faderift | Truth or Dare: The Imperial Court

Truth or Dare: The Imperial Court

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.

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There are certainly some delicacies here. Normally Leliana would not consume a single one. There are images to preserve and the Nightingale has always presented herself as someone not quite touchable. It is why, even now, as she wears a dress of a beautiful silk that catches the light in blues and greys, her arms are covered in fine chainmail and her hands are hidden away with gloves. She might shimmer when the light catches her, but she is more dangerous than some pretty bauble to decorate the court. Now, however, she is presenting herself more as the protector than the weapon, as someone more human and more concerned, and it is one of the very reasons she approaches Cassandra with a small plate of treats.

(She at least remembers what Cassandra likes, and only a couple of the chosen delicacies are ones that she knows would offend Cassandra's palate. She is not entirely unreasonable. )

"Cassandra." Loud enough to catch her attention and that of those nearby, if only so they do not set rumours abuzz with talk of their formal means of address in recent days. Leliana is aware enough to know when no one can hear them, and even if her body language appears friendly (as friendly as a grieving and dedicated Left Hand can reasonable appear, of course) her words become more blunt, despite the tone that softens them. "For the sake of overturning these rumours we are required to show some solidarity."

Cassandra does not hear the Nightingale's approach. Her attention is elsewhere - she is watching for that awful little Duke, trying to convince herself that the murmurs of the people around her are not disapproving whispers about herself, fighting not to feel exposed and uncomfortable and vulnerable in her dress. But even if she had been watching, even if she had been expecting Leliana, Cassandra knows she could easily have been caught just as unawares.

She turns at the sound of her name, and for a single, wild moment she thinks that things are back to normal, that Leliana had come to her seeking reconciliation, and her heart leaps in her chest.

The illusion is shattered a moment later, Leliana's friendly tone doing nothing to hide the cool detachment of her words, and the brief flash of hope on Cassandra's face is quickly smothered, hidden behind a steely mask.

"Of course." She blinks, trying to relax her expression into something natural, something that will not invite further talk - of all things, she does not want to bring about further rumors. But she is at a loss for what else to say, and after an awkward pause she looks down, forehead creasing slightly at the plate in Leliana's hand. Most of what it holds are Orlesian delicacies, tiny, elaborate cakes with more care put into their appearance than their taste, or pastry puffs that are more air than food. But there is one on the edge of the plate - a small, luscious-looking tart that she swears is of Nevarran origin. A favorite, and one she has not tasted in years.

Reluctantly, she tears her eyes away, focusing her gaze firmly on the Nightingale's face. She will not take what she has not been offered - she will not ask, not even for this. Not from Leliana, not after -

Her jaw tightens, just slightly, and she inclines her head, doing her best to look normal. Unmoved. They are being watched closely by everyone within eyesight - that she is sure of.

"I have nothing to say to you."

Low, low so that no one will hear.

"That's a relief." Whether because it spares them an argument, or because Leliana cannot endure her, that is open-ended.

Cassandra has never done well at tact, and so it is doubly unfortunate (for her) that she does not adopt a mask. She is easy to read at the best of times. The Orlesians could tear her apart, if they had a reason enough to. The Game was different to the world she knew. Blades took the strangest forms, not all those Cassandra would recognise. The flash of hopefulness is caught - remembered. It must be nice to be free to be so open and so emotional, to not craft yourself into a mask without such clumsiness. Cassandra might have tried to hide her emotions, but it was not fast enough to conceal them from a bard.

Pity will not serve her now. Compassion and mercy had become warped and twisted under Anders' touch.

"The Duke is allergic to cherries," she notes, also quiet, though her tone sounds friendly to any who might happen to overhear their voices. They will only get the voice and not the words, and Leliana offers them without looking down at the tray and its little collection of miniature cherry pastries. "If he sees you eating those then you may stave off any more... amorous overtures he aspired to. Even the possibility of them still being on your hands might alarm him into sparing you an excess of dancing."

She does not outright offer Cassandra the tart. She is too betrayed and too frustrated and too full of a desire to shake Cassandra until she saw sense, but the order for Nevarran tarts for the ball as a means to bribe Cassandra to the ball and make it more easily endured had been set in action before this stupid rift (what a word to use, and yet) had jarred them apart. Leliana can at least help Cassandra not murder a dignitary for the sake of the Game, and place said assistance next to the tart, and that is practically generous behaviour, all things considered.

Edited 2016-03-23 07:33 (UTC)

Leliana's words carry an unexpected sting, and Cassandra's jaw twitches.

She wants to cry. She wants to sneer at Leliana, and say something horrible (what, she doesn't know, she has never learned to wield her words as weapons, the way they are wielded in the Game), and run away.

She doesn't. Instead, she nods, careful to keep her movements relaxed and natural - that much, she can do, she can at least do this. Her fingers hesitate over the plate. She must say something, keep up the charade, but she cannot...she cannot bring herself to thank Leliana. Leliana cannot be doing this out of compassion, out of true friendship. She had seen Cassandra avoiding the Duke and had decided that an intervention was necessary, that Cassandra could not be trusted to keep her temper if left to handle the man on her own...

It is almost insulting, in truth. But she has caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye more and more frequently as the night has worn on, and her dread of the moment when his desire overcomes his awe and he gathers the courage to approach her, to ask her to dance, has only grown. She cannot refuse this, not when it is offered so plainly.

Her fingers close around the pastry, and she lifts it to her mouth, responding in the same friendly tone as she does. "Is he watching now?" She does not dare look, but Leliana will know; Cassandra does not doubt she knows the exact location of every noble and dignitary in the room.

The tart, the Nevarran tart, is of lemon, and had not been offered. Cassandra carefully avoids it.

To be in a situation such as this feel so close to unbearable - or it might have, some years ago. She is sterner, now, stronger. She is harsher by necessity. This could be weathered. It was not pleasant, but the Game rarely was - it was poisoned wine and rotten fruit made up to look like something desirable.

"Avidly," Leliana can reply without absolute certainty, not needing to spare him even a glance. A note of humour steals into her voice, quite without her permission, because it is so hard to keep Cassandra behind a blockade, to keep her at bay when so often it had been Cassandra at her side. It is hard not to tease her for her admirer.

Instead they are rigid, wary of setting off some trap or attack from the other, as if a shift in pressure will trigger danger. Leliana looks to the platter, and in the interests of letting it seem that the Right and Left Hand are having a whimsical moment of dessert together, she grabs a little chocolate torte, decorated with delicate spirals of orange peel. After a tense moment (a collection of them, rather, adding up to what might have been minutes or simply felt like them) Leliana adds, "Josephine ordered the lemon tarts quite particularly, to make the evening more pleasant for you."

In fact Leliana had made the request, but that secret would be torn from her corpse.

She hears the amusement in Leliana's tone, and oh. It hurts. She is angry with herself for being so sensitive, for caring so much despite her anger, despite the fact that she does not want to talk to Leliana either. But Leliana is laughing at her pain, amused that she suffers so under the Duke's horrible attentions, and Cassandra's jaw clenches involuntarily, her expression momentarily changing to a painful grimace.

She looks down at the plate to hide her face from anyone who might be watching - from Leliana, if she can - and watches without seeing as the Nightingale's dainty fingers pluck the chocolate torte from the plate. A long, unhappy silence, and she blinks as Leliana speaks, the words slowly penetrating her dark thoughts.

"How thoughtful of her." It is more difficult, now, to keep her tone neutral and friendly; the words are forced and too flat, and she pauses before taking a breath, trying to inject more inflection into her voice. "I shall have to thank her."

Still, she does not reach for the tart. It is Leliana's, no matter who they had been ordered for, and she will take nothing from her - not while she finds joy in Cassandra's misfortune, not while she insults and torments her this way.

Another long, awful pause. Cassandra forces herself to bite into another pastry, dry and tasteless and sticking unpleasantly in her throat, and swallows before looking up to Leliana's face to speak again. Friendly. Warm. She even manages a small smile, as if sharing an amusing remark with the Left Hand, though it does not reach her eyes. "How long must we endure this before we have convinced them?"

Even though it was not Josie who saw to the tarts, Leliana feels a flare of protective irritation at Cassandra's manners. Yes they are at odds, and yesLeliana played her part in that, but she did not see that her standing up for freedom was any reason for Cassandra to speak in a tone that echoed disrespect for the Ambassador in how forced it sounds. Leliana does not look at Cassandra sharply, nor scowl, nor do any of the things that would immediately fire up the furnace of the Orlesian rumour mills. Instead she ducks her head a little, covers her mouth as though she is having to cover a bit of a smile that absolutely does not exist, and when she looks to Cassandra where is a warmth in her expression that does not make it to her eyes.

"I think we have played at this quite long enough. Try not to look ill if I make contact and smile, later," she replies, setting the tray down on a nearby table for Cassandra to remain armed with the pastries, and taking up a glass of wine in its stead. "But before I go we should drink a toast, as a sign of solidarity."

The look in Leliana's eyes is chilling. It is not distant scorn now, or cruel amusement at Cassandra's predicament - it is disgust, and Cassandra feels a lump rise in her throat. She is still angry, she wants nothing more than for Leliana to leave - but she also feels the inexplicable urge to apologize. For what, she doesn't know. All she knows is that she never wants Leliana to look at her like that again.

She stares back, miserable and unable to hide it, and then nods, not trusting herself to speak as she reaches for a glass of wine.

She ignores the plate.

"A toast." She raises her glass, and falls silent once more, her mind a blank. "To - "

"To peace in Thedas," Leliana offers. "And freedom."

Funny, how the things so precious to her feel so cold and metallic on her tongue, as if there were some corruption in them, as if this entire evening or maybe just this conversation has warped them a little. When peace and freedom become barbs, perhaps that is truly a sign that things are slipping from what they should be.

Her glass is gently tapped against Cassandra, eye contact held, before she tips back some of the wine. "If you will excuse me, Seeker Pentaghast."

"To peace," Cassandra echoes, and then hesitates, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at Leliana. Is it a jab at her? She cannot even tell anymore. "And....safety."

She drinks, the wine sour on her tongue, and swallows with difficulty. Leliana is taking her leave, and Cassandra fights back the urge to grab her arm, to beg for just the smallest sign of mercy or warmth.

The urge is not hard to resist. As much as she longs for Leliana's friendship, an equal part of her wishes never to see her again, and she simply offers the Spymaster a small nod, remembering just in time to plaster an empty smile on her face.

For the Orlesians. For the Inquisition.

She remains where she is once Leliana has vanished, looking studiously anywhere but at her retreating back, and manages to ignore the roiling, sick feeling in her gut for a full five minutes before she breaks down and makes her escape.

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Truth or Dare: The Imperial Court

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