Sophia had spent roughly the last half hour trying to figure out which method of movement in a small space was most effective to hold back nervousness. She was starting to think she was better off just sitting down. There'd be more than enough standing and talking to go around tonight, perhaps it was best to save herself.
She was just outside of her own quarters in the Keep, having prepared herself far earlier than was necessary, simply because she hadn't known what else to do with the time while she waited. She could hear the guests, undoubtedly half of Hightown, being ushered through the doors to the grand ballroom beyond. They undoubtedly would not stand the indignity of being patted down for weapons on their way in, and the guards were only confiscating visible weapons, while informing them that any kind of weapon bearing in the ballroom would be strictly forbidden. Sophia had heard that they'd already taken possession of several swords worn by noblemen, hoping to look more dashing when armed. Perhaps they thought to show Sophia that they too had no fear of battle. She had, after all, yet to announce any kind of plans for selecting a suitor.
It was one of the greater mysteries of the night. For all they knew, she would be arriving alone, as she seemingly preferred to do. No doubt the appearance of Lucien beside her would come as something of a shock to them. They likely wouldn't even know who he was, and Sophia had decided that any inquiries as to his identity would be his alone to answer how he saw fit. She knew who he really was, more than just his title, and why she wanted him next to her. That was all that mattered. If the nobles wanted more from him, they would have to pry it out of him. Sophia had no doubt that they would try.
Lucien would be permitted access to the family private quarters in order to meet with Sophia for their entrance together. Ashton and Nostariel would have to arrive with the other guests, where they woud likely be guided to a pair of seats at the round tables for the feast that was to open the night. She hoped they'd be seated fortunately next to, or at least near, some of the families that Sophia had requested they find at some point. It seemed unlikely that they'd be able to determine without a doubt if one or more of them were guilty of plotting to assassinate her and her father, but at least they would have a chance of discerning motives. Amalia would undoubtedly be able to enter among the other musicians, though Sophia had to admit she was wondering what the Qunari woman would wear, if she'd even make an attempt at dressing differently. Nostariel and Sophia had worked together a few days prior at getting her into something suitable, and Sophia had thought the Warden had looked quite stunning when they were done, but for Amalia she quite simply had no idea.
Sophia herself had dressed for the occasion, and managed to remove all traces of the ill effects from the nightmare spell. From head to toe she was garbed in crimson trimmed with gold, her dress leaving her shoulders and arms bare, the cut rather low across her back. The skirt flowed down to barely skim the floor as she walked. Her eyes were the only differing color, small pools of sapphire amidst the warm glow of her skin, offsetting the small ruby pendant that was draped around her neck. Her hair for the evening had been tied back in an elegant Orelsian braid that ran straight down her back to rest between her shoulder blades. While fashionable, it also served to keep her hair out of her face in the event that things became more hectic.
Not that she had much to defend herself with, anyway. She had a small knife sheathed on her right thigh, but reaching it under the skirts would be a bit of a challenge. If she had to defend herself, it would likely have to be with her ability in hand-to-hand combat, which was limited at best, especially in an outfit such as this. She told herself for the hundredth time that there was a chance that nothing would happen, that this would just be a night she and Lucien could spend awkwardly dodging nobles. Considering that that outcome was what Sophia was actually hoping for, the odds of her enjoying this birthday didn't seem too high.
Nostariel brushed her hand down the front of her dressâher gown, oh Maker what was she doing in a gown?âfor what must have been the umpteenth time, trying to ignore the fact that the calluses on her fingers caught a bit on the light silk of the garment. It looked fine, she was sure: though the seamstress had sniffed and fussed quite a bit over having to make a dress for a twiggy little elf, of all things, sheâd seemed to be good at her work, and honestly her demeanor seemed more irritable generally than particularly concerned about the shape of the Wardenâs ears. It had been a tedious set of hours, passed slightly easier due to Sophiaâs company, and by the end of it, sheâd been convinced that sheâd have to be folded and sewn into the garment. For all the tailorâs complaining about her thinness, she certainly hadnât left any fabric to spare on the bodice. Or maybe that was just this whalebone corset.
Who could wear things like this on a regular basis, anyway? Last Nostariel had checked, breathing was not optional. Apparently, it was also not fashionable. The Warden had done her own hair, braiding it up and around her crown and gathering the rest of the length in a pile on top, curling the ends with a steel rod she heated with magic. One of the girls in the Circle had invented this trick, and used to practice on the rest of them all the time. Of all the magic sheâd learned, sheâd never thought to have a use for this, but then, she was done assuming life wouldnât take her truly strange places.
Nostariel didnât have a lot of pride, but she was not going to be the waifish elven chit, the sore thumb that stuck out and didnât fit with the grace and elegance of the occasion. Sheâd even pestered (well, asked; she never had to pester) Lucien for a basic curriculum on etiquette and dancing, and she bet he was better at it than the rest of Kirkwall combined, plain armor and humility or no. Okay, so maybe she had some pride, but to her credit, it was mainly in her friends. She wasnât going to let them down. She contemplated darkening her eyelids with charcoal, but decided against it. She didnât want it getting in her eye at an inopportune moment. She felt no need to carry a weapon in particular, given her magic, but she wasnât the only one she had to think about, and so a knife was secreted on the inside of her left shin.
The gownâshe still wasnât used to that thoughtâwas, at her request, a deep shade of Warden blue, cast off her shoulders in a shallow boatneck. The sleeves were long, belled things, trimmed in glimmering silver. There were no gems or metals involved, but she had managed to locate some jewelry for the occasion: a modest silver locket and teardrop-shaped sapphires for her ears. She wasnât just going to hope nobody noticed their length. She had nothing to be ashamed of. A long coat covered the arrangement until she got to the Keepâshe had no wish to be mugged on her way out of Lowtown, after all. Other than the small package tucked under one elbow, she carried nothing. At the entrance, the package was taken to a long table by a servant, an elven man whose eyes widened with obvious shock to see one of his own kind among the guests. The coat, she shed and had to remind herself to hand off rather than hang up.
She was ushered to a spot surprisingly near the middle, at least once she confirmed that she was, in fact, Nostariel Turtega, the Warden captain. Theyâd looked fairly disbelieving at that, but she was unrelenting, producing an insignia to the effect, and eventually they led her to her spot. Well⊠at least nobody had called her knife-ear yet, though the number of odd looks she was getting was disconcerting. She had to remind herself that it could just be from the strangeness of it, and not any particular disdain, though she could feel the back of her neck burning anyway. She was really beginning to wish that sheâd been allowed to attend in armor.
A pair of hands descended gently upon her shoulders, and a lanky figure leaned over to whisper into her ear. "You, my pretty little Warden, are the single beautiful dove in a room full of strutting peacocks," Ashton said, reeling back and returning to his height, a light smile at his lips. Nostariel was, even more than he could have imagined, beautiful. Even despite the fact that she looked like she was absolutely about to crawl out of her skin and hide under the table. He then did an extravagant bow and took a seat next to her. Now he wasn't a hundred percent certain that the seat was his, considering he had been positioned a bit further down. Too far from Nostariel for his tastes. So he took the risk and swapped seats. Formality had always been a pain in the ass for him anyway.
Surprisingly, Ashton looked just as noble as anyone else in the room and not like he was raised in the wilderness by a wolf. No instead of the usual (finely) homespun fabrics and leathers, the only thing homemade he was was the antlered knife hidden in his boot. It was an outfit he wore exactly once, and its origins were still entirely unknown to him. Did he steal it, or did he buy it? Only Sparrow and himself knew, and they were too smashed to remember. He'd remember this time though. The svelte midnight blue suit was still as magnificent as the day he found it, the golden inlay sparkling in the light. The collar was of fine rabbit's fur, fluffled up for effect, and his pants were a deep burgandy color with a crease down the legs. Jet black boots finished the outfit with style. He even had his hair fixed, darkened with oil, slicked back and tied out of his face with a black ribbon. He looked like the noble he was born as. He even looked comfortable in it.
He was still Ashton of course, for all intents and purposes. He had entered the Keep as if he owned it, his step swelling with the swagger of someone vastly more important than himself. His back was straight as an arrow, looming the entirety of his substantial height and he kept his gaze swung forward with a self-important smile on his face. If he was to play the noble's game, then he was going to play it right. His words were formal and stilted when he needed to speak, taking a couple of cues from his encounters with Lucien. If someone accused him of not being part of the nobility, that someone would be accused of lying.
"You do look beautiful," he repeated, "We'll do fine. Maybe nothing'll happen and we can just enjoy ourselves." It was a hopeful thought. Maybe everything would go off without a hitch and they could spend the party mingling. He'd be lying if he said he didn't look forward to the prospect of playing nobility. Then his eyes shone with a spark of rememberance "Oh, right, before I forget," he said, reaching into his shirt and digging around for a minute. When his hand returned, it was clutching a wooden box which he explained with a wink, "I didn't want to crush it." He then opened it and revealed a blue morning glory flower. "For your hair, milady." he said with a smile.
Nostariel flushed a rather amusing shade of red, pursing her lips in an attempt to keep from smiling like a silly girl, and raised a brow. âWhy thank you, MessereâŠâ she plucked the embellished name card from the seat next to hers, that Ash now occupied. âLord DeLauncet.â Hm; must be one of the younger members of that family, to be stuck all the way down here. She lost her battle then, and grinned at him. âYouâre probably going to offend half of the room, you know,â she added, but she didnât bother to hide that she was glad to see him. A familiar face in this tide of nobility and privilege was a welcome sight, especially this particular familiar face.
The flower was a lovely thing, and she picked it up carefully between her index finger and thumb, brushing the other handâs little finger over the soft petals. âI do hope this wasnât stolen from the clinicâs garden, Messere.â Nevertheless, she tucked it into her hair, above one of her ears. There. It was almost easy to forget why they were supposed to be playing at nobility at all, really.
The musician that entered through the servantâs entrance was scarcely recognizable as Amalia at all. The Qunari woman had removed her hair from its usual braid, gathering it instead in a lustrous golden ponytail that still draped past her waist to mid-thigh, even pulled over her left shoulder as it was. Her clothing was rather simple by comparison to most of that present, though well-made, and loose enough to obscure the second skin of her armor: a dark green tunic with long sleeves, ebon breeches tucked neatly into well-shined mahogany boots which reached her knees. Over one shoulder, she wore a stylish half-length mantle in the style of bards everywhere, the gold cord at the neck of it its only real adornment. It and her hair did the job of hiding the pale scars just visible above her collar about as effectively as she could hope. All in all, she looked like any rakishly-charming Antivan troubadour, save perhaps the solemnity of her eyes. Her harp was slung across her back, and she carried a box on one hip, which she placed on the gift table near the musiciansâ setup.
A much larger item caught her eye, a curious flicker playing across her face when she noted that it was the same thing sheâd seen Lucien carrying earlier. She had no idea what it was, though if pressed, she might be able to give a general guess. Shaking her head minutely, she hopped up onto the stage in a single catlike bound, startling an already-nervous youth trying to tune his fiddle. Raising a brow, the Qunari quirked a lip coolly, inclining her head just slightly and taking one of the chairs, crossing her legs up and underneath her to begin the fine process of attenuating her own instrument, which, along with the six knives and twelve needles currently secreted about her person, had been recently polished to a shine, the fine golden wood reflecting the lights from the crystalline candle-holding chandelier above their heads. Sheâd already checked to make sure nobody was perched in it, but made a note to continue doing so throughout the night. If she were to sabotage the event, that would be one of the three most preferred locations from which to do so.
Lucien was not the kind of man who could wear faces that were not his own. He lacked the conceptual apparatus required for true subterfuge, and though he could keep his feelings from his face if he really needed to, it was a skill he rarely practiced, and his aptitude was limited. He was, however, more than a simple mercenary, however much he might desire otherwise. It had perhaps seldom been more bleedingly-obvious than it was right now. The embroidered tunic he wore was predominantly the deepest black in color, the intricately-wrought details in dark red the feature that saved it from appearing like mourning attire. It fit fashionably snug across the lines of his broad shoulders and chest, cutting a sharp, clean silhouette that spoke somehow of military discipline despite its elegance. The accompanying trousers matched, the red stripe carrying the theme through to the knee-height boots capping his shins. Heâd trimmed and neatly tailed his hair, and taken a straight-razor to his face, at least.
Though the fabrics themselves were impeccably-tailored to him, he was quite certain he hadnât felt this uncomfortable in years. The familiar weight of his armor was gone, and what small weapons heâd managed to tuck into his boots seemed hardly adequate to the task of protecting a lifeâor more than one, certainly. But he would do as he always had, and get along in whatever circumstances happened to present him with. Hefting the cloth-wrapped present, he handled it with surprising care all the way from Lowtown, where he was almost sure heâd seen Amalia, (though dressed like that, he wasnât sure it could be her) to the Keep, where heâd managed to find someone to take it in to sit with the others and make his way to the family quarters, where heâd been invited to await the leisure of the eveningâs Lady. Not that he thought she was taking anything with particular degrees of leisure of course.
Reaching the appointed door, which was open, he nevertheless knocked on the frame, clearing his throat softly. âYour Excellency, Lady Sophia, Lord Saemus.â he bowed cordially at the waist. The Viscount was more-or-less facing him, but the other two were turned away, and so he let the acknowledgement also serve as announcement of his presence. He was unsure how he would be received by the other members of Sophiaâs family, but heâd decided to do this properly, and so he would.
The Viscount and his family had either disagreed on a coordination of color, or they had simply preferred to dress on their own, for as a group they did not match very well at all. Marlowe himself wore dark grey trimmed in gold, with white stripes lining the sides of his dark pants as opposed to Lucien's red. Sleek black boots came up to knee height, and his hands were covered by short black leather gloves. His son was closer to the rear of the immediate room, dressed in a sapphire blue that matched his eyes. It was a rather flamboyant ensemble, his pants a crisp and clean white, his own boots a light tan in color. His black hair was slicked back away from his face quite symmetrically, framing a typically sulky expression. Either Saemus' own company had not yet arrived, or he had elected to avoid selecting a companion altogether.
The Viscount had been carefully adjusting the unusually thin crown of his office upon his bald head when Lucien entered. Sophia turned abruptly at the knock and smiled in greeting, but it was the Viscount who was first to speak. "Ah, Lucien, it is good to make your acquaintance. Sophia's told us nothing but good things about you; a lovely change of pace, I think." He strode forward to close the distance between them and offer his hand for a shake. Sophia made her way over to him as well, taking in the way he'd dressed with obvious approval. Saemus took in the sight of the man with a glimmer of recognition, clearly remembering the one time previous in which they'd encountered each other, on the Wounded Coast years ago, but otherwise left the greeting to his other family members.
"Before we begin this in earnest," the Viscount continued, "I'd like you to know that Sophia's told me everything, and though it took some convincing, she's won me over. If you wish to be of royal blood tonight, you may do so, but if you wish to be simply a mercenary from Lowtown, I would not object. Nor would I have any right to complain about my daughter's choice." The look in his eye, and the smile he gave, was very knowing. He had, after all, married a lowborn mercenary himself.
"A person's actions determine their worth in my eyes, not the social status of their parents. If it makes my daughter happy to have you at her side, then I say there's no finer choice in Kirkwall." Sophia moved to stand next to him, trying to have her smile be reassuring. The look in her eyes, however, conveyed that the issue of Lucien's birth was the only issue that she had informed her father of. Truly, she hadn't wanted to do anything to damage the mood he seemed to be in lately, as it had been quite some time since he'd seemed so adamant about anything. Worrying him about his daughter's safety at her own birthday party was not something she wanted.
Well. That was considerably more than heâd expected out of this, but he supposed it made some sense. Heâd done some looking, and knew a fair bit about this familyâs history, and they were less disposed than most to the proclivities of other nobles to remain very insular. Grasping the Viscountâs hand firmly, Lucien shook gladly, offering a gracious nod to Saemus as well. âMy sincere thanks, then,â he replied with audible relief. It was clear that Marlowe and Saemus did not know his actual reason for being here, but in the end, that didnât really matter. âIf I am to be thrown to the wolves today, I would much prefer to know that those at my back have no desire to share in the evisceration.â His tone was light, his smile slightly crookedâhe had a feeling the other two men would understand how he felt, both being used to (and likely weary of) such situations themselves. âIf it is all the same to you, I think I shall simply be a chevalier this evening.â He still had his commission, as his father had refused to strip him of it, and most of that knightly order were of noble birth, so it should be acceptable with a minimum of sensation.
Of course, even a minimum of sensation was bound to be quite a lot. Well, heâd deal with that as he must. He was not the most comfortable with these situations, but he wasnât without a certain amount of poise and social grace. It would be managed. If Kirkwallian nobility were a pack of wolves, Orlesian ones were a den of wyverns. Perhaps dragons.
Last of all, he turned to Sophia. The gentlemanâs imperative was to keep his eye where it belonged, and he did, but he wasnât blind. Brushing his fingers lightly along her palm, he brought her hand up and bowed over it, just barely grazing her knuckles with his lips. âYou are beautiful, my lady,â he said gravely, though a slight smile played over his face, âAnd you look quite exquisite, as well.â It was of course, traditional to pay a compliment of some kind, but he would not deny that the one he had chosen was specific. Simple, perhaps, but he had no wish to make his words empty, or gild a sentiment with too many decorations. Extending one arm, he offered it to Sophia, but waited for Marlowe to precede them from the room, as was his imperative as Viscount.
Sophia blushed madly, the fluttery feeling in her stomach arguing that this quite possibly wouldn't be as bad as she thought. She easily slid one arm under Lucien's, the other coming to gently rest somewhere on his forearm. The Viscount smiled with seemingly great amusement at how his daughter reacted to Lucien's compliment, and the touch of his lips on her fingers, which of course only made it worse. She'd received it countless times over from so many other men in Hightown, but it had been a long time indeed since the words had actually had any effect on her.
"Well," the Viscount offered, taking his lead in front of them, Saemus dutifully falling in behind, "shall we?"
She was just outside of her own quarters in the Keep, having prepared herself far earlier than was necessary, simply because she hadn't known what else to do with the time while she waited. She could hear the guests, undoubtedly half of Hightown, being ushered through the doors to the grand ballroom beyond. They undoubtedly would not stand the indignity of being patted down for weapons on their way in, and the guards were only confiscating visible weapons, while informing them that any kind of weapon bearing in the ballroom would be strictly forbidden. Sophia had heard that they'd already taken possession of several swords worn by noblemen, hoping to look more dashing when armed. Perhaps they thought to show Sophia that they too had no fear of battle. She had, after all, yet to announce any kind of plans for selecting a suitor.
It was one of the greater mysteries of the night. For all they knew, she would be arriving alone, as she seemingly preferred to do. No doubt the appearance of Lucien beside her would come as something of a shock to them. They likely wouldn't even know who he was, and Sophia had decided that any inquiries as to his identity would be his alone to answer how he saw fit. She knew who he really was, more than just his title, and why she wanted him next to her. That was all that mattered. If the nobles wanted more from him, they would have to pry it out of him. Sophia had no doubt that they would try.
Lucien would be permitted access to the family private quarters in order to meet with Sophia for their entrance together. Ashton and Nostariel would have to arrive with the other guests, where they woud likely be guided to a pair of seats at the round tables for the feast that was to open the night. She hoped they'd be seated fortunately next to, or at least near, some of the families that Sophia had requested they find at some point. It seemed unlikely that they'd be able to determine without a doubt if one or more of them were guilty of plotting to assassinate her and her father, but at least they would have a chance of discerning motives. Amalia would undoubtedly be able to enter among the other musicians, though Sophia had to admit she was wondering what the Qunari woman would wear, if she'd even make an attempt at dressing differently. Nostariel and Sophia had worked together a few days prior at getting her into something suitable, and Sophia had thought the Warden had looked quite stunning when they were done, but for Amalia she quite simply had no idea.
Sophia herself had dressed for the occasion, and managed to remove all traces of the ill effects from the nightmare spell. From head to toe she was garbed in crimson trimmed with gold, her dress leaving her shoulders and arms bare, the cut rather low across her back. The skirt flowed down to barely skim the floor as she walked. Her eyes were the only differing color, small pools of sapphire amidst the warm glow of her skin, offsetting the small ruby pendant that was draped around her neck. Her hair for the evening had been tied back in an elegant Orelsian braid that ran straight down her back to rest between her shoulder blades. While fashionable, it also served to keep her hair out of her face in the event that things became more hectic.
Not that she had much to defend herself with, anyway. She had a small knife sheathed on her right thigh, but reaching it under the skirts would be a bit of a challenge. If she had to defend herself, it would likely have to be with her ability in hand-to-hand combat, which was limited at best, especially in an outfit such as this. She told herself for the hundredth time that there was a chance that nothing would happen, that this would just be a night she and Lucien could spend awkwardly dodging nobles. Considering that that outcome was what Sophia was actually hoping for, the odds of her enjoying this birthday didn't seem too high.
Nostariel brushed her hand down the front of her dressâher gown, oh Maker what was she doing in a gown?âfor what must have been the umpteenth time, trying to ignore the fact that the calluses on her fingers caught a bit on the light silk of the garment. It looked fine, she was sure: though the seamstress had sniffed and fussed quite a bit over having to make a dress for a twiggy little elf, of all things, sheâd seemed to be good at her work, and honestly her demeanor seemed more irritable generally than particularly concerned about the shape of the Wardenâs ears. It had been a tedious set of hours, passed slightly easier due to Sophiaâs company, and by the end of it, sheâd been convinced that sheâd have to be folded and sewn into the garment. For all the tailorâs complaining about her thinness, she certainly hadnât left any fabric to spare on the bodice. Or maybe that was just this whalebone corset.
Who could wear things like this on a regular basis, anyway? Last Nostariel had checked, breathing was not optional. Apparently, it was also not fashionable. The Warden had done her own hair, braiding it up and around her crown and gathering the rest of the length in a pile on top, curling the ends with a steel rod she heated with magic. One of the girls in the Circle had invented this trick, and used to practice on the rest of them all the time. Of all the magic sheâd learned, sheâd never thought to have a use for this, but then, she was done assuming life wouldnât take her truly strange places.
Nostariel didnât have a lot of pride, but she was not going to be the waifish elven chit, the sore thumb that stuck out and didnât fit with the grace and elegance of the occasion. Sheâd even pestered (well, asked; she never had to pester) Lucien for a basic curriculum on etiquette and dancing, and she bet he was better at it than the rest of Kirkwall combined, plain armor and humility or no. Okay, so maybe she had some pride, but to her credit, it was mainly in her friends. She wasnât going to let them down. She contemplated darkening her eyelids with charcoal, but decided against it. She didnât want it getting in her eye at an inopportune moment. She felt no need to carry a weapon in particular, given her magic, but she wasnât the only one she had to think about, and so a knife was secreted on the inside of her left shin.
The gownâshe still wasnât used to that thoughtâwas, at her request, a deep shade of Warden blue, cast off her shoulders in a shallow boatneck. The sleeves were long, belled things, trimmed in glimmering silver. There were no gems or metals involved, but she had managed to locate some jewelry for the occasion: a modest silver locket and teardrop-shaped sapphires for her ears. She wasnât just going to hope nobody noticed their length. She had nothing to be ashamed of. A long coat covered the arrangement until she got to the Keepâshe had no wish to be mugged on her way out of Lowtown, after all. Other than the small package tucked under one elbow, she carried nothing. At the entrance, the package was taken to a long table by a servant, an elven man whose eyes widened with obvious shock to see one of his own kind among the guests. The coat, she shed and had to remind herself to hand off rather than hang up.
She was ushered to a spot surprisingly near the middle, at least once she confirmed that she was, in fact, Nostariel Turtega, the Warden captain. Theyâd looked fairly disbelieving at that, but she was unrelenting, producing an insignia to the effect, and eventually they led her to her spot. Well⊠at least nobody had called her knife-ear yet, though the number of odd looks she was getting was disconcerting. She had to remind herself that it could just be from the strangeness of it, and not any particular disdain, though she could feel the back of her neck burning anyway. She was really beginning to wish that sheâd been allowed to attend in armor.
A pair of hands descended gently upon her shoulders, and a lanky figure leaned over to whisper into her ear. "You, my pretty little Warden, are the single beautiful dove in a room full of strutting peacocks," Ashton said, reeling back and returning to his height, a light smile at his lips. Nostariel was, even more than he could have imagined, beautiful. Even despite the fact that she looked like she was absolutely about to crawl out of her skin and hide under the table. He then did an extravagant bow and took a seat next to her. Now he wasn't a hundred percent certain that the seat was his, considering he had been positioned a bit further down. Too far from Nostariel for his tastes. So he took the risk and swapped seats. Formality had always been a pain in the ass for him anyway.
Surprisingly, Ashton looked just as noble as anyone else in the room and not like he was raised in the wilderness by a wolf. No instead of the usual (finely) homespun fabrics and leathers, the only thing homemade he was was the antlered knife hidden in his boot. It was an outfit he wore exactly once, and its origins were still entirely unknown to him. Did he steal it, or did he buy it? Only Sparrow and himself knew, and they were too smashed to remember. He'd remember this time though. The svelte midnight blue suit was still as magnificent as the day he found it, the golden inlay sparkling in the light. The collar was of fine rabbit's fur, fluffled up for effect, and his pants were a deep burgandy color with a crease down the legs. Jet black boots finished the outfit with style. He even had his hair fixed, darkened with oil, slicked back and tied out of his face with a black ribbon. He looked like the noble he was born as. He even looked comfortable in it.
He was still Ashton of course, for all intents and purposes. He had entered the Keep as if he owned it, his step swelling with the swagger of someone vastly more important than himself. His back was straight as an arrow, looming the entirety of his substantial height and he kept his gaze swung forward with a self-important smile on his face. If he was to play the noble's game, then he was going to play it right. His words were formal and stilted when he needed to speak, taking a couple of cues from his encounters with Lucien. If someone accused him of not being part of the nobility, that someone would be accused of lying.
"You do look beautiful," he repeated, "We'll do fine. Maybe nothing'll happen and we can just enjoy ourselves." It was a hopeful thought. Maybe everything would go off without a hitch and they could spend the party mingling. He'd be lying if he said he didn't look forward to the prospect of playing nobility. Then his eyes shone with a spark of rememberance "Oh, right, before I forget," he said, reaching into his shirt and digging around for a minute. When his hand returned, it was clutching a wooden box which he explained with a wink, "I didn't want to crush it." He then opened it and revealed a blue morning glory flower. "For your hair, milady." he said with a smile.
Nostariel flushed a rather amusing shade of red, pursing her lips in an attempt to keep from smiling like a silly girl, and raised a brow. âWhy thank you, MessereâŠâ she plucked the embellished name card from the seat next to hers, that Ash now occupied. âLord DeLauncet.â Hm; must be one of the younger members of that family, to be stuck all the way down here. She lost her battle then, and grinned at him. âYouâre probably going to offend half of the room, you know,â she added, but she didnât bother to hide that she was glad to see him. A familiar face in this tide of nobility and privilege was a welcome sight, especially this particular familiar face.
The flower was a lovely thing, and she picked it up carefully between her index finger and thumb, brushing the other handâs little finger over the soft petals. âI do hope this wasnât stolen from the clinicâs garden, Messere.â Nevertheless, she tucked it into her hair, above one of her ears. There. It was almost easy to forget why they were supposed to be playing at nobility at all, really.
The musician that entered through the servantâs entrance was scarcely recognizable as Amalia at all. The Qunari woman had removed her hair from its usual braid, gathering it instead in a lustrous golden ponytail that still draped past her waist to mid-thigh, even pulled over her left shoulder as it was. Her clothing was rather simple by comparison to most of that present, though well-made, and loose enough to obscure the second skin of her armor: a dark green tunic with long sleeves, ebon breeches tucked neatly into well-shined mahogany boots which reached her knees. Over one shoulder, she wore a stylish half-length mantle in the style of bards everywhere, the gold cord at the neck of it its only real adornment. It and her hair did the job of hiding the pale scars just visible above her collar about as effectively as she could hope. All in all, she looked like any rakishly-charming Antivan troubadour, save perhaps the solemnity of her eyes. Her harp was slung across her back, and she carried a box on one hip, which she placed on the gift table near the musiciansâ setup.
A much larger item caught her eye, a curious flicker playing across her face when she noted that it was the same thing sheâd seen Lucien carrying earlier. She had no idea what it was, though if pressed, she might be able to give a general guess. Shaking her head minutely, she hopped up onto the stage in a single catlike bound, startling an already-nervous youth trying to tune his fiddle. Raising a brow, the Qunari quirked a lip coolly, inclining her head just slightly and taking one of the chairs, crossing her legs up and underneath her to begin the fine process of attenuating her own instrument, which, along with the six knives and twelve needles currently secreted about her person, had been recently polished to a shine, the fine golden wood reflecting the lights from the crystalline candle-holding chandelier above their heads. Sheâd already checked to make sure nobody was perched in it, but made a note to continue doing so throughout the night. If she were to sabotage the event, that would be one of the three most preferred locations from which to do so.
Lucien was not the kind of man who could wear faces that were not his own. He lacked the conceptual apparatus required for true subterfuge, and though he could keep his feelings from his face if he really needed to, it was a skill he rarely practiced, and his aptitude was limited. He was, however, more than a simple mercenary, however much he might desire otherwise. It had perhaps seldom been more bleedingly-obvious than it was right now. The embroidered tunic he wore was predominantly the deepest black in color, the intricately-wrought details in dark red the feature that saved it from appearing like mourning attire. It fit fashionably snug across the lines of his broad shoulders and chest, cutting a sharp, clean silhouette that spoke somehow of military discipline despite its elegance. The accompanying trousers matched, the red stripe carrying the theme through to the knee-height boots capping his shins. Heâd trimmed and neatly tailed his hair, and taken a straight-razor to his face, at least.
Though the fabrics themselves were impeccably-tailored to him, he was quite certain he hadnât felt this uncomfortable in years. The familiar weight of his armor was gone, and what small weapons heâd managed to tuck into his boots seemed hardly adequate to the task of protecting a lifeâor more than one, certainly. But he would do as he always had, and get along in whatever circumstances happened to present him with. Hefting the cloth-wrapped present, he handled it with surprising care all the way from Lowtown, where he was almost sure heâd seen Amalia, (though dressed like that, he wasnât sure it could be her) to the Keep, where heâd managed to find someone to take it in to sit with the others and make his way to the family quarters, where heâd been invited to await the leisure of the eveningâs Lady. Not that he thought she was taking anything with particular degrees of leisure of course.
Reaching the appointed door, which was open, he nevertheless knocked on the frame, clearing his throat softly. âYour Excellency, Lady Sophia, Lord Saemus.â he bowed cordially at the waist. The Viscount was more-or-less facing him, but the other two were turned away, and so he let the acknowledgement also serve as announcement of his presence. He was unsure how he would be received by the other members of Sophiaâs family, but heâd decided to do this properly, and so he would.
The Viscount and his family had either disagreed on a coordination of color, or they had simply preferred to dress on their own, for as a group they did not match very well at all. Marlowe himself wore dark grey trimmed in gold, with white stripes lining the sides of his dark pants as opposed to Lucien's red. Sleek black boots came up to knee height, and his hands were covered by short black leather gloves. His son was closer to the rear of the immediate room, dressed in a sapphire blue that matched his eyes. It was a rather flamboyant ensemble, his pants a crisp and clean white, his own boots a light tan in color. His black hair was slicked back away from his face quite symmetrically, framing a typically sulky expression. Either Saemus' own company had not yet arrived, or he had elected to avoid selecting a companion altogether.
The Viscount had been carefully adjusting the unusually thin crown of his office upon his bald head when Lucien entered. Sophia turned abruptly at the knock and smiled in greeting, but it was the Viscount who was first to speak. "Ah, Lucien, it is good to make your acquaintance. Sophia's told us nothing but good things about you; a lovely change of pace, I think." He strode forward to close the distance between them and offer his hand for a shake. Sophia made her way over to him as well, taking in the way he'd dressed with obvious approval. Saemus took in the sight of the man with a glimmer of recognition, clearly remembering the one time previous in which they'd encountered each other, on the Wounded Coast years ago, but otherwise left the greeting to his other family members.
"Before we begin this in earnest," the Viscount continued, "I'd like you to know that Sophia's told me everything, and though it took some convincing, she's won me over. If you wish to be of royal blood tonight, you may do so, but if you wish to be simply a mercenary from Lowtown, I would not object. Nor would I have any right to complain about my daughter's choice." The look in his eye, and the smile he gave, was very knowing. He had, after all, married a lowborn mercenary himself.
"A person's actions determine their worth in my eyes, not the social status of their parents. If it makes my daughter happy to have you at her side, then I say there's no finer choice in Kirkwall." Sophia moved to stand next to him, trying to have her smile be reassuring. The look in her eyes, however, conveyed that the issue of Lucien's birth was the only issue that she had informed her father of. Truly, she hadn't wanted to do anything to damage the mood he seemed to be in lately, as it had been quite some time since he'd seemed so adamant about anything. Worrying him about his daughter's safety at her own birthday party was not something she wanted.
Well. That was considerably more than heâd expected out of this, but he supposed it made some sense. Heâd done some looking, and knew a fair bit about this familyâs history, and they were less disposed than most to the proclivities of other nobles to remain very insular. Grasping the Viscountâs hand firmly, Lucien shook gladly, offering a gracious nod to Saemus as well. âMy sincere thanks, then,â he replied with audible relief. It was clear that Marlowe and Saemus did not know his actual reason for being here, but in the end, that didnât really matter. âIf I am to be thrown to the wolves today, I would much prefer to know that those at my back have no desire to share in the evisceration.â His tone was light, his smile slightly crookedâhe had a feeling the other two men would understand how he felt, both being used to (and likely weary of) such situations themselves. âIf it is all the same to you, I think I shall simply be a chevalier this evening.â He still had his commission, as his father had refused to strip him of it, and most of that knightly order were of noble birth, so it should be acceptable with a minimum of sensation.
Of course, even a minimum of sensation was bound to be quite a lot. Well, heâd deal with that as he must. He was not the most comfortable with these situations, but he wasnât without a certain amount of poise and social grace. It would be managed. If Kirkwallian nobility were a pack of wolves, Orlesian ones were a den of wyverns. Perhaps dragons.
Last of all, he turned to Sophia. The gentlemanâs imperative was to keep his eye where it belonged, and he did, but he wasnât blind. Brushing his fingers lightly along her palm, he brought her hand up and bowed over it, just barely grazing her knuckles with his lips. âYou are beautiful, my lady,â he said gravely, though a slight smile played over his face, âAnd you look quite exquisite, as well.â It was of course, traditional to pay a compliment of some kind, but he would not deny that the one he had chosen was specific. Simple, perhaps, but he had no wish to make his words empty, or gild a sentiment with too many decorations. Extending one arm, he offered it to Sophia, but waited for Marlowe to precede them from the room, as was his imperative as Viscount.
Sophia blushed madly, the fluttery feeling in her stomach arguing that this quite possibly wouldn't be as bad as she thought. She easily slid one arm under Lucien's, the other coming to gently rest somewhere on his forearm. The Viscount smiled with seemingly great amusement at how his daughter reacted to Lucien's compliment, and the touch of his lips on her fingers, which of course only made it worse. She'd received it countless times over from so many other men in Hightown, but it had been a long time indeed since the words had actually had any effect on her.
"Well," the Viscount offered, taking his lead in front of them, Saemus dutifully falling in behind, "shall we?"