Truth or Dare: The Imperial Court

[madame_de_fer]

WHO: Select Orlesian and Fereldan Nobility and the Inquisition
WHAT: Josephine and Vivienne have orchestrated a good-will soiree in response to this dastardly rumor.
WHEN: Drakonis 15, Evening
WHERE: Skyhold Great Hall
NOTES:
- A list of nobles in attendance can be found here. The list was provided by the mods but there will be no npc support for them. Play away.
- A secondary outside party is being held in the valley in the tent town for anyone who couldn't/wouldn't attend and/or behave in the fancy pansty party.
- The goal of the evening is to clear up a spurious rumor about Cassandra and Leliana, with secondary goals of establishing the Inquisition as a respectable presence in Thedas (and fish for more money). Any major disruptions that would Game Over the court approval should probably be brought to the advisors and/or mods.



To say that Josphine has far outdone herself with this little soiree would be the understatement of the year. The Lady Ambassador has pulled out all the stops in providing a festive and yet elegant stage for this political intervention. Because sometimes gossip can be more deadly than a sword.

The Great Hall of Skyhold has been converted into a grand receiving hall, glittering with hundreds of lights around the room, in addition to the repairs accomplished to the original chandeliers. Of course, there has been artful placement arranged so there are a few shadowy corners for rendezvous of the more suggestive nature. Just in case. The majority of the floor has been cleared for dancing, and a fine troupe of musicians have been installed for the bulk of the evening's entertainments. Some members of the Inquisition have plans to entice attendees with their own artistic performances in addition to the group of mages performing illusory tricks to oohs and aahs.

For those who feel their energy flagging, there are chairs set against the walls, with a few tables interspersed between. Servers hired for the evening circulate the crowds with wine, fine Orlesian and Nevarran reds as well as crisp whites from Antiva. Refreshments are set out on buffet tables, tasteful and extravagant nibbles, including imported cheeses, spicy saucisson, dried fruits and nuts, and the highly sought after deep mushroom and anise petits fours that are all the rage in Orlais.

Comments

Ariadne | OTA

[demonicbeauty]

She couldn't believe she was there. Ariadne was giddy with excitement, darting from one place to the next, as quickly as propriety and the dress Katniss had bought her would allow. Everything was so beautiful, so elegant. She didn't want to risk missing any of it. She might never get a chance like this again.

Ariadne herself looked almost like a doll. Her dress fit her perfectly and the tailors, who'd gone crazy over her, had outdone themselves. It almost glowed against her skin. They'd even helped her to curl her long, flowing hair, so it only fell to mid-back, instead of to her hips like usual. She'd turned down their offers to paint up her face. And she didn't feel comfortable borrowing jewelry.

Anyway, she didn't need it. Her eyes were like two silver coins, flashing in the light as she looked from one place to the next.

Of course, she knew how a courtier was supposed to behave. She'd infiltrated courts and parties before. But she'd never been invited to a ball. And certainly never as herself before. It was like something out of a play. A pageant. And for once, she wasn't entirely sure of her lines.

But she didn't really care.

Re: Ariadne | OTA

[judgemewhole]

Norrington had to look twice, before the niggling memory became recognition. She looked very different then the hungry waif he had met in this hall, not so long ago. However, the dress made the man - or the lady in this case. He approached her with a solemn bow, and a smile.

"Good evening, Lady Everdeen. I trust you are doing well this evening? That is a lovely gown."

[sunshinethroughgrey]

"Announcing Lady Bethany Hawke, of the House Amell of the Free Marches, Grey Warden, Sister of the Champion of Kirkwall."

Well, of course Bethany had come to the party. For one, they needed more representation than just poor Alistair. For two, she was actually nobility, and that still had a lot of sway even if she was from Kirkwall. Naturally she was going to use her sister's influence as well. Grey Warden, nobility, sister to a hero on multiple levels or a scandal in others?

She was brilliant in blue, her hair kept up with a jeweled hairnet with pearls and opals, a griffon sewn on her cloak but nowhere else on the gown. She smiles brilliantly as she is introduced, and goes to make the rounds.

The Inquisition was going to get a burst on the gossip wagon, and a heavy dose of Bethany Hawke charm tonight. It was another part of her plan, to make peace as best she could.

Charming the nobility

If there was any doubt that Bethany could charm people, it was laid to rest tonight. Her smiles were flashing and warm, her tones light and tripping as she walked amongst the nobles and the rest of the Inquisition folks. For a certain Bann, she had nothing but exciting stories to tell about the creatures she had fought. For the bickering sisters, she had all the details about the Champion of Kirkwall that they could desire, without actually giving away anything they didn't already know.

Throughout this, she was a strong proponent for the Inquisition, that it was on the Maker's own path and that the Grey Wardens supported the Inquisition as much as they could without giving up fighting the darkspawn, which was where most of their numbers were, of course.

Dancing

Bethany is of course happy to dance. She's got a light step, a bright laugh, and enough energy to dance away the entire night. She also won't turn anyone down - because she knows there's a pariah status she has to overcome due to recent events. Still, she's here to be supportive, and show that the Grey Wardens are allies to be counted on.

Even in dancing slippers.

Wall

Yet even she has to rest from the brilliant dance of the Game, so you will find her against the wall, fanning herself with a lace fan and offering a slightly weary smile to those she knows well.

Lara Croft, OTA

[make_my_mark]

Lara couldn't remember the last time she'd been to a party, the last time she'd even worn dress. It felt a little strange, and a little sad, to slip into the lovely piece Leliana procured for her, but she pushed it away in favor of the excitement, the curiosity.

Was there any better way to learn, than to see something in action? And for all the research she'd done since making her way to Skyhold, here was her chance to see how true all those books really were (after all the warnings otherwise).

She lingered mostly to the edges of the festivities, watching and listening, occasionally repeating a word or phrase to herself in the native Orlasian she heard - trying to parse meaning by context and marveling over it familiar it sounded.... And then suddenly Marquis Arnot Vaillant was at her side, asking her what manner of creature she was.

She blinked, caught more by surprise than offended.

"I'm sorry?" she asked, eyebrows cocking at him.

"The mark, girl, you have one, yes? So what manner of beast from the fade are you?" he asked again, eyeing her speculatively, as if she might suddenly sprout wings and breathe fire.

[motherfucking_ghost]

"Hey."

Church has overheard the fucking rudeness that, okay, these Frenchie French Orlesians are pretty fucking rude to everyone and especially to elves. Not cool. But as someone with a mark, visible in the palm of his hand through a fashionable glove that to him is just a glove with a hole in it but, fashion, whatever, he takes some major offense about him, her, people like them, being compared to beasts from the fade.

Kind of implies demons. But beasts anyway? Creatures? Maybe this chick doesn't need rescuing, but that's not the point, because here comes Church stepping up. "She's a person, and I suggest you apologize to the lady."

closed to morrigan.

[fightingale]

( OOC: OPEN STARTER HERE :Db )

They have never been friends, but in battle it is better to have someone who will fight at your back no matter your person feelings. Leliana had never left Morrigan without cover, had set an arrow between the eyes of many that might have endangered her, just as Morrigan had made poultices for many a wound and torn their enemies apart (sometimes quite literally.) Here things are a little more complicated than they were in the Blight, in the relationships that were once forged, and in the battles this particular arena presents. They all of them have changed so much in some ways and so little in others, and she herself is well aware that though she does not don the literal masks so favoured in the Imperial Court, her masks are no less real. Morrigan had known Leliana, who might have sworn to be her true self so thorough was the mask, but Marjolaine had remade her long before. Leliana is but a mask for the Nightingale, for an echo of Marjolaine that she sees in her reflection and the way she holds herself.

She would not be the same to others as Marjolaine was to her, but this is what she is. This is what she knows.

Several things are worth note, over the occasions when she sees Morrigan. First of all: the dress. The rumours had not been an exaggeration. Second of all: the dress.
And, eventually, when she has done a good deal of charming and assuring and lulling into false senses of security, she sees Morrigan again, with the Lord Afton. He is going on (as he does) and Morrigan looks ready to transform into a viper and strike him down (as she… well, probably does). Leliana observes for just a moment, notes the over-friendly overtures, and departs with the good favour of Bann Dwyer, who appears much pleased at the notion of so many allies from the Fifth Blight reunited to destroy another great threat against Thedas.

“My dear Lord Afton,” Leliana breezes, charm and poise personified. “You honour us.” A glance to Morrigan, apologetic-but-also-not, and she carries on. “Do forgive my intrusion, Lady Morrigan. I simply must steal him away for a moment.”

Which she does, for more like twenty minutes, re-directing him towards some extremely fine ale and a less pained audience, before eventually circling back to Morrigan. Ostensibly it is entirely for the purpose of being smug - ostensibly. Quietly, following a weighted pause and just vaguely conspiratorial as she looks towards the dancers and the mingling nobles, she finally comments, “Lovely dress.”

It only took ten years.

[arcaneadvisor]

Tonight is the first night the Inquisition has truly come together since First Day, but unlike that event there is far more at stake here; the Game has come to the Inquisition and all her predictions about forcing an unwieldy creature to dance are coming true. She could have avoided it herself but well, she's been rather lacking in fun at present and so here she is. More surprising is Leliana's presence. Vivienne likely wants to parade as many of them as possible (and a part of Morrigan is surprised she was not barred but for better or worse she comes with her own reputation, and fresh from Celene's side) but if one of them could have wriggled out of it, then Leliana would have been the one.

All better things to dwell on than the man perilously close to having his eyeballs suddenly and violently removed if he doesn't cease and desist immediately but before she can cause a scene, there Leliana is. Her knight in chainmail gown.

"By all means, Lady Nightingale," and if this is the game Leliana is playing, she'll play along, "I hope you enjoy every last second."

Wine is needed. More wine is needed than Morrigan usually cares for but it's dark and rich, the colour of blood and how could she possibly have forgotten how she detested these things. Yes, there's a certain enjoyment to turning every head without effort and without having to do anything that Vivienne did to earn their respect and awe, when sheer reputation and rumours are enough but the tedium of it all. Whatever smart remark she plans, it dies in her throat because of course, of course Leliana would mention it.

Time to nip it in the bud. "Twas Kieran who picked it, if you must know."

[keeperofmagi]

Nerva, for whatever strange reason, arrives in the company of notorious Tevinter Altus Dorian Pavus, which is probably amusing to anyone who knows either of them, though it would be hard to tell from her face if Nerva herself finds it amusing at all.

She is dressed in a very stark, simple black gown, the inner lining a stark and vibrant red. A black belt cinches her waist, a long chain with a symbol of andraste hanging from it lays down her chest, breaking the dark fabric. Black boots cover any skin that might be visible under her skirt, but if you look close enough the black is broken up by fine silver lace.

She looks almost enticing, if it wasn't for the scars across her scowling face, the black hair pulled tight back into a bun, and the sharp claw-like rings adorning her fingers. They are the visible weapons. The knives carefully concealed in her boots are the real ones. A poor substitute for shield and sword, but she was prepared, regardless.

It is actually surprising, how well she can dance. Perhaps not so surprising to those who have spotted her dancing with Twisted Fate on occasion, for just this reason. But surprising to any who have only ever seen her in her armour.

The scowl, at least, seems perpetual.

The fact that she isn't wearing a mask maybe doesn't mean much to many.

[arlathvhen]

She certainly made an impression, and when Beleth glided over to her, she felt a bit like a butterfly trying to approach a storm. But she does it anyway, and when she reaches Nerva, she sweeps her skirts aside in a practiced curtsy. She'd chafed at the idea at first, but had been convinced that it didn't count as bowing down to someone. And it was pretty.

"Ser Nerva," She muttered quietly, "Few could make danger and beauty intermingle so flawlessly. You look lovely." Pulling out of the curtsy, Beleth offered her a hand, a small smile on her face. She felt...a little worried, honestly, but the mask hid any trepidation. "Would you be so kind as to dance with me?"

[quietblade]

This had been the most last minute thing ever, only possible thanks to Pel and a jacket sewn from blankets with well-paid child labor. It's not very fancy, but at least he's not bare-chested. Together with his normal leather pants and boots with the leg bracers removed, he was just nearly decent in noble company. A true 'beast dressed up to look fancy'.

He wears brass rings around the base of his horns and his dark hair is put up in an artful array of braids of different sizes as his only adornments, but that doesn't matter much, he's not the type for jewelry.

At least he's not wearing vitaar?

Arriving with Cyril on his arm, he looks a little bit lost but very proud to be escorting the pale elf to the event.

[gatheringstorm]

"Oh, can I touch your horns? So exotic!"

Trying to figure out how to say 'hell, no' to a tipsy Lady Odette without endangering the ambassador's soiree, there's a flash of relief in Korrin's eyes when Taas enters her line of sight. She resigned herself to likely being the only one of her kind at the soiree, given how Vashoth and Tal-Vashoth were rarely in attendance at such things unless they were present as security. So to learn that she's wrong in that assumption is a pleasant surprise, especially given the timing.

Pretending not to hear the giggly Orlesian, Korrin weaves around her and prays that she'll soon be distracted by someone else. Someone who can better put up with that nonsense. "Now, this is more like it. Looking good, Taas. I love the braids."

[arcaneadvisor]

Much as she had done in Orlais, Morrigan dresses far darker than others, her gown a mockery of Orlesian tastes as she moves through the guests with a smirk on her face. The gown and lack of mask however put few off; despite the war there is talk about where Celene's arcane advisor had gone, what purpose she might serve with this Inquisition and so too often she is cornered by the brave or the foolish.

If asked, she would contend that all the guests assembled are the latter but there's an advantage to being here, if only to see what ripples she might cause. She has no interest in dancing, no matter how many invitations she receives, but she never keeps to one place for too long, often with a glass of something dark and with a look on her face that suggests she's in on some private joke.

Earlier in the evening, before it's full dark, she is often flanked by a small boy dressed similarly but at least looking as if he's enjoying himself when there's so much to eat.

[wickedchase]

"Morrigan," is a polite greeting offered by Twisted Fate with a bow of his head. "I adore the gown." Admittedly, he never quite imagined he'd see her in something like it, but he's glad now to have witnessed it.

From various observations, he's witnessed her decline the dance offers, so he's wise to keep it to himself at the moment. Were it anyone else, he might have done it anyway out of amusement, but he does respect her quite a bit.

"You seem terribly amused. Dare I ask?"

[foxsays]

For those who know Araceli simply as a thief or a girl that excels at making a living in the Herald's Rest by cheating scouts, soldiers, and whoever else finds themselves brave enough to bet against someone that's practically Antivan, it might seem a strange sight to find her so at home at a party. For the three who know her best, less surprising, as she navigates her way through the guests with a smile and a laugh. Her long dark curls are neatly braided, twisted, and pinned up and out of the way, threaded with pearls that wrap around her forehead.

The gown says rather more than the accessories, the same blues of the sea that she misses so dearly, a dress that moves easily as she dances, happy to go from one partner to the next.

After all most people see her traversing the rooftops with ease, she's never one for sitting still though there are moments where she appears to disappear from the main hall with surprising ease before returning before she could possibly be missed.

[motherfucking_ghost]

"Whoa." Church double-takes, because she looks so natural here, and she's...she's Spanish Robin Hood parkour master with a fox. And now she's done up in a sweet dress and pearls? Shit, he's in way over his head with this ballroom shit.

"Okay, I'm pretty sure I know your twin sister, y'know, likes pistols, swashbuckling, has a fox friend..."

Mia | OTA

[lettersfromhome]

The affair is very grand, to be sure. And she refuses to let herself feel out of place, even if she very much does. There's none of that in her poise as she makes her way around the party, smiling and chatting politely, in a gown that amidst all the others seems understated, even if it is the finest thing she's ever worn in her life.

Not resigning herself to stay in one spot until the party is ended, she moves from one end of the hall to the other, sampling daintily at some of the luxurious food and fine wine, or moving closer to the music as she watches the dancers move across the stone floor. One thing she can say for certain. This is the liveliest and the happiest she's seen the keep in a long time.

That alone is worth celebrating.

[pinprick]

Nathaniel is in a Warden's dress uniform and spots a lovely and sensibly-dressed lady of around his own age with a pleasant smile. It oughtn't surprise anyone that he offers her a hand. That's what they're here for, isn't it?

"A dance, my lady?"

He was not announced when he entered. He's not entirely sure he ought to be here, in fact. But it's best for people to see Wardens involved in bettering things for the Inquisition right now.

[motherfucking_ghost]

Church and Christine arrive together to the fancy fancy-ass party. Like a date. Totally a date, in fact! Not even just like a made-up date. A legit date. Together. Going together. He's not nervous at all.

He cleans up well once he's gotten a snip and a trim, both hair and beard that admittedly he was starting to let get out of hand. And when he went to get fitted for something fancy to wear, he'd suggested blue. Not being a Grey Warden, or associated with any nobles of Ferelden whose colors included blue, he was not listened to. Instead, he's in an ensemble of various greens, which, well, at least it isn't red... They insisted that not only does it bring out his startling eyes, but also his mark (normally hidden by a glove, now not hidden by a glove with the palm carved out in order to show it off, thanks guys), and despite being a very elf-y color, may also be associated with rifters.

Because, y'know, rifts. And Fade. And green! Who is he to argue with wacky medieval fashion sensibilities.

He's not sure how people are going to feel about him, and about rifters being here, given that most people seem pretty understandably but annoyingly afraid. Plus, he can't remember the last time he's ever been to anything even remotely fancy. (Spoilers, it's never. He's never been to anything even remotely fancy.) And this is apparently not about having fun but about, who knows, politics or some shit.

Basically he's been informed that he should mostly keep his mouth shut and look pretty and harmless all night. These are not things that come naturally to Church.

"Oh man, look at the food!"

Hopefully none of the nobles get too uppity about what he may or may not be able to do. And hopefully not a lot of people want him to dance. Oh god. Fancy dances. Is he supposed to know all the fancy dances, too??

[bookish_lioness]

Hermione would much rather take red over green, but then, that much was obvious given what she was wearing. Sleeves have been added, and the hem has been extended to reach down to her feet, because otherwise someone might think she did a specific kind of work that might get her kicked out. And yet, people were getting up to that sort of thing right there in the alcoves with hardly any effort to hide it. The sensibilities of this world are ridiculous.

At any rate, some things apparently don't change across the various worlds, given what she overhears a man's voice say. Men and food; the one constant in the universe(s). Who knew?

Turning back to look at him, she means to only offer him a smile, only to be caught off-guard by his wardrobe. It doesn't look bad, per se, but... well, there's certainly a definite theme going on there. "Should I take a guess as to your favorite color?" she asks lightly. Then again, given the color of her dress, she should know that clothes aren't always indicative of such things.

[tactical_alert]

With Lady Thevenet at his arm, Malcolm, Seeker Reed, reluctantly joins this most fanciful collection of nobles and such for the singular purpose of aiding the Inquisition. Naturally. This is Benevenuta's calling, something she excels at, playing a game. The Game. Malcolm is, in many ways, her prop, but just as much a prop for the remaining few loyal of the Seekers of Truth, and for the forces of the Inquisition.

He couldn't find a polite way to turn down her invitation, nor the pressures from his position, and while he is hardly a cornerstone of this organization, his absence might be suspect. So he is here, clad in primarily black broken up by clasps and fastenings and buttons of silver, the eye of the Seekers stitched in shimmering thread on the back of his well-fitted jacket. Though he had some say in how he was to appear (since apparently his armour wasn't appropriate enough for the gathering), he has to wonder if Benevenuta didn't have a (heavy) hand in the design. They go well together, even if he's starting to think they look much prepared for a funeral.

(Albeit an extremely expensive, well-to-do funeral.)

He is...concerned for her, and he feels obligated to show her a halfway-decent time. He can't promise a good time, mostly because he doesn't like parties. Soirees. Balls. And when he must go, he tends to stick to the walls, to prowl around with sharp eyes looking to end trouble before it begins, like a glorified guardsman. Speaks when spoken to but generally not here to socialize or politicize. That cannot, unfortunately, be the case tonight.

But at least he knows how to dance, when asked. Though not a political player himself, he isn't blind or deaf to the Game, can pick out a few names and give them certain place. And he is not afraid to share his thoughts and opinions when asked for them. Bann Vardy interests him, not only for the fact that he seems disquieted and as suspicious as Malcolm usually feels, not engaging anyone, but also because he vaguely recalls the name, if not the face after so many years. But young Duke Pelletier and particularly Bann Dyer seem like they're here for business instead of an excuse to get drunk within Skyhold's walls, at least.

Still. He mostly socializes when he needs to rather than for fun. But he is polite and handsome and even occasionally charming, if nothing else.

[aintwejust]

"Why Seeker Squinty, don't you clean up all nice and prettiful?" All the faces he expected to see in the room, shit, all the faces he'd expected to see in the Inquisition- this weren't one of them. Then again Chantry things, Herald things, templar things. Things he don't much put to mind when he's got work to do and a foutu shard of the fade in his hand. Still. It did make for a pretty little picture, squinty eyes all squinting, dressed all fine like a man of his station.

All grim and black and silver. Not a bad look.

Serious, though, which only made Mal's usual desire to poke at the man a bit more intense than usual. Enough for him to sidle up alongside in his usual casual attire, leather coat and cleaned boots and all, hardly fit for so fancy an affair. "Didn't expect to find you here."

open, interrupt whenever, it's just one big wildcard.

[byblow]

Three things that are true in every diverging timeline where he isn't dead: Alistair is not a diplomat, Alistair has no patience for fanfare, and Alistair does not like Orlesian nobility.

He does make a few attempts at impressing people, mostly for the sake of others. For starters, he's nice enough not to show up in full armor after all, pulling together some last-minute articles of clothing—mostly leather, mostly brown—at least befitting of a Ferelden noble's orphan ward, if not an actual Ferelden noble. He is cheerfully and awkwardly charming long enough to introduce a few people with less brand recognition to various masked entities, then slips away and leaves them to their fates, you're welcome. The third time he's asked about Jonas he manages to sound like he doesn't want to leap off the battlements. Barely, but. He manages. He says nice things about the Inquisition and its aid to the Wardens. He lets a young lady feel his bicep.

But in between those good moments, he is only barely behaving, aloof in a good-humored but tired and skeptical way that suggests he's either (a) above all of this or (b) perfectly comfortable being beneath it, and in either case perpetually restraining himself from causing trouble. He makes faces from behind the nobles' backs—subtle ones, a moment of crossed eyes or wrinkled nose or a pull of his mouth to say yikes—while people he knows are attempting to have serious conversations with them. He downs a couple of drinks in single long swallows. Few invitations to dance are turned down outright, but his ability not to accidentally trample his partner's feet mysteriously correlates to how much he likes them.

Later in the evening, one of the lesser Orlesians corners him to attempt to bond over their apparent shared taste in elves. The word supple comes is used. Alistair's already-pasted-on smile freezes, sharpens, and darkens in a way that should—hopefully—set off warning bells in onlookers in time for someone to step in before he opens his mouth.

Not long after that, while the party is still in progress, he'll vanish. He'll check on Pel first—he's that much of a gentleman—but this is really, really not his sort of thing.

[serannas]

Alistair is like the child who shouldn't have been dragged to the big people's party and is going to make his parent regret this. Ellana recognizes this as she tries to steer a noble away from a discussion on her ears and spots Alistair over the woman's shoulder, crossing his eyes. Alistair, Ellana is trying to be aloof here. What even.

But when later in the evening she comes across him alone, back turned to her, she can't help coming up behind and putting on a terrible Orlesian accent.

"Oo eez thees? Can it be zee Alistair? Oo 'elped zee 'ero of Ferelden?"

BELLAMY BLAKE || part closed, part OTA, or whatever, do whatever.

[nonsibi]

Wary wallflowering; OTA.

This is so not Bellamy's scene. That's what puts him up against the wall, with his arms folded over his chest, watching instead of engaging in any kind of wholehearted participation. He's made a small effort in that he's cleaned up, which, by the way: he cleans up pretty good. Armor polished up to something presentable, clean shirt, boots scraped free of the mud from traveling--he catches a couple of glances, even if he's clearly uninterested in dancing.

Specifically dancing. Drinking? Hell yeah. The wine is good, and it's free, and he's not turning that down. Most of his vigil is spent with a cup in hand. If you're too slow to grab a drink off of a passing servant's tray, you might find that Bellamy has grabbed one on your behalf, as well as one for himself. His face looks a little less grim when he smiles. At one point, an Orlesian noblewoman saunters past, with her waist pulled in narrow and a set of panniers widening her hips to a comical degree. Bellamy smiles outright at that, and snorts back a laugh as he turns away. If he can catch someone's eye, he'll pull a face. Seriously? Fashion. Wow.

But mostly he stays put. When the mages start their display, a hard look crosses his face, before his expression settles into a wary disapproval. By the time they're done, he's finished off his cup of wine, and, brusquely, shoves away from the wall for a refill. Perhaps a little clumsily, too. Bumping into someone, he mutters a curt, "Sorry," without really looking at who they are.

HALLWAY WHISPERFIGHT; closed to Lexa.

When he first sees her, Bellamy doesn't recognize her. There's a sea of faces, knots of people--people he's never seen, people he's spoken to, people he's seen only in passing. The mix renders the unfamiliar as passingly familiar. His gaze skips over the woman before something--instinct, maybe, or wariness; maybe only chance--something makes him look back at her.

It's harder to pick her out a second time. Like she's trying to blend in, hiding in plain sight. The cut of her clothing is a little less expensive--clean, well-made, but not tailored; even an untrained eye can spot that. Her hair is different. Her face is clean. But when he narrows his eyes, Bellamy can see it: facepaint, a black mask, daggered at the bottom. Cool and cold.

Stone Heart. The Commander. What the hell is she doing here?

Without any particular urgency, Bellamy pushes away from his place on the wall. He slips through the crowds, navigating the edge of the room, all the while keeping as good an eye on Lexa as he can. At times he loses her, and he has to stop, reorient, find her--but he finds her, every time, until at last he's behind her, staring at the back of her head. There's a handful of people between them. A man, drunk, stumbles backwards, with a roar of laughter. Bellamy skirts him, comes up right behind Lexa, and grabs hold of her upper arm.

It's not a nice grasp. He's not feeling very nice.

"Commander."

DRINKING; closed to Clarke. (maybe.)

After confronting Lexa, Bellamy returns to the hall for another cup of wine. This time, he takes one of the tables, kicks out a chair for himself and sits, heavily. The night has worn on for a long time now, but the music is still playing, and the dancers are still twirling, and Bellamy drains half his wine in one gulp before he sets the cup down, heavily, on the table. After a second, he takes it up again, takes another sip, almost determined in the way that he's drinking.

Before, he was wary and attentive. Now he might as well be alone. At one point, a woman in a bumblebee yellow mask and a low-cut black gown trimmed with feathers tries to join him; a dark look sends her packing. He's not interested in company.

[heda]

What Lexa is doing here is precisely what everyone else is doing: mingling, gathering information, feeling the place out, trying to avoid the attention of the sleazier attendees. She is not surprised by the hand on her arm; she has more than enough awareness and too little wine not to have sensed his approach even through the crowd. But the voice, that surprises her. She'd been keeping a mental list of likely candidates from among those she'd caught leering or who had not taken kindly when she refused to dance, but she had not accounted for,

"Bellamy."

Not that this much changes her reaction. She turns in his grip, a subtle shift into his space and a kinetic tension in her posture that he can both see and feel beneath his hand, warning--or in this case, reminding--that she is capable of removing that hand if she wishes, either from her arm or from his. No matter how different she looks tonight, her voice is every bit as cool as he remembers.

"What do you want?"

[bookish_lioness]

While Hermione had heard and read a great deal about Orlesian nobility, one thing she'd known about but hadn't been fully prepared for are the masks. Seeing so many people all dressed up and topping it off with masks just isn't her idea of a good time. In fact, if she'd had less self-control, she would have bolted right off the bat and passed the rest of the night in the library, trying to keep herself from having a full-fledged panic attack.

But there are also people without masks, familiar faces and new faces alike, and so she tries to focus on them. She won't completely ignore any noble who approaches her and tries to make conversation, but she's more likely than not to stiffen a little, replying with the utmost etiquette while searching for an easy way out without losing face. (Hopefully the other, familiar or more approachable-looking guests will forgive the fact that they're likely to have a curly-haired witch latch onto them.)

When she isn't awkwardly socializing, she can be found awkwardly wallflowering instead, usually with a glass of wine or a small hors d'oeuvre to make it seem more acceptable. Granted, she isn't the only wallflower there, and since this is her first big social event here, she can't help but ask a million questions of anyone who will entertain them. (Why the masks? Who's that in the green dress? What kind of snack is this? Would it be rude to turn down a dance with a total stranger? No, honestly, why the masks???) It's not technically socialization if it's research.

All in all, she isn't likely to stay long, so if anyone wants to talk - or Merlin forbid dance - with the young woman in the simple red gown, it would probably be best to catch her before she slips away. She does seem rather fond of edging closer and closer to anything that looks like an exit, after all.

[gatheringstorm]

If one person can be counted on not to have a mask, it's Korrin. Few are the designers who would bother to craft one for an 'ox' and she hadn't really bothered to ask. Masks are an Orlesian thing, and while she's planning to behave herself, that would be an unacceptable level of 'sucking up'. No, thanks.

Having just extracted herself from a giggly, tipsy noblewoman intent on touching her horns, Korrin glances around and catches sight of Hermione wallflowering. Oh, how she envied the human's ability to blend in right now, but she'll settle for being distracted and hoping that will keep the noblewoman at bay. Besides, someone has to rescue Hermione from mistakenly trying a certain Orlesian creation.

"I wouldn't try those petit-fours, unlike you like deep mushroom and anise. Orlesians are usually top-notch with their cuisine, but I'm sure that one was made on a dare. They call it 'the exquisite misery' which should tell you all you need to know of the taste."

sabriel. ota

[paperwing]

Sabriel knew a great deal about balls, in the way one knew a great deal about a city they had never seen, but had heard about, in recounts and tales and stories. Some of that knowledge had been reluctantly imparted to her, she recalled. The information had been contrary at best, cautionary at worst; a noble Nevarran mage was far, far away from Orlesian courts and ballrooms and it was given because it had to be. But she knows, knows from tales spun late at night and in games of pretend, from books and pictures, and this is still only Skyhold, but tonight, it is a piece of Orlais and society. Tonight is exciting. Sabriel attends with a buoyant girlish enthusiasm; she had been looking forward to the soiree, despite the potential for it to overwhelm. She also knew, vaguely, of how deceptive this stage could potentially be, but tonight, it was new and untried. She would not see it. It was new, yes, but she was determined to enjoy it, to make the most of it. A brief frivolity.

She arrives on Scipio's arm, hair tied back in a braid and threaded with deep blue flowers, wearing a dress that had caused its share of trouble. She was 'far too pale and that does you so little credit', supposedly, and thus the tailors had settled on the colours of a Warden, which they already knew worked. And, it did. Either way, her suitor is the company she keeps for much of the night, and when you can't see her elsewhere, she is probably with him in a dark corner. Or elsewhere.

( MINGLING )
Sabriel almost glides through the crowd, talks, says the right thing. She enters a few fair repetative conversations on her lineage, Orlesians familiar with the Abhorsen name; a few bring up likeness to relatives, ask about her thoughts on the end of her lineage, about this and that, and she laughs or nods or gently rejects as required. She hears her share of stories from bleeding hearts, which she has to turn down, much as she would like to offer her assistance to. Some ask about the Council, which she indulges, does them credit. Some ask about the Wardens, which she steers them away from with apologies and promises to dance. Some secrets will keep.

( FOOD )
Even a ball cannot deter a Warden's ferocious appetite. The tables are laid with food for the taking, and most of that spread is not Ferelden - her tastebuds thank her for such a gracious day, because if they had pulled out the ham, she might have quietly despaired. She takes extra helpings of everything aside from the deep mushroom (who decided that was a good thing to eat, never again) and the wine that goes with it is quite tasteful. The air buzzes, but she doesn't get drunk. Not quite, anyway.

( DANCING )
The dance floor is the best place to find her, even if she might have been a wallflower if not for the fact she had people to dance with. Her friends get a request, as does each and every Warden in attendance (which are insisted) and members of the Council (which are not, but are politely offered, all the same).

( SINGING )
She doesn't sing, not quite. She hums a great deal when on the sidelines, close to the walls, watching the musicians play. Some are songs she knows, others not, but to each she hums in tune. Can she sing? Could she be persuaded? Maybe. Why don't you ask?

( OR WILDCARD ME! )

dancing

[serannas]

Ellana is doing well enough for herself at the soiree. There is an air about her that is leaving the nobles confused, because she isn't bowing and scraping to them. Their smooth insults are met with equally smooth answers that show she both understands the slights, yet thinks herself above them. They're angry at her lack of deference, but puzzled by her gentle manners. All of this is thanks to Morrigan's coaching. Ellana has learned that the way to win the Game is not to play, and she's been walking the fine line between being above it all and dipping her toes into the water. It's been an interesting night, but mentally exhausting at the same time. So when she spots Sabriel, she comes over, ready to be herself again.

"Shall we dance?" she asks, offering her dear friend a hand.

Maria Hill | OTA

[nofury]

Drinks and lurking

Maria had made a straight line for the the drinks table the moment she entered the ball. It simply wasn't her kind of affair. Dancing, politics, fine clothing that served to hinder fighting ability, and worse of all, no weaponry. It was as if the Ambassador had dreamed up the opposite of Maria's entire life as a Templar and shoved her in. Still, orders were orders and Maria had dressed as the situation demanded.

Maria can be found for most of the night slowly wandering the edges of the room, checking for any security issues and, to all appearances, getting drunk off the plentiful wine. Any one particularly observant and bored, however, may notice that while she seems to be constantly refilling an empty glass in her hand, Maris never actually takes more than a few sips over the course of the night.

Dancing

Lessons. She had taken lessons for this. So while most of the night is spent away from the crowds, Maria does make it a point to be seen on the dance flood with a handful of partners during the evening. Anyone, male or female, looking at the floor with any kind of desire that doesn't currently have a partner is likely to be asked for a quick dance.

Wildcard
Set up your own starter, I will just in!

[slipshot]

Gavin is unusually and uncharacteristically quiet. While normally he would be the life of the party, laughing and joking with everyone, he was anything but that, this evening. He smiled, sure, but it was forced, and he looked preoccupied and far away.

Dancing, however, was something that he had to do, to keep up appearances, and Maria - Maria was safe. As far as any of them were. She would lecture him, maybe, but it was always about his well being. Not about his ears.

"Ser Maria," He said, offering her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "May I have this dance?"

lace harding. ota

[lacere]

The leader of the scouts goes, as is expected of her. It's also not entirely unexpected for her to arrive with Bruce (even though it wouldn't be unfair to say she was dragging him into the fray, if she had to go, so did he). Her gown, however? It could be. Never has she needed to dress to impress - bandits, rogue templars and rebel mages, none really had an appreciation for that kind of thing - but impress she was. Where the gown had come from was another matter, as none had seen her approach a tailor of any kind. Some scouts nurse their pride and loss of coin over betting she would arrive in armour, but some seem jovial as despite the dress, the lace, the flower motif... Harding is still wearing cracked leather boots thick with mud. Really, though. What else would she wear?

( MINGLING )
Though Scout Harding isn't one to get flustered by much, she does get a little lost whilst talking to the nobles, though she tries. She pretties up the scouts, gets them on side, and yet, niceties? Aimless circular questions? Apparent falseness? Not so good. Her current conversation partner doesn't seem to be a fan of the straightforward bluntness, though. Help a girl out, here?

( DANCING: FOR BRUCE )
[It's not the first dance of the evening but it is her first dance. Which she hasn't had, yet, and her date hasn't asked. They've arrived, settled in at some chairs along the wall. The wine isn't bad. But there's a lack of, well, dancing. And she likes dancing.

Several songs go by and as the musicians pause then change direction once again, Harding mentions it.] Bruce. [She straightens a little in her chair, placing the empty glass on a well-timed tray offered by one of the kitchen staff.] Would you dance with me? [And, an afterthought.] Not just for appearances.

( DANCING )
It seems that Scout Harding can dance, and well. Though her conversation left something to be desired, nobles that had dismissed her as a dwarf have renewed interest as she instructs one of the younger ladies how to waltz. Maybe you should get in line for a dance with her. There's one forming.

( WEIRDNESS, ETC )
Those with keen eyes may notice her speaking in hushed tones to some of the scouts throughout the evening, most of them dressed in normal armour, before hurrying them along back into the shadows. Towards the end of the evening, she's absent. How strange.

( OR SOMETHING ELSE? )

Dancing

[gatheringstorm]

While blessedly free of any nobles seeking to ask her about 'the savage Qunari' or asking to touch her horns, Korrin makes her way over to watch Harding's instructions. Her lips curve in a smile, glad to see the dwarven woman more in her element than making idle conversation with snooty nobles. And while the Vashoth woman can mange some simple steps, she doubts her own grace matches Harding's own. That keeps her from joining the line, but perhaps she'll change her mind after more observing or catch Harding when she's taking a break.

[theproperglove]

It is always a delight to personally witness the results of one's hard work. Josephine is beyond relieved to see everyone in attendance and enjoying themselves after the weeks upon weeks of planning. Hopefully what they have achieved here tonight will be more than enough to put any spurious rumours about the Inquisition to rest, or at least displace them with new intrigues regarding other political powers. Ah, perhaps she is being overly hopeful, but she cannot help it: that is the kind of person Josephine is.

Nonetheless, she is all too aware that her work is not over yet. While they might have succeeded in gathering everyone at Skyhold tonight, the night is still young and there is still so much opportunity for things to go incredibly wrong. As a result, Josephine can be found pretty much everywhere, keeping an eye on all the different elements of the soiree. Is the food in any danger of running out? Are people behaving themselves?

She is also making herself available for any concerns and queries to be brought to her, or to help dispense any necessary advice regarding the Game. If she has a moment to breath, she might even make her own initial approach, asking party-goers at random whether they are enjoying themselves.

For those who know the Ambassador well, they might note that she looks slightly more frazzled than usual. But for all the stresses weighed upon her, Josephine still moves with elegance and grace, wearing a gown gown in the style of what very much the Antivan fashion the last time Josephine was home. Ruffles nonwithstanding, the dress itself is a curious colour. Depending on the way it catches the light, it might look either blue, or gold, or any shade in between.

Tomorrow, she might be able to relax again.

[ombranera]

"This is all very well done, mia Dama." Zevran murmurs from where he's settled in at her side for the moment, eye cast out among the dancing nobility, the discussions taking place- who is speaking to whom, who seems interested, who seems bored, who is spinning tales and who may or may not have any real truth to them. His own Kestrels flit about offering wine and snacks and attentive ears, picking up what he cannot. "And you a flower of loveliness among it all."

Cassandra Pentaghast

[stabsbooks]

( prose or brackets are fine, I'll match you! )

Wallflower

At first glance she might be mistaken for a statue, although one wonders if even statues are normally prone to a posture quite so stiff and unmoving as this. Cassandra feels tense and uncomfortable in the dress Vivienne had stuffed her into. The opening at the front of her jacket had been a special source of contention, with the tailors gleefully attempting to open it up as far as possible - down to the bottom of her breastbone, if they'd had their way - while Cassandra had fought tooth and nail for the buttons to go up all the way to her neck. The result is somewhere in the middle, exposing just enough cleavage to leave Cassandra fighting not to cross her arms self-consciously over her chest.

She had absolutely refused the mask. Too much of the Game is bound up in the thing for her to even accept the scant anonymity it might provide.

Dancing

Despite all appearances and evidence to the contrary, Cassandra is actually an accomplished dancer. She had been taught nearly from birth, and though she is neither expressive in her movements nor able to often look as if she is actually enjoying herself, there is a certain grace to the way she moves, and her technical skills are beyond question.

She has promised to behave, for Josephine's and Vivienne's sakes and for the Inquisition's, and though the Enchanter and the Ambassador cannot make her mingle, she has been prevailed upon at least to dance when invited, and to accept those invitations with cordiality and grace. Her tolerance only goes so far, of course (that child of a duke has been staring at her all night and sweating, and he unnerves her), but most who might be brave enough to ask for a dance will receive one.

The Introduction

"Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena...Pentaghast! Fourteenth cousin to the King of Nevarra, nine times removed. Hero of Orlais. Right Hand of the Divine."

Cassandra glares daggers, and doesn't bother to hide an exaggerated roll of her eyes, nor a heavy sigh.

Wildcard

[madame_de_fer]

Smug. Vivienne is utterly smug at having finally gotten Cassandra into a proper dress. A fetching dress at that. With just the right amount of sultry with that peephole in the front. It's having a marvelous impact on the little duke who is so enamored with the Seeker too. Just as planned. Although the poor boy seems to be struggling between his obvious attraction and a need to remain a chaste and proper man of faith.

She slips over to Cassandra's side with a two glasses of wine in hand. A kindness to help them relax. Clearly she needs it. Especially since Madame de Fer is feeling like a mild meddling.

"Ah, my dear, you look lovely. Have you met Duke Pelletier yet? He is quite the fan of yours."

The Iron Lady is planning a little meeting.

Fiona

[rebelenchanter]

Fiona might have been from Orlais, but her state of dress suggested otherwise. She was very simplistic in her choice--a solid color with silver trimmings, and a cloak, no mask, unassuming and for one who was one the Grand Enchanter she was surprisingly unrecognizable from any other mage in the room. No white to define her position, it was a position she'd denounced, but it still held weight to others, to mages and non-mages who still used the title.

She's social in her own way, but she is not particularly fond of Orlesian nobility or nobility in general so most of her conversations were brief and she managed well enough to keep the curtness from her tone. In truth her only purpose in being here was to look out for her own and make sure nothing happened. Parties were a place for fun and recreation, sure and true enough, but there were Orlesians and Fereldens, there were Mages and Templars, there were Chevaliers and Elves. It was a volatile mix.

For the most part she kept to the edges of this soiree, occasionally engaging in friendly conversation with those she's has become acquainted with in her time here or her own.

Felix Alexius

[blightedson]

Felix feels most comfortable in robes and he's taken to not wearing them while training with the Wardens. For this party, though, he can go back to gold and black robes that cover his form and flow gracefully around his body. The style isn't entirely Tevinter, but there are hints of his homeland here and there.

He seems to stick mostly away from crowds, eating whenever it isn't considered rude. That isn't to say he avoids the visiting nobles completely. Many come up to him because he is an oddity. There are other Tevinters around, of course, but none of them are the son of a previous enemy. He handles all of their questions with grace and care.

When he needs to be impressive he'll pull out some Orlesian and speak to them in their home language then regale them with tales about the University of Orlais and how impressed he was with their country and the knowledge held there.

He grew up an altus in Tevinter. These people think they are vipers but he can't help but think of them more as garden snakes.


Later in the night he will be mysteriously missing, so if you wish to speak to him it happens earlier. Anyone paying attention might notice he slips away with the Dalish representative on the Mage Council.

[serannas]

Ellana has been keeping an eye out for Felix, but in an environment where every look is carefully scrutinized, she's been trying to stay subtle about it. When she finally does spot him, it takes a great deal of effort not to outwardly react, but despite her plans to hide her emotions tonight, she feels the heat on her cheeks and retreats to a quiet corner. No nobles are allowed to see her blush.

She tries to make her way over to him, but she keeps being delayed by small talk and requests to dance, so by the time she finally gets to him, she's had enough. Ellana wants to stay by Felix for the rest of the evening and refuses to let herself be dragged away. When she reaches him, he's just ended a conversation and she stops, hands clasped lightly and trying not to fidget.

"Felix," she greets, and a genuine smile spreads across her face. "I've been wanting to talk to you all night, and just couldn't get away from others until now."

Cyril Ashara

[samahl]

Cyril shows up wearing dark trousers and a well tailored silver and black tunic that shows off the shape of his body and compliments the color of his hair and makeup well. The design almost seems to shimmer in the light and makes him look a little more like a pretty decoration, which very well may have been his goal.

He shows up with Taashath but he isn't opposed to dancing with others. He's always open to flirting with each others. He mostly just seems charmed by the entire set up and grateful that he can take part in it.

[el_tybs]

Surprisingly it isn't hard for Sam to find Cyril in the crowd. Then again he always had an eye open for the elf regardless of where they were at. "Hello, stranger. You're looking particularly handsome tonight." Sam grins some as he gives Cyril a once over, taking in more of his outfit.

Samouel Gareth | OTA

[el_tybs]

Entering the Great Hall anyone could see that he arrives on his own, though a smile still on his face, and immediately heads off to one side of the room. Sam's outfit is elegant, but not overly fancy, made to be simple enough for his comfort while showcasing his features. Even his hair has been tamed better and his facial hair neatly groomed to compliment his attire. He has never been to a party such as this, and Sam is more than interested to see everyone.

[Dance]

For the most part Sam keeps to the sidelines, or wandering around the tables with refreshments and food. Even so it is obvious that the forms dancing in the middle of the hall keep catching his interest with how he constantly stops to watch. He's had a few lessons by this time, but not enough to be so confident to ask anyone out onto the floor, which is unusual for him. Of course if anyone was to ask him to dance he wouldn't turn them down - maybe just politely apologize ahead of time for some missteps.

[Mingling]

Sam isn't one to really deal with nobles, but he is good with people and crowds in general, so it isn't surprising that he can be found talking to a variety of strangers throughout the night. For the most part he is enjoying himself, talking about the things he's seen or done with the Inquisition.

Course there are times that he seems a bit overwhelmed or trapped. At one point there are a group of ladies giggling around him and taking as many chances as they can to touch him - on the arms really, but their fingers do linger. Then there was the Baroness Comeaux. She seems a little put off by where he's come from, but not enough so to leave him alone.

[Wildcard]

Have something else in mind? Let's party.

Mingling

[judgemewhole]

Well, this won't be the first time that Norrington has saved Sam. It's not likely to be the last. So he steps in, smiling at all the ladies who are suddenly reminded there are Templars here with Mages and oh my. Perhaps they should ... yes.

The Baronness is slightly harder to pull off, but Norrington manages that by pointing out that Lord Aleron appears to be free once more for conversation, so that sends her fluttering on her way.

Finally, Norrington sighs, before he gives Sam a wry look. "Don't you have a significant other who is supposed to be chasing all these ... fine young ladies off for you?"

River Tam

[girlinthebox]

There is a girl, except when there isn't.

She can sometimes be seen at the edges of a conversation, tilting her head as though listening to something unspoken. At other times she listens to the music, crouched near the players with her fingers mimicking their movements, humming along.

Other times she conducts herself quite well, though in a dress far too loosely tailored to be at all proper, and clearly barefoot when the fabric sweeps aside to reveal as much. And yet she's seen at least once talking with the Marquis Arnot Vaillant about the recent dragon hunts, as though she'd been present herself, and with a fair amount of coherent articulation.

It doesn't last, and she continues to ghost about the hall for a few hours at least, before departing for the party outside the gates.

[ombranera]

"Little bird." Zevran sweeps in between one song in the next, cape flaring behind him as he bows with a flourish. "Shall we show these canaries what it means to fly?"

(FOR MERRICK)

[metaari]

When he goes to pick him up, Metaari is dressed about as well as someone his size can be. He has a fitted coat on, the seams very nearly at their limit but strong enough to hold, the color a deep red. He smiles as he ducks into Merrick's room, glancing around. "Are you ready?"

There might be a flower in his hand, the hue a bright, vibrant purple. Embarrassing? Probably, but he had to.

[dalishious]

Merrick is always anxious, but tonight? The hooch he's already partaken in is still burning in his throat, along with the copious amounts of elfroot he's smoked, but he's still jittery.

He's all dressed up, though, in an outfit Cyril had chosen for him, which had been tailored to his slender body. His hair is styled much more smoothly than how he usually does it, and there's makeup on his face, black kohl around his eyes and silver on his eyelids. All in all he feels very much like Cyril's doll, but he secretly hopes that Metaari will like it.

When Metaari arrives he takes one more drink from his flask for good measure, then goes to greet him. First he notices how good the qunari looks, and he stops himself from staring by moving his eyes to the flower. Instantly his face heats up and he covers it with both hands.

"Oh come on... Really?"