HIGH QUARTER.

On a completely different note, the High Quarter where the nobility sequesters itself each winter is a gated community, literally elevated above the rest of the city on the hilly terrain, that progresses from fine inns and stately close-quartered apartments and townhomes near the gates to more impressive mansions with sprawling gardens the nearer to the center you go. The center itself is the Winter Palace, but Riftwatch isn't invited there.

Instead, they're invited to any number of other gatherings at smaller estates. The finest and largest of the week is a soiree hosted by the Duke de Freyen, for which nearly everyone who is anyone puts in an appearance; even the Empress might be glimpsed for a moment, though briefly, and approaching her before she departs will be impossible. Every evening there are several other somethings going on: banquets, card tournaments, chamber concerts, smaller dances in smaller ballrooms, and other genteel gatherings. Together they provide a variety of opportunities to impress, whether that's with fashion and dancing or skillful cheating at cards or allowing tittering lords and ladies to feel your arm muscles.

Regarding Masks
Within the High Quarter, a clear view of anyone's face is very rare. The nobility have their elaborate and unique masks, and every servant has a simpler version to indicate which household they belong to. Meanwhile, the Orlesian commoners who are present, from the untitled wealthy to visiting workers, paint their faces in the nobles' presence at a minimum and may wear high collars or low hats meant to obscure their faces further. It's good manners. But not such required good manners that they expect it from Riftwatch and other outsiders; showing up with your whole nose and both cheekbones out for the world to see is more the equivalent of arriving underdressed and barefoot, not naked.

For the visit, Riftwatch will have available a quantity of simple masks — more like those worn by servants than the elaborate ones worn by the nobility — painted the slate grey and green of their uniforms. Opting to wear masks is a statement, which might be regarded as presumptuous by those around them and may ultimately be considered a signal of Riftwatch's entry into the Game (and submission to the rules, such as they are), especially in conjunction with any other perceived maneuvering for influence. But it's fine. It's an intentional statement. And those who would prefer not to wear a mask still have the option of maquillage or a gauche naked face.

Pleasant as these activities might look at first glance, there's an ever-present undercurrent of passive aggression, gossip, and scheming, punctuated by occasional grandstanding accusations and deadly duels: the Grand Game. Riftwatch members are unlikely to find themselves involved, save as pawns in someone else's attempts at impressing or humiliating their neighbors, but being a pawn isn't exactly a great, safe gig.

As is always the case, these gatherings are also lousy with entertainers who might also be bard bards. While there's no general directive to assassinate Riftwatch members, anyone trying to sneak and snoop in private rooms while parties carry on elsewhere, searching for hints of conspiracies in letters or signs of eluvians in attics, may stumble on an assassination in progress or run into someone else trying to rifle through correspondence and willing to kill to be first.

INSIDE.

In the house where Riftwatch is staying, things are less fraught. Though only ("only") a Baroness, Egelatina is on the wealthier end of the Orlesian nobility bell curve, and her expansive property has a lot of comfortable beds and oversized fireplaces. The decor has some nods toward the latest of Orlais' fast-moving trends, for appearance's sake, but the Baroness has put more effort and money into filling the library with more interesting books and the gallery rooms with more unusual art than her aunt preferred. A greenhouse in Serault glass is kept warm and sticky-humid even in winter, filled with rare flora from Thedas' northern tropics and a collection of live butterflies. Her most cherished prize, on a second-floor balcony, is a large telescope for the clear nights.

The telescope is a popular focal point for her little gatherings, when she invites whomever has caught her interest that hour to join her and encourages them to talk to one another. So is the oversized chess board now laid out in the center of her ballroom. Smaller game boards are scattered throughout the house, and in the evenings — or the late afternoons, or sometimes the early afternoons — the bulk of the guests might gather around card tables to drink and carry on their debates while trying to take one another's pocket money.

A rotation of visitors drop in to visit day to day, but in addition to Riftwatch's number, the guests staying in the house include: Lord Remonet Nicollier, a writer of praised but unprofitable imaginative fiction about a land on the other side of the Amaranthine who wants nothing more than to tell everyone about his plans for the next chapter; Josset de Rodin, a naturalist and explorer who was on the edges of the Donnarks cataloging wildlife when the Anderfels imploded and adds new harrowing details to the story of her escape back to Orlais every time she tells it; Gaultier Boucher, a professor at the university now doing work on authenticating the details of the Canticle of Shartan with the help of his elven research assistant who is actually doing most of the work, Maren; and Mathé Leroux, a middle-aged, taciturn commoner and former sailor in the Orlesian Navy, prior to his honorable discharge after the loss of his arm, who now paints unusual, emotive portraits with remarkable talent but little recognition (yet) and lives in the Baroness' household on a permanent basis. (They're bangin'.)

OUTSIDE.

While the Baroness de Martigny is more of an indoor cat, many of her friends and neighbors are not. This time of year Halamshiral is covered in a thick blanket of white snow, and aside from one evening in the middle of the week when a snowstorm rolls through to add to it, the weather stays clear and ideal for getting out to enjoy it. The neighboring mansion's back garden has been sculpted into an ice maze, with glowstones frozen into the ice so it can be enjoyed night and day. There's also an annual snowy hunt for a snowy wyvern; it's only successful once every five years at best, but still a rousing adventure during the other four, and Riftwatch members might field their own attempts to catch the beast for clout or accompany any number of curious lords and ladies who'd like their help while they "track the beast" (drink and walk) through the surrounding countryside. They can also take a sleigh ride, participate in a snow sculpture contest organized by the legion of servants during their free time, or join Halamshiral urchins in a snowball fight. Because there's snow. If we didn't mention.

Comments

jayce talis | ota

[pathlit]

[ individual prompts below; hmu for specific starters or make your own! see here for a general overview of what he'll be doing ]

( high quarter - ota )

[pathlit]

It's a lovely, wintery night for a gathering of high-class gossip and merriment to ward off the cold. Unfortunately, Jayce is only here to rub elbows with those who might take interest enough in Riftwatch's bizarre pursuits (or simply its bizarreness) to pledge some manner of coin or connection. He's rather good at putting on the charm and tolerating invasions of space, but the latest encounter has been a bit too much.

A night or some ago, amongst the dozens of masked individuals of whom Jayce is having the damnedest time keeping straight (with variable success) he shared one of several dances with a certain Lady Ghita di Fiorelli of Antiva. At the time, he'd thought nothing of it. Nor had he given much consideration to the brief conversation the ensued after she'd led him off the dance floor beyond another potential patron given her interest in discussing Riftwatch's projects (his projects, she'd said; he hadn't noticed).

Tonight, when the Lady had found him again, Jayce had been more than happy to continue their discussion. Effortlessly charismatic, she had steadily lead the physical location of their discussion down an unoccupied hall, speaking as much with her hands as Jayce often does of a possible source of metal for their projects. An Antivan willing to utilize their trade connections for Riftwatch is an enticing prospect, after all.

But then our ""hero"" realizes, a little too late, that this person is touching his arm and they are alone and he is politely apologizing with a smile, he has to go check on his partner, you see, because it is late and they have so much work to get to in the morning, but chatting with the Lady has been such an honor and he hopes they can continue their discussion another time, it's been a pleasure, until next time--

--and anyway, this is how Jayce jostles into whoever happens to be turning the corner down this remote hallway, spilling his half-full glass of wine onto one or both of them in his politely composed flight.

"Shit!" is such a quiet hiss, but nonetheless audible, as is the panic behind it. He lifts his eyes to meet the other person, dreading the possibility of meeting an ornate mask (because that would mean double, triple shit). Him? He's just sporting a minimalistic look in Riftwatch's colors, a shimmery olive and deep slate painted along his eyes.

He looks properly aghast as he says, "I'm so sorry--"

[ one thread for this particular scenario, please! though different rifts on it can be done for multiple threads. :') ]

[extortionate]

"Thank fuck," Lazar breathes, looking far too pleased for someone now absolutely drenched in the Heartlands' finest. "We gotta get out of here."

Paint and wine curdle together about his beard. He grabs Jayce's shoulder, throws a hunted glance over his own.

"C'mon, there's a balcony up ahead."

The man's too big to fully pull, but hell if he isn't trying.

( high quarter - loki )

[pathlit]

So it goes that when a person attracts the (apparently romantic) attention of one Lady Ghita di Fiorelli of Antiva, they also attract a bullseye target. On themselves.

This is a freshly learned lesson for Jayce, who is currently lying in the snow with a twinging ache in his temple and molasses in his circulation. S'what it feels like, anyhow, with the unwitting imbibement of more than just alcohol tonight. One can only assume that the party responsible for tampering with his drinks is the same person currently lying unconscious or dead nearby, thanks to the third individual present:

Loki, that is, though Jayce probably doesn't recognize him, especially under the night sky and especially if Loki is wearing a mask. (Jayce has opted for heavy eye makeup instead because voluntarily joining a deadly political game is no bueno. except it kind of happened anyway, oh no)

With a quiet groan, Jayce sluggishly pushes himself up and onto his elbows to blearily peer at Loki's figure. A small corner of his mind is urging him to get up and get the fuck outta here, but the warning isn't quite making it through the mental fog.

"V's gonna kill me if I die here," he mutters, unaware that he has spoken an internal thought. Of a normal, conversational volume, he asks, "Who're you?"

a whole. month. later.

[icasm]

"Loki. The otherworldly one, not the northerner," comes the semi-distracted drawl of a response; he is, in fact, wearing the assigned mask, and is currently crouched above the unconscious woman off to Jayce's side. Not quite within reach, mind, and he's got a walking stick pressing against her shoulder.

She's not moving though. Breathing, yet Loki tilts his head sharply downward at the sound of a telltale wheeze that does not bode well for greeting the dawn. Jayce might be a little too... is addled the word? Stunned might be better, but either way, Jayce might not hear it right away.

Loki doesn't stand, instead turning his head toward Jayce and keeping his weight on the walking stick. The figure beneath him makes a louder, more rattly sound at that, but also there's the unmistakable sound of a canine excited to be up to something, that tink tink tink of claws on stone from behind Loki.

A wolf's light grey muzzle, with very large features and very wet nose, shoves it's way into the space between Jayce's face and the ground. Loki grumbles something and attempts to get her attention off the person who is alive. "Let him catch his breath, Elsy, come on."

She does not move. She does let out a whuffing sort of huff and then plants herself on the ground beneath him; now Jayse has a rather warm and large creature between the position he's in now and faceplanting into the street again.

Loki sighs, apparently unsurprised. "She won't bite. Who is V?"

( halamshiral - ota )

[pathlit]

Most of Jayce's time in the ruined city is spent clearing as many shades and demons as possible. The endeavor is made considerably more doable with the weapon he'd obtained (see: pilfered) from the Venatori in the Silent Plains, which appears capable of vanquishing shades and such with a single bonk. Of course, he will be more than happy to work alongside any other members of Riftwatch (probably).

One might also find him engaged in rather competitive snowball fights with the locals (once he's shown to be an at least Okay Guy, what with the shade bonking and all (not that kind of bonking)). In fact, he might be ducking from a well-aimed throw right now, so RIP to whoever happens to: 1) currently exist behind him, and therefore 2) receive a snowball to the [insert body part here].

[heirring]

The startled gasp that punctuates Jayce's duck is a particularly unmistakable tenor of affronted, and therefore can only belong to Wysteria de Foncé. That much may be more or less determined without actually looking to confirm. But should he swivel back to calculate the extent of the collateral damage, he will find the errant snowball has struck Wysteria directly across her front. A fat splat of powder is dashed across the neck of her bright red, cheerily embroidered half-capelet, flecks of snow mingling with the little knots of flowers and twisting ivy picked out across the fabric.

"Mister Talis!" she shrieks in an accusatory note as if he himself were somehow responsible for this tragedy rather than the cackling trio of children a half dozen paces removed. At least two of them are already scrambling to form their next round of projectiles.

bastien

[cozen]

[ wildcards or 'hey let's plan a thing' dms welcome. ]

ota

[cozen]

When the party arrives in Halamshiral, Bastien sets his bag down somewhere in the east wing of Baroness de Martigny's sprawling home, takes a deep breath, gives himself a head-to-knee muscle-loosening shake — for the momentary entertainment of any Riftwatchers loitering nearby, mostly — and steps out into a rushing river of people he knows and places he needs to be. For the remainder of the week he's difficult to catch for any length of time. But there are moments:

i. inside.

Sitting crooked in front of a mirror in the wing Riftwatch is occupying with one leg bent beneath him, he's putting the finishing touches on his face. He's not an artist by any means, but he's better with his fingers than he would be with a pen or a brush. And he's done this hundreds and hundreds of times. The simple shape blended onto his face in green, reminiscent of a half-mask that fades into skin, is respectably neat. He's humming to himself; he isn't actually checking his work in the mirror.

To a colleague with a bare face and no mask in hand, he wiggles his fingers in invitation: he could do theirs, too. Or to one looking a bit more impressively embellished than he is, those fingers wiggle at this own face: could they do his?

— or, maybe an hour later, he can be found or followed down a set of stairs and around the corner from a still-audible murmur of discussion, where he's dabbing delicately at his face with a cloth. Trying to mop up the remnants of a glass of sherry that fêted shoemaker Gillot Gardet has just thrown into his face. (Je le merité, Bastien admitted in good humor before his exit.) The paint will need repair work either way, and he needs to change his shirt, but not starting from scratch would be nice —

Whoever has caught him, he catches them back. His mouth is behind the rag, but a smile is apparent around his eyes. "I suppose it means he missed me," he says.

ii. high quarter.

Around the edges of the dances and dinners, he doesn't disappear as entirely as he could if he tried harder. Not with Riftwatch's colors on his face and Riftwatch's pin on his shoulder and all the fascinating anecdotes about wars and rifters and griffons that implies. But he demonstrates a particular knack for taking the people caught in that net and passing them along to other members of the company, like a matchmaker, with a conversation starter before he goes and — only if no one else will see — a ha ha, have fun with that glance back at whoever has now been saddled with this or that marquis in his place.

There is no other discernible sign that he isn't having a nice time.

But downstairs — if someone secures their own invitation, or stumbles in lost — while he plays a game of cards with the servants who are done for the day or being kept in reserve for the post-party clean-up, he sits backwards on a chair and laughs for real. His teeth show and everything.

He turns to look when a Riftwatcher enters, grins wide, and points with his thumb to a moving lump in the front of his vest. The top of the lump, poking out of the V of his collar, has wiry, scraggly fur and ears like a bat.

"Look what I won," he says.

"You lost," corrects a valet, in Orlesian. "You lost, so you have to take the damn thing."

"Right," Bastien says to him, and issues the correction to the new arrival: "I lost. There are four more in the litter, if you want to come lose, too."

DOG

[bouchonne]

"Let me see that."

Byerly reaches into Bastien's collar and grabs the tiny thing. He holds it up for inspection, eyes narrowed critically. The puppy's tail - scarcely thicker than a strand of pasta - whips back and forth ferociously as its back legs wiggle around.

"Bastien," he says, "why are you cuddling a rat?"

i. post sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sherry bomb

[coquettish_trees]

Alexandrie has a gloved hand over her mouth, her eyes sparkling over it with a gleeful mix of shock and delight. There's a few droplets of sherry on the glove's pristine white that she'll make a tsking sound and laugh again about later, but right now she's looking only at the results of Gardet's brash display of pique.

"Missed!" A little laugh escapes out of her nose in a series of little huffs, quiet with conspiracy, "He has hit you directly! Poor man." Whether the last refers to Bastien or Gillot is uncertain. Both, perhaps. "Would you like— I have paint and a brush, for touch-ups." Indeed, there is a similar green shading her eyelids, although with shimmer of gold that accompanies it, it is not likely there for Riftwatch.

kidnapped! | ota but one thread

[cozen]

If a poet best known for her sonnets about flowers and birds has a reason to lie about Bastien being abducted in the street, Matilde's possession of the scruffy mongrel puppy he's been carrying around for the last several days, with no one save Byerly trusted to take her out of his sight, might allay some suspicion. So might the others who back her up, once she's led the way back to the scene of the scuffle. In the alley behind one of the High Quarter's ornate taverns, the snow is a jumble, while Gisla Lagarde (political essayist) is nursing a superficial knife wound and Verain (sculptor) has ruined his make-up crying.

The trail of foot prints and blood speckles—as from a bloody nose, because Gisla did in fact break one of the assailants' noses—extends only so far before it merges with a busy, well-trodden street and becomes much harder to follow. But not impossible. The bards weren't really trying to hide. Even when their footprints (Bastien's dragging like a drunk supported between them) disappear, bystanders are able to point in the direction of three apparently cheerful drunks were escorting their over-indulged friend.

Midway through this investigation, an elven woman in her thirties, with long blonde hair braided out of her way and a face painted at angles that make her look predator, falls into step as if she has been there the entire time.

"I know who they are," she says. Her voice is clear and precise, like cut glass, in a way that not even a thick Orlesian accent can muddle. "But not where."

Julius

[overharrowed]

[An open starter or two forthcoming, but in the meantime feel free to reach out if you'd like to discuss ideas for something bespoke]

The Duke de Freyen's party (OTA)

[overharrowed]

Those who have known Julius for a long time are likely aware that he puts thought into how he presents himself generally, but the tendency is marked in Halamshiral. He has, in different settings on this trip, worn the Riftwatch-issued masks and gone fully without. This evening he has opted for face paint, also in Riftwatch gray and green. It is neat and striking, but clearly not meant to be so elaborate as to be distracting. Similarly, he is in trousers and a long coat rather than robes or a uniform, but he does openly carry his staff. He is a mage and a member of Riftwatch, and he clearly intends to be identifiable as both at a glance.

He makes himself available to the overtly curious, flowing with the evening's crush rather than trying to swim against it. His main objectives for the evening are first, to listen; and second, to leave those he spoke to convinced that whether or not Riftwatch's members are charming, they aren't fools. It draws him into a variety of conversations over the course of the evening, and only one or two he has to extricate himself from. He can be drawn into stories of Riftwatch's more exciting (and publicly consumable) exploits, but generally he prefers to steer the conversation to the other party's experiences and interests.

Between these conversations, his fellows can find him occasionally on the dance floor or, more often, drawn in to make a fourth at a game of cards. Julius is, always, the picture of good humor whether he says yes or no to these requests, and he says yes more often. (He does not make a point of enlightening anyone on the fact that he understands spoken Orlesian perfectly well. Then again, no one asks.)

He stays as late as the rest of the baroness's party does, soaking up what he can get. While his spirits are good, he does also occasionally need a break, so anyone who wishes to catch him somewhere more private will have an opportunity or two, especially in the small hours.

Inside (closed to CR who can do magic, either native mages or magical rifters)

[overharrowed]

Julius, as requested, has not been specific about where he's been invited that evening. (Letting the baroness think it was a liaison of some sort seemed to charm her, but not interest her especially, which was exactly the effect he hoped for.)

When he returns, it is not especially late, though late enough that he's missed the evening meal and the drinks following. People are likely still up, but scattered to their individual pursuits. Julius is grateful for the Riftwatch-issue mask that means he can be slightly less rigorous about schooling his facial expression as he moves through the entrance hall. His air is still not that of someone returning from a rendezvous, but he hopes only those who know him well will be able to see any agitation.

He'll eventually head back to the guest room he shares with Petrana. But he wanders for a while first. He thinks better in motion. The fact of the matter is that he needs to work out what he wants to do before he can work out how to go about it, though. That's the sticking point at present. If he runs into the right person, maybe bouncing the problem off someone trustworthy will help.

gwenaëlle baudin ( open )

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle hadn't expected Halamshiral to be a pleasant or comfortable experience—

but she had, perhaps, underestimated how disorienting it would be. She'd envisioned it uncomfortable, unhappy, but in practise most of all it's surreal: to be in the place that made her, and not in her home, nor even to know what's become of it. She makes a point of not trying to find out; if it stands empty, property of the crown, or if it's been gifted to some imperial favourite...

The return to mask-wearing is disconcerting, too. Years, now, since she's worn one for more than a few hours at a time. She chooses not one of the Riftwatch masks provided, but one of the few of her own that she'd held onto; a Vauquelin emerald set into it like a beauty mark, matched to the emerald eye she replaces her habitual gold with. Skirt hikes at her hips look decorative to match, though they aren't; that she is officially security affords her some elbow room that she takes full advantage of to be as antisocial as it pleases her to be, favouring gatherings where she can expect some meaningfully intelligent conversation in the arts and not, while she is armed and emotional, showing her face anywhere the empress might be seen.

This is what leads her, mostly by accident, into the company of Clarice Chapentier, and then— more importantly, Adenet. A message arrives for her — among several — one evening in their hostess's home.

Later that evening, any of Riftwatch's number might discover her gamely letting herself out a window.

( interrupt? follow her discreetly? wildcard me? the world is your oyster. )

wildcards u

[portalling]

It’s only Stephen Strange’s second time in an Orlesian city, and he’s made the conscious choice to stand out while still playing along: wearing the tailored Armani suit which originally came through the rift with him, and the same mask he wore to the parties around the Cultural Expo, all of which makes it easy enough for people to pinpoint the doctor amongst the Riftwatch guests. He’s tagged along to foster those academic contacts, following up on people he’d presented to and argued medicine with and later dictated letters to from Kirkwall. These High Quarter soirees mean hobknobbing with the local elite, sharing a polite hello with the dean of Lydes College, in whose good graces Riftwatch had landed —

— but, also, there’s the cousin of the dean, Lady Clothilde, a chattering noblewoman who is so enchanted with these brilliant rifters, and has one arm immobilised in a plaster cast. He’d made sympathetic noises about the broken limb, only to learn that the arm is fine, it’s a fashion statement, still all the rage amongst some of the Orlesian set. He’d blanched. Her free hand has been touching his arm an awful lot, flirting shamelessly while he cranes his head to steal glances over her shoulder, desperate to escape.

Making excuses to refill his drink, he’d successfully vanished to take refuge by the food. A while later, Stephen’s busily shoving some sort of pâté on a cracker in his mouth, when he spots Clothilde again just as she spots him and the woman starts striding across the room, a battleship bearing down on the doctor. Stephen swivels and banks left with a brisk stride, searching for literally any familiar mask or Riftwatch colouring in that sea of faces —

And he spots the Vauquelin green instead.

It’s Gwenaëlle, thank christ, haunting the edges as security. He speed-walks to her side, takes her arm and keeps walking, steering them towards the rest of the ballroom.

“Help,” he hisses, and then to clarify that it’s not I am literally about to be murdered, he adds, “Spare me a dance. Otherwise the dean’s cousin is going to demand one. I only just escaped.”

window escape (lmk if you want any adjustments)

[wearyallalone]

Vanya's general air of being out of place hasn't dissipated in Orlais, but he is doing his best, it seems, to meet every expectation he's been handed. He routinely wears the Riftwatch-provided mask and appears (perhaps predictably) to be more at ease on guard duty than as a party guest. He does, however, make conversation when called upon, largely asking those talking to him questions about their own accomplishments and interests. Perhaps luckily for Vanya, most Orlesians are happy to talk about themselves.

Unluckily for Gwenaëlle, he's still up and unhurriedly walking the halls when he turns a corner and finds her halfway out the window. There's a pause and a brief frown, and then an advance so he doesn't have to raise his voice: "What are you doing?"

Byerly

[bouchonne]

[ starters to be added in threads ]

i. oh no

[bouchonne]

When Byerly had been in Halamshiral, those years before, he'd spent a bit of time offering his arm to wealthy patrons who'd delighted in the company of a callow young thing. Some of it had been quite delightful, of course - many of these people were charming company - but the primary motivation for this gallavanting had, frankly, been his own financial well-being. He'd traded the gift of his time for gifts of a more material sort.

(In short: He'd been a sugar baby.)

One such patroness had been Lady Eularia Beauchamp. She'd been eight years his senior and passionately unmarried - had sworn never to marry, as a matter of fact - and had been pleasant, if occasionally tempestuous, company. Pushing fifty, she still has a pleasing figure, and her affectation of regularly smoking a pipe hasn't done anything to roughen her sonorous voice.

"Is that my lapdog?" is her greeting for Byerly, gasping in evident real delight and coming over to take him by the hands. "Oh, I hate you with a mask on! Your bare face was so thrillingly gauche."

"Mistress," Byerly greets in return, his own voice warm. This had been, evidently, a love affair that didn't end so badly. "You're still so beautiful."

"Oh, stop," she purrs. And then she turns and beckons to a lad standing over and conversing with another group. "Clement, come here. Meet an old friend of mine. This is my son, Clement."

In that moment, Byerly is glad of the mask. Because the lad - seventeen years old or thereabouts - is tall and gangly, with long-fingered hands and pointed elbows. In spite of this adolescent awkwardness, he still saunters over with an insouciant sort of hauteur, as though attitude alone could make up for being a thin little sapling. And - oh, Maker - behind his mask, Clement's eyes are a deep, rich brown, and his eyelashes are deadly in their length.

wysteria | ota

[heirring]

↠ PARTY LIKE IT'S 9:45

For a young lady with once a rather notable history for being a most enthusiastic dancer given even the slightest opportunity, Wysteria is notably absent from the center of the great ballroom central to the Duke de Freyen's lavish party. Instead she can be found at the margins of the room, observing the wheel and turn of the dancers as they pass from one end of the hall to the other and chatting amicably with anyone in her general vicinity. She is dressed for the occasion, though sports Riftwatch's uniform capelet draped across her left side and its brooch at her collar. Additionally, Wysteria has gone as far as to don one of the simple grey and green masks.

This is a concession—not to Orlesian fashions, but to the fact that her good for nothing husband had failed to reply in time to a interrogative letter demanding he outline the correct colors and design. So grey and green it is.

And no dancing, apparently.

What is on the table is the card tournaments. For the first half of Riftwatch's visit to Halamshiral, virtually any card game or tournament hosted anywhere in the High Quarter is sure to include Wysteria at one of its tables. Tonight, at one such tournament, she is in possession of a shocking stack of coin and seems to be either too pleased with herself or too oblivious to realize that the men and women about the table with her are growing increasingly dissatisfied with their collective bad luck.

"Oh!" Wysteria cries, her shrill voice carrying a note of delight across the room. The rail thin gentleman across from her throws down his hand with a grimace so disgusted that the workings of it show from beneath the edges of his mask.

"What are the chances? Four knights and the Serpent of Avarice. I believe that puts me ahead once more."

↠ INSIDE

Meanwhile, the evening card games held in the Baroness de Martigny's residence are of no apparent interest to Wysteria. She is, it would seem, motivated entirely by the contents of various High Quarter purses more-so than the pleasure of anyone's company around a card table.

Instead, when Riftwatch is not meant to be respectably indulging in the high society carousing, Wysteria may instead be found combing the library for interesting books, or attempting and mostly failing to appear very subtle about peering down at the Baroness' guest, Mathé Leroux, from the upper balcony level of one of the great house's gallery rooms while the man in question minds his own business on the floor below.

And once, she makes for a curious figure in the greenhouse where she can be found carefully combing the bark and dirt of the elaborate planets for bits of lost foliage and blossoms shed from the plants on display.

↠ OUTSIDE

While not opposed to traipsing through the snowy outdoors in search of some near-mythic beast, Wysteria much prefers loitering in one of the large tents staked out to 'support' the hunt for the snowy wyvern. This one is stocked with necessities such as roaring braziers, chaises and low chairs to lounge about it, thick furs to cuddle under, and an assortment of spiced wines and hot chocolates carried about on platters by solemn servants obscured beneath their low brimmed hats and high collars.

This is an altogether far more pleasant arrangement. Presently, Wysteria is all but buried under a thick fur (wolf? bear? an appalling number of fox furs patchworked together? Difficult to say for certain), with little more than her face and charmingly sturdy shoes visible at opposite ends beneath it where she is arranged in one of the tent's chairs.

When her hand makes an appearance, it's only to slither out and take a crumbly dessert from one of the meandering trays.

"I can see why this sport is so popular," she remarks to her present company, while fine bits of pastry and powdered sugar gently shed onto the fur in her lap.

↠ WILDCARD

[ooc: I'm down for anything; feel free to throw me a bespoke starter or to combine some of these if nothing here as is catches your eye. Alternatively, hit me up via disco@prosodi or PM and I can write us something.]

↠closed to evelyn

[heirring]

There are a great number of tastefully appointed, remarkably fashionable houses throughout the High Quarter of Halamshiral.

Marcelet Laframboise's mansion is not one of them. But Laframboise is evidently a figure of some significance at present—something about having become even more fabulously rich thanks to the quality of his vineyards and their production last autumn—and has taken something of an outsized interest in Rifted paraphernalia and Rifters in general. So it would be rude, probably, to have declined the invitation simply on the basis of good taste.

Luckily, short her anchor and any other notable identifier of being a Rifter, Wysteria has managed to escape Laframboise's crowded salon in favor of poking around the immediate surrounding rooms. This particular study adjacent to the festivities is so dripping ephemera both Thedosian and clearly not—a strangely smooth fronted book with the bold title 'The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People' by Steven Covey is prominently displayed on a nearby book stand—that the garish overabundance is actually starting to give her a slight headache.

"What do you suppose this is?"

This question is for her companion and fellow escapee. Wysteria nods to the next item on display: a large wooden box from which sprouts an impressively large brass horn. The box includes a felted disk set across its surface, a series of switches, and a crank on one side. Wysteria squeezes her glass of wine into a narrow free space on the adjacent shelf, and lays her hand upon the crank. Turning it does—

nothing, apparently. Unless you count producing a low clicking noise from somewhere inside the box.

library

[wearyallalone]

It is, perhaps, unusual in their acquaintance that Vanya Orlov initiates a conversation with Wysteria rather than having the lady flag him down. Still, here he is, approaching her of his own volition. The lack of glasses may suggest limited intent to read, or maybe he simply hasn't figure out how to use them in concert with the Riftwatch-issued mask.

When he joins her, he doesn't try to hide his glance at the spines of the titles she's withdrawn from the shelves thus far. "Have you found anything engaging, Mme. de Foncé?" For what it's worth, he does sound genuinely interested and not as if he's simply looking for a break from guard duty.

gallery

[cozen]

Soft-soled shoes and a habitually quiet step aside, Bastien's approach isn't silent. It also isn't direct. On the far end of the balcony he pauses for a full minute to examine a portrait of a masked man, copying the posture and expression of the subject via dozens of minute adjustments before, satisfied with his silent exercise/mockery, he shakes himself loose and moves on. Halfway he pauses again tilt his head at a landscape, duck and squint at the scribble of a signature, and smile at the name.

But Wysteria is his third stop. Seeming first like he might walk past her with only an acknowledging smile, he leans sideways while passing behind her to whisper, "Have you been introduced?" and pivots dance-like to stand at her side after all.

On the floor below, Monsieur Leroux does glance up at the footsteps and whispering of it all, but it's the quick and uncomprehending glance of someone only keeping vague tabs on who he's sharing a room with.

outside.

[elegiaque]

Ostensibly, the reason for Gwenaëlle's presence is Wysteria's explicit safety. Whether or not the most effective place she could be functioning as a bodyguard is 'also underneath the furs with her' is debatable, but since no one is actually debating it: it is much warmer with two, the fur lining of Gwenaëlle's cloak and muff, and in the folds of her own finery she is still dangerously well-armed.

So it's fine.

Burrowed into the furs with her own cup of spiced wine, she says, “I never participated,” in the before times, when she might have done as inheritrix Vauquelin, “but it's always had a lot to recommend it.”

Mostly this, actually, although she'd usually been on sedate walks that Grigoire livened up with an undertone of a steady stream of gossip that she mostly wasn't interested in. This or that lord or lady. His best guesses about who'd come the closest to the wyvern, although the one year they'd attended and someone had caught the thing, they'd been so far off she still thinks it was rigged somehow.

She hasn't written to the Leblancs. To Grigoire. It's sort of pleasantly familiar, though — elbow to elbow with Wysteria, warmed by the wine, mostly underneath furs until she's just braided hair and huge eyes. She hadn't thought she'd missed it.