|
           |
Great Hall — Ducal Palace
High and light colored are the walls of the Great Hall, woods of golden tones used in the wainscoting that reaches till mid-level, with elaborate ornaments of fish chasing each other carved into them. A great hearth governs one end of the hall, with a large shield looming above, showing the coat of arms of House Mereliot. With six tall windows on one side framed by long dark blue curtains of heavy brocade, the wall opposite has a line of a couple of shields of Eisandine Houses, placed at regular intervals, and the pair of impressive double doors, through which courtiers usually will enter. The floor is of polished cream colored marble, enhanced with white inlay work depicting the ever repeating pattern of Mereliot fish. Lighting is provided through the lamps at the walls and three large chandeliers suspended from the arched ceiling, polished glass beads glittering where they catch and magnify the light of candles.
The wedding ceremony had taken place earlier. Vows had been given and exchanged, at first before a priest of Elua, and then before a priestess of Naamah. The ceremony had taken place in the presence of members of the Mereliot family, and of course the Akkadian delegation, and besides, others eager to observe the exchange had been welcome to attend. Focus has shifted to the Great Hall in the Ducal Palace now, that the wedding festivities are about to commence.
Walls have been decorated with Mereliot colors predominant and the banner of House Shambarsin of Khebbel-im-Akkad. Light filters in through the windows, taking advantage of the long midsummer evening, but later, once dusk finally falls, the hall will be lit with candles and oil lamps.
One high table has been set up on the dais to the far side, reserved for members of House Mereliot and Shamabarsin alike. And more trestle tables have been arranged around a space left in the center, for the occasional entertainments and dancing to occur later.
The pair of bride and groom stands not too far from the entrance to the hall, ready to greet new arrivals and receive congratulations. Farah's gown is an interesting mixture of Akkadian tradition and d'Angeline style, with an outer layer of sheer fabric that has been adorned with golden flowers, and an inner layer of opaque olive-green silk that adds a certain propriety to the attire. Her arms look almost bare, were it not for the sheer long sleeves and the twining girlandes of flowers wrapping about them. Her dark hair has been done up, and a few gilded blooms worked into the do there catch the light occasionally. As she stands there beside Marco, Farah Shamabarsin de Mereliot looks almost a little relaxed, with the first, formal part of the day already having been dealt with. Even so, she makes sure to meet each congratulator with a smile and the courtesy that is to be expected of a Vicomtesse de Toulon.
Marco's own style is a fairly straightforward formal wear in lighter blue and yellows of Mereliot. He stands next to Farah smiling widely ear from ear occasionally leaning in murmuring to Farah perhaps a name or reassurance. Marco for once has taken careful work to his appearance with hair styled up and back. He occasionally reaches up adjusting the high collar of the suit. It's perhaps a sign that his suit was selected for him. His eyes though are bright and happy returning to Farah often.
Her arm threaded through that of an ebony-haired young man, Desarae makes her way into the Great Hall. She carries herself well, this young heiress of Chavaise, and the delicate lines of her face betray nothing of the emotions that might mark this day, in her opinion, for either good or ill. She's tightly-laced into a gorgeous confection of an ivory gown for this marriage of her cousin to the Akkadian niece of the Khalif; her bodice boned to nip her waist so her skirts flow in elegant folds to the floor. Her skirts glimmer as she walks, the fabric selected for it's having been woven with thread of gold, though the effect is subtle and does nothing to detract from the sparkle of her mother's tiara where it's nestled snugly within her dark locks. Likewise, diamonds glitter at her ears and her throat, and as the pair make their way deeper into the room, her arm tightens within her companion's. She tugs him just a little so that his head tilts her way, enough that she can quietly state, "I should go and offer my best wishes to my cousin and his bride. I won't be able to relax until that is done."
The Duchesse of Eisande filters into hall, with a number of her ladies following in her tow. Armandine Mereliot takes a moment to greet the newlyweds, placing a hand on Marco's arm for a moment. Her smile is warm, and so are her words. As she has attended the ceremony earlier, she is probably not offering congratulations, but instead making an appreciative comment on the attire of bride and groom. With her part said, she moves on to claim a place at the high table. But not without turning for a moment to give her niece Desarae a look, encouraging and perhaps reassuring.
Already seated at the table are most of the Akkadian delegation. Prince Adashir and Prince Fouzan are attired in finest silks, long tunics in colourful hue combined with wide trousers. Now and then Prince Fouzan's gaze is bound to drift. Catching the look of his daughter, the bride, a smile flashes briefly in his features. It will only a moment later, that this smile shifts a little in expression, as he looks over towards one of the tables where d'Angeline nobility has been seated.
Médard de Morhban may not be a common sight at this court. But he is present, wearing the black and purple of his house. The Baron of Bardenac is a man in his mid-forties, a handsome Kusheline, and he hasn't come on his own, but in company of a courtesan. The marque of Valerian adorns her back, and not all of it is on display, as she is wearing a dress of courtly fashion. Dark purple is the color of the gown, and the bodice has been tied to pronounce Fleur nó Morhban's waist. A woman in her early forties she is, and she lets her gaze drift over those that are arriving, while she shares a bit of murmured conversation with Lord Médard.
Raphael has come on the arm of a certain young dowager Vicomtesse. Given the profile of today's wedding and the location of the reception, he is in some of his finest clothes. In shades of midnight and azure, his clothes do not emphasize the salon to which he belongs. Plenty are aware of that even so.
Entering alongside the ever elegant figure of Desarae is a tall, athletic male with chin length ebony hair that has been neatly styled. Dressed to compliment his date Aeric wears a formal outfit of black with silver accents, serving as the night to the lady's daytime beauty. He moves with grace, serving as her arm candy with ease. A smile and a nod is given to Desarae as she speaks about offering her best wishes and he replies just as quietly. "Indeed. I would like to offer my congradulations to them both as well. Shall we?"
Farah offers a curtsey to the Duchesse, once she approaches. To Marco, she turns her head once Armandine has moved on, smiling faintly, as she replies to something he said, in a subdued tone. And there, a bit of nervousness returns as she spots Desarae and her escort. "Ah… over there… your cousin, Lady Desarae. She looks ever so perfectly beautiful…", Farah remarks towards Marco.
The young Lord Valliers shows up to the festivities with both a Heliotrope courtesan, Priscilla, and Lady Cerise D'Eresse. He's wearing an appropriately cut set of garments with a mix of green colors there that compliments the latter's choices, perhaps taking his cues from her. As they walk to find seating, he is talking with his Heliotrope companion. "I think maybe we might wait for the others," he recommends, seeing the length of the line and scoops up a few goblets while they wait.
Priscilla no Heliotrope's clad in a loose fitting, sleeveless dress of lavender, clasped at the shoulders with golden brooches, the older courtesan's completed marque just barely peeking out beneath the nape of her neck. She's on Yves' arm, laughing merrily as the pair make there way into the festivities, and happily taking the offered wine. "That might be for the best. Are you friends with the bride or groom, perchance? I've not been in the city long enough to meet even the Somervilles here, myself."
Clovis is a new face at court, and not the only Kusheline in attendance. He is in one of his more subdued moods today, and mingles in seamlessly with the crowd-dressed in black, in the traditional form with slashes in his sleeves to reveal the purple fabric underneath. His accessories include a signet ring bearing the raven emblem of his house, and a blonde, perfectly formed courtesan of the Lis d?Or. He scans the faces of the nobles present, and arches an eyebrow at one that he recognises—his kinsman, Medard de Morhban.
Marco turns at Armandine's arrival and he beams at her. He bows his head and murmurs back in appreciation. His eyes turning again to Farah warmly again and then back to those arriving smiling warmly. He follows Farah's gaze then and nods, "I think you are correct. Ah Desarae. Yes she seems to have settled in well. I'm sure she's concerned about every gaze thrown her way at an event such as this." HE says warmly turning his gaze towards Desarae and her escort a brow raising and amusement evident as his eyes considers warmly. He leans in to murmur something warmly again to Farah as they are approached and more greetings are provided.
Perhaps it is not Médard that catches that glance of Clovis. But the courtesan in his company does. Her eyes meet the gaze of the young Morhban, and she leans in to murmur something into Medard's ear. Even without recognizing a face, the Morhban colors are quite telling.
Raphael does not approach the newlywed couple, though he does cut icy eyes in their direction once as he listens to the conversation of the patron who invited him. He takes note, too, of the faces familiar and unfamiliar on display in the Great Hall today, set to their best advantage by the finery of a great wedding day. The pale eyes linger longest on those he does not recognize.
Desarae and Aeric cut through the crowds to where Farah and Marco stand and greet their guests. "Lord Cousin. Lady Farah." A curtsey is dipped. "It was a lovely ceremony, you must be pleased with how seamlessly everything went." She leans in, one hand placed upon her cousin Marco's arm so that a light kiss might be pressed to first his left cheek and then his right. "Congratulations, cousin. How lovely the pair of you look." Her tone is neutral, her words even, and having kissed her cousin her hand moves to claim one of Farah's hands with her own. "Welcome to the family, my lady. I look forward to getting to know you better. Have you met Lord Aeric Delaunay no Glycine?" Her head turns to encompass Aeric with the brilliance of a smile. "Aeric, this is my cousin, Lord Marco, and his wonderful new bride, the Lady Farah Shamabarsin, now also Mereliot."
"No, I don't think I've met either," Yves answers Priscilla, and turns his head to more deliberately consider the newlyweds, searching his memory. He hadn't remembered them from the names, but that didn't mean he wasn't obligated to show up for his family, or to be there in attendance with Cerise. "I feel like I might have seen one of them at one of the days of the companions, but I'm not terribly good at remembering faces," he is sharing quietly and glancing around over his goblet as he builds up a bulwark of alcohol to shield his nerves against the anxiety. "I can introduce you to um," he thinks, "Lady Seline, she's a Somerville, marrying my cousin," he says quietly in reminder. Taking another drink from his wine, he points out a few others he knows to his companions and shares names of people he recognizes.
Farah meets the address with an amiable smile. "Lady Desarae," she replies. "Thank you. Yes, the ceremony went well, it is handled so differently from what is the custom in Khebbel-im-Akkad. Which I didn't find to be a bad thing." She does grant Desarae her hand when the young Mereliot lady claims it. "And thank you, for welcoming me into your family.", Farah adds. But then something odd happens, and her eyes widen for a moment. Perhaps it was something Desarae said? Or was it the whisper shared just before, with her husband? "Monsieur Aeric Delaunay nó Glycine. No, I don't I believe we are acquainted. I am pleased though to make the acquaintance." This she adds, with her eyes looking from Desarae to Aeric.
Priscilla squeezes Yves' arm quite tightly, the far older woman doing her best to ensure her patron's comforted by her presence, hoping to ease the young man's anxiety. "I would adore meeting lady Seline. Though me and my Rene had many visitors to his estates, especially amongst his fellow Somervilles, I've not had the occasion to meet her, quite yet. Perhaps she'll have a few embarrassing tales to tell." laughing gently at that. "That's always such a treat. To find family members who have no compunctions about sharing embarrassing little stories of your beloved's younger years." sighing gently, head resting on Yves shoulder for a moment, as she watches the crowd, and takes note of the names of those pointed out.
Aeric bows politely as Desarae crtsies to the newlyweds. A warm smile is offered to Marco and Farah both and once Desarae has introduced him he inclines his head and speaks in a gentle tone. "Congradulations to you both. I hope you will be very happy together. Its a pleasure to meet you Lady Farah and a delight to see you once more Lord Marco." He smiles a bit playfully to Marco and takes not of Farah slightly widened gaze with a slight arch of his brow and a soft smile.
<FS3> Farah rolls Composure: Failure. (6 1 6 6 6 5 3)
Marco leans in and exchanges the kiss on the cheek with Des and he smiles, "Thank you cousin. And a pleasure to have you both here. I'm glad you were able to enjoy the ceremony. I didn't realize the two of you were acquainted. As for the events the Duchess and Farah did much of the work." He says glancing to Aeric for a moment and then back to Desarae, "But I hope the two of you are here to enjoy and celebrate. We have much of that to look forward to." His eyes twinkling brightly, "There will be some dancing and performances so I hope you are prepared."
Farah bites her lip, shaking her head a little at herself. "Please, enjoy yourself, Lady Desarae. Monsieur Aeric." She gives Marco a glance and then replies, "I have come across the Lady Desarae several times, here at the palace, but also during the events held for the Days of the Companions."
Of course, Clovis offers a slow smirk to the Valerian courtesan, which would then turn into a smile and a nod should the Baron de Bardenac look his way. Glancing at the newlyweds, he gauges the number of guests waiting to greet the hosts and reasons that he will have time for a little detour. He turns to his companion with the perfectly symmetrical features, and together they make their way towards the Baron at an indeliberate pace. When near, Clovis opens his arms and says, "Well, well, well. If it isn?t the Baron de Bardenac. Back from the sandy depths of Khebbel-im-Akkad, I see. How are you?" They may have only seen each other in passing, but Clovis is a lad prone to overly familiar greetings.
Interesting. The courtesan in Médard's company looks up when Clovis approaches and greets them. Before the baron can give a reply of his own, she is quick to respond, "His lordship, the baron, has been away from Khebbel-im-Akkad for at least fifteen years." Her eyes narrow a little as she takes in the appearance of the younger Morhban. "My Lord, I don't think we have been introduced yet to each other. I am Fleur nó Morhban."
"Come, Aeric. We must not monopolize the time of the newlyweds." Desarae says, tucking the hand that had briefly held Farah's back within the curve of her companion's arm. "I do believe that you promised me something rather special tonight, and I'm eager to watch you in the creation of it." Fingers drum lightly upon the courtesan's arm, and bright eyes turn back briefly to fall upon Farah and Marco. Her voice lowers to conspiratorial levels. "He has this spectacular ability to combine this drink of with that drink and la…. It is perfection… And now he is to do this for me. Perhaps you might ask him to create something for you." But apparently not right this instant, for she's already looking to move away to make room for those that follow, steering her companion towards the tables where refreshments are being both offered and prepared.
Medard has been mostly watching things considering the room and the Akkadian contingent and the d'Angeline. He stays mostly close to Fleur smiling though watching often the interactions with Farah amidst the wide variety of d'Angelines. He tilts his head leaning forward to listen to whatever it is Fleur murmurs to him. His head tilts then to Clovis head tilting as he considers the younger nobleman. "Hmm? Oh we've…" He trails off as Fleur speaks and his smile is cursorily pleasant but he has a faint tilt to his head as if measuring the younger man. He sits forward a hand resting against Fleur considering her response and then back to Clovis, "Lord Clovis isn't it? How is your family?" He asks mildly, "Marsilikos is quite the city isn't it? The Duchess has made established quite the hub here." He offers perhaps giving Clovis an alternate subject as his gaze settles on the man for a time before resuming his observation of the gala.
"This sounds intriguing," Farah replies to Desarae, and she offers Aeric another smile. Whatever had caused any awkwardness earlier, seems to be no longer of relevance. Her gaze follows Desarae and Aeric, as they find the places at the high table.
Now that everyone is more or less settled at one of the tables, servants are making the rounds, to make sure, everyone has the preferred beverage of choice. Platters with small appetizers are being brought, morsels of cheese, smoked ham and tiny little pastries filled with goat cheese.
It seems an expectant silence seems to settle on the gathering, when finally, Armandine Mereliot moves to stand from her seat. "I am pleased to welcome so many people here tonight, for our celebration of a special bond that has been sealed today," the duchesse begins. "And as this is the case, I am happy to see our guests from Khebbel-im-Akkad are here as well. Not only Prince Adashir, who negotiated this match, but also Prince Fouzan, father to Lady Farah. Please know that you are welcome at this court, your highnesses." There are some that applaud to this, and Armandine resumes her seat. No, she didn't intend to hold a long tiring speech tonight. And she notes the relief around her with a slightly amused smile.
Marco ahs at Farah's correction and he smiles, "Oh? Well she is a good sort to come across. I'm only sorry we have not been able to catch up as much of late." He looks clearly amused as Des's tone drops to conspiratorial and she moves off with her escort. He glances to Farah in amusement and accompanies her back to the tables to beam as he raises his wine glass as Armandine speaks.
Finally settled at the high table, Farah seems to relax a little. And still. Her fingers curl about the stem of the goblet as it is filled with red wine, her gaze watching a bit absently. When Armandine speaks, she looks up and then glances towards her father, curious whether he or his brother may offer some words in return.
It is during Armandine's small speech that a rather oafish man wearing a bold orange tunic matching the colors of neither familiy in attendance stumbles into the hall, his bronze skin and shaggy countenance marking him of obvious foreign descent. As the noble lady briefly commands the attention of the room, Alejandro slyly dodges any remaining welcome wagon to assume his place at the Mereliot table — a seat next to an elegant woman with white-blond hair having stood empty since the festivities began. She offers him a glance that shoots daggers made of hard ice as he approaches, a terse but quiet exchange conducted between them before the tardy man takes his seat.
Clovis takes a step back, and offers an apologetic bow to the more senior Medard. He takes Fleur?s comment without batting an eye, "We Kushelines are often at war, bound to our harsh lands. When someone breaks the mould, it gets talked about…" he pauses and lifts his chin slightly towards the Akkadian delegation, "It was just a rumour that I heard from my father. He's been well. Yes, I can't complain. The weather has certainly been a nice change." He then falls silent as Armandine speaks, turning to observe their host intently.
Fouzan and Adashir exchange a few murmured words. But apparently, it is Fouzan who finally decides to rise to his feet. The proud Akkadian prince is of a certain ripe handsomeness. He smiles as he looks towards the Duchesse of Eisande. "Your Grace," he begins, and his Akkadian accent is evident in his speech, even if he has no difficulty in finding the right words in d'Angeline. Which becomes clear as he continues. "Thank you for your warm welcome. I shall return this in kind. Farah…" His dark gaze finds the bride, but the smile remains. "Farah is special among my daughters. It may not be easy for me to let her go…" A pause, made for effect, clearly. "But… I feel that she can find her place here, in Terre d'Ange. How fortunate, that I could make it here in time, to attend the wedding." There. Another pause, and from his place, Fouzan looks once again towards Farah and Marco, as if he were gauging them from afar. "We have…", the prince continues after a moment, "of course brought a gift of our own. For tonight's entertainment, we wanted to present some of our land's culture, in showing two dances that are traditional to our way of life."
<FS3> Farah rolls Perception: Good Success. (4 1 6 5 7 4 7 1)
Raphael takes red wine, and sees himself served with food as well. His table manners are precisely what one should expect from a courtesan. And being that he is accompanying a noblewoman here tonight, his attention and banter are reserved mostly for this patron, and those who happen to sit nearby. Along with others, he looks up with interest at the announcement that they are to have foreign entertainment.
Even if her attention is focused upon her father, during his speech, Farah has noticed the belated arrival of yet another foreign looking Mereliot. A curious glance is given the man, and an even more curious look is given the reaction of the blonde Mereliot lady at the man's side. Farah leans in to Marco, perhaps to whisper some sort of question.
Alejandro rather quickly assesses the situation, despite his strained eyes and hungover brain. He had forgotten what the occasion was for and was involved, beyond the insistence that he and his wife attend. Wedding, yes. Mereliot groom, yes. He had probably seen Marco once or twice before, but it escapes his memory. The bride is another matter. As her father rises to speak, he surmises the Akkadian heritage quickly, a wry smile quirking hair-rimmed lips as he leans towards his spouse. "Another sheep amongst the wolves?" She does not react, already pretending the man is no longer there. But his eyes catch Farah's as they look his direction, if only for a moment, and a small — almost conciliatory — smile is offered before he respectfully turns his attention back to the standing speaker.
Fleur nó Morhban smiles towards Clovis, even as the younger man seems inclined to move on elsewhere. "Lord Clovis de Morhban. I am pleased to make your acquaintance," she says, inclining her head just so, but never lowering her gaze. "A rumor? Well. I do not doubt there are many rumors surrounding the baron."
Medard considers Clovis for a time an almost awkwardly long time before he admits, "Oh? Well one should always be considerate of what rumors they continue. But some Kushelines are bound more than others. As for war that often seems a choice. Not the choice that Elua would often have us make. As for the moulds. I never did much care for moulds breaking them or heeding them." He says and then he glances towards Fleur at her words and he smiles slightly as he considers her and then he focuses his attention on Armandine and then the Prince looking… thoughtful as he considers the man then Fleur and then finally Farah which finally draws a fuller smile.
It seems, Prince Fouzan has said his part, as he retakes his seat.
Entertainment has been announced, and it starts with musicians entering. It is a small group of instrumentalists, two carrying some foreign looking hand drums, and another three hold a variation of Akkadian string instruments in their hands, such as the tar, the oud and the benju. They settle down in one corner of the space in the center on some cushions that have been placed there. When they launch into a foreign melody, it does not take long, and a group of female dancers arrives. They are wearing long-sleeved silk tunics and wide shalvar pants. They launch into a traditional chain dance, and soon one of the dancers steps into the center, while the other dancers are circling her. Their arms move in wave-like motions, hands circling gracefully at the wrists. Then there is a shake of the shoulders, the torso, and they continue following the steps of the dance, with the woman in the center moving to the outer circle and another moving in for a solo performance.
Farah meets the gaze of Alejandro, and she catches that hint of a smile. Her own lips curve even further, and yet, her expression is a bit inquiring and curious. Leaning in to Marco, she whispers something back. But then there is music, and Farah cannot help but smile, fingers tapping lightly against the table in time with the drumbeats. A hint of a wistful smile plays on her features as she watches the dancers.
Alejandro watches the procession of musicians and dancers with a mild intrigue. He knows even less about their native culture than the d'Angeline's, and yet the distinct sounds of their instruments and motions of their body certainly capture his interest. As the singular dancer emerges to spiral and shake before the crowd, his mind cannot help but wander to a certain adept of La Glycine with whom he is intimately familiar…
Suddenly, there is a change of the overall mood in the music. Drums are beating at a more martially flavored pattern, as the Akkadian dancers do a last twirl, only to vanish and withdraw to the sides. Enter a group of four male Akkadians, wearing wide trousers and silken vests. Each of them is carrying a saber. They spill onto the space at the center and take their places, each positioned at one corner of an imaginary square. Now the dance begins, and two at the same time face off against each other; this is no sparring match but a dance that follows a particularly trained choreography. Steel touches against steel, strikes are not executed with much force, more as a means to provide a musical *CLING* in time with the music that accompanies them. When they are done, the four dancers form a line and bow deeply to the high table, before they head off to the side, and the music subsides.
Sitting with his companions, Yves is keeping up a quiet conversation right up until the music begins. Lifting his goblet, he drinks and stares at the dancers as they begin their performance. With curiosity plain on his face he watches with the attention of someone who is seeing something new for the first time. But when the chain dancers depart and the sword-dancers enter, he looks all the more intrigued and sits forward in his seat to watch with intense focus. "I suppose if you're going to dance, dancing with a sword is the way to do it," he remarks to someone at his table, perhaps not his companions, and looks on approving. "Some interesting ideas in their footwork."
Marco shifts in his seat closer to Farah as the speeches continue. He smiles seeming to enjoy his drink and the talk. He leans in and beams as the musicians begin in the Akkadian movements. His eyes watching in rapt fascination as first one set and then another. He grins as he says perhaps a bit louder towards Farah, "Do you think I should learn something like that?" He asks her playfully and he claps as the dancers continue beaming. "They are quite impressive." He says indicating the group of dancers in their silken vests Marco's tongue pressed to his teeth as he considers it and clapping loudly as they compete.
A glass of wine has made its way into Clovis' hands. He nods in reply, before the music begins and the performance occupies the bulk of their attention. He watches, his eyes going back periodically to the high table, considering each face that he encounters. The girl at his side is smiling and her form hums with energy—she gasps at the sword-dancers, and stands on her tippy-toes to watch, while Clovis crooks an arm behind his back and continues to sip from his glass.
"It is uncommon, isn't it, my lord," Raphael says, addressing Yves from a few seats down. "One wonders what should happen if a dancer misses his step." He punctuates with a granite smile and drinks from the red wine at his right hand.
Not everyone seems to approve of the martial display. Mereliot guards are watching intently, even if it is clear that the blades have dulled edges. Nonetheless. You don't see anyone but guards bringing arms to the chambers of the Ducal Palace, usually.
The Duchesse meanwhile watches and appears to be delighted with the performance. She is among those that applaud afterwards, and she offers Prince Fouzan and Prince Adashir a nod in thanks for the entertainment provided.
Alejandro would not be ashamed to admit he enjoyed the performance of the ladies over the quartet of armed skirmishers, a look of trepidation stilling his features until the exchange between the first pair climaxes in that melodious clink. He had always abhorred violence, especially after what it cost one of his brothers back home. Still, he quickly finds himself itching for a better conversational partner than his mute wife, and his eyes wander Farah's direction again. He must certainly introduce himself to this one, when the opportunity to mingle presents itself.
"They may have blunted the blades, but yes, it does seem something they would be wary of," Yves replies in agreement. "They're still moving fast enough they'd be in for a rough few weeks of healing if they missed a swing, I imagine!" he goes on and turns his attention to Raphael for a moment. "How have you been?" he asks conversationally. Turning his attention then to Cerise and Priscilla at his sides, he mentions, "This is Mssr. Raphael nó Rose Sauvage," in introduction since he believes they'd both still be unfamiliar. "Mssr. this is Lady Cerise D'Eresse, and Priscilla nó Heliotrope."
At Marco's question, Farah cannot help but giggle a bit. Her goblet is already empty and is just being refilled. A bit of rosiness clings to her cheeks. She watches the first set of dancers, and then at the second set, her eyes widen at the virile display of fierceness, even if it is just a dance. "My lord. Don't learn a dance like that, I would be so worried!", she tells him. Catching that glance of the other foreigner from the corner of her eye, Farah looks once again towards the other mixed Mereliot couple. Even so, she leans in to murmur into Marco's ear.
Marco looks pleased at Farah's giggle and he beams at her, "Oh? Should I learn how to dance like the first set then? I don't believe I have the figure for it." He says mildly watching and then looking out and amongst the crowd, "Shall we let everyone get up and mingle then?" He asks her considering the group and smiling everyone, "It's quite the collection." He says and then he grins at something she says nodding in response.
"And I thought the Menekhet had intriguing habits. If this is how they dance, then I can only imagine how they fuck." Cerise, ever the tactful, diplomatic, and artful weaver of words, flashes a toothsome smile to Yves and Priscilla as she carries on her gossip in low tones. Clad in her layered dress of stormy blues and greys, she has at least has the sense to accompany it with the less portentous twinkle of gold, suggestive of happy tidings over any rough seas for the newlywed couple.
Cerise inclines her head to the Second following Yves' greeting, and restrains her mouth long enough to muster a polite smile. "A pleasure, Monsieur. I hope the evening finds you well. In all your years have you ever seen anything quite so… precarious?" It takes her a long while to find a word as tactful as 'precarious'.
Raphael inclines his head at the introductions. "Very well, my lord, thank you." He makes eye contact with both the lady and the courtesan. His brows climb fractionally at Cerise's comment, but this is soon followed by a warmer smile. "I assure you, lady," he replies, "At the Salon de la Rose Sauvage, precarious positions are a specialty."
Prince Fouzan meets the nod of the Duchesse with a smile. With a quick gesture of his hand, he shoos the musicians off the space in the center, and then offers a nod in turn to Armandine, indicating that the stage is now for the d'Angeline musicians to take.
It is a group of four, consisting of lute, tambourine, fiddle and flute, who will soon provide the musical backdrop and temptation for those that like to dance themselves (but within the courtly traditions of Terre d'Ange).
Blushing slightly at the words of Cerise, Yves dips his head and then snorts a little in amusement at her initial banter with the Second. Raphael's reply earns him a polite nod of the head, though the mention of the disciplines of the salon earns another light laugh. Enjoying the exchange as someone listening in and managing to blush less than he had a month earlier with a similar exchange, showing some growth of late. "I think this next group looks like our countrymen?" he questions, glancing in their direction, his hands wrapping around his goblet again. "Lady Cerise, do you dance?" he asks.
Alejandro quirks a dusty brow as the tide shifts, and various attendants begin to spill into the space between the tables to join the revelry. He knows better than to ask Sofia to dance. Their own wedding party was the first, and last, time he would have that particular displeasure. But this is his chance! Rising, he slips from his place at the Mereliot table with undisguised relief, weaving his way along the outskirts of the impromptu stage to where Marco and Farah still sit and watch. "Señor Marco, Señora Farah," he pauses, rather pleased he conjured his memory of the bride's name at the last moment. "May I take this opportunity to introduce myself? I am Alejandro Velasco de Mereliot. And I must apologize for my absence from the ceremony…" And he gives a humble how, though his face never falls.
"Lord Alejandro," Farah greets back, inclining her head from where she is still seated. "You are here now, which is what counts, I assume." Despite the words, her voice sounds rather friendly and amiable. "It seems I am not the only foreign match of House Mereliot, my lord?"
Marco watches the arrival with curiosity and looks to Farah and her response. He smiles to Alejandro, "Lord Alejandro. We're just happy people could join us and hope everyone is enjoying themselves." He waves a hand lightly though he looks amused faintly, "Well… we are a friendly and welcoming house." He suggests brightly eyes flickering around, "Can't leave it all to the Morhban."
"Ah. You must be one of the fabled Thorns I hear about. You must forgive me. You hardly seem quite so prickly as your monicker suggests, so I failed to recognize your canon. But now that you mention it I can see it in you." Cerise lays a hand against her breastbone as if it were some sort of apology, and dips fractionally at the waist to Raphael, even while seated. "Though I've been wrong before. Sailors and Mandrakes have more in common than one might think, at first glance."
To Yves, Cerise dips her head agreeably, but she qualifies her assent with a brief whisper into his ear. Whatever was said is continued aloud, for the benefit of Priscilla as well. "… So I hope you won't hold it against me if I step on your toes. Priscilla here might be a better match for a traditional dance." Over her shoulder, she smiles to the Heliotrope.
"Oh?" Raphael replies to Cerise with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "You don't take me for a White Rose?" He drinks from his red wine. "I imagine Sailors and Mandrakes both grow up studying their knots. And each knows more than most about the cat o' nine tails." HIs tone is perfectly polite.
"Not at all," Alejandro responds quickly, the glowing Akkadian bride commanding his attention. "The reach of House Mereliot is vast, even into my humble Cabrera." To Marco's remarks he simply smiles, a respectful nod given in deference to the native d'Angeline. "And for that I am grateful. Please, do not let me take more of your time. I simply did not want the hour to pass before I could offer my congratulations." And he bows again as he retreats, though there is a lingering look given to Farah.
Continuing to enjoy the conversation between Cerise and Raphael, Yves looks positively amused, perhaps a touch in his drink to loosen him slightly. When the former turns to whisper to him, he smiles at her pointedly and leans back in to her to whisper back, making sure to include Priscilla in their exchanges. Turning his attention from the conversations to the musicians as the music starts and people start to dance, he glances at Priscilla to see how she is doing and gives her a smile before leaning against her for a moment.
"Oh, my lord. We truly appreciate them," Farah responds smoothly, but there is something genuine in the warmth of her look as it follows Alejandro. "I believe, I may wish to speak with Lord Alejandro sometime. I believe, he could have enlightening advice on how to avoid missteps. He isn't as new to this as I am, after all," she remarks lightly towards Marco. "But perhaps…", and here, Farah Shamabarsin de Mereliot lifts her gaze to look towards Marco. "Perhaps it is time for us to retire soon. It has been a long and taxing day." These latter words come out in not as discreet a whisper as the young Akkadian born lady may have wished. Two goblets of wine are already taking their toll on her grasp of subtleties.
"Hardly. I took you as a guest from Kusheth or Azzalle. Bless the Angels for pairing those two so close, else the Punisher's Scions would never have enough rope." Cerise has dutifully held back on her wine until now, but with the dancing begun she allows herself to indulge in a sip. "Your assessment is correct, but moreso, both are explorers who test the limits of their craft. I do wonder what distant horizons a man of your age has seen." A wry smile steals across her lips, and her gaze flicks to Yves when he whispers into her ear. As if in accusation, she looks back over her shoulder at Priscilla. A palm comes to settle on Yves' forearm.
Raphael casts his gaze once more across the room to the newlywed couple. Then his gaze comes back to Cerise on whom he settles another smile, though his narrowed eyes seem to be reappraising her. Favorably, perhaps. "It has been my pleasure to continue plotting the map," he replies, "Which will never be finished."
Marco smiles at Farah's words and he nods, "Of course. It's always enjoyable to get guidance from those who have walked such paths before." He smiles to Alejandro, "Well I look forward to hearing about what she is able to learn." He says to Alejandro warmly and then he begins to rise taking Farah's hand and he smiles, "A long but pleasant day to be remembered." He glances out over the area, "I do hope everyone enjoys themselves." He says though thoughtfully and he gestures for some staff to encourage the wine and alcohol pouring.
Farah moves to her feet as well, and she keeps her gaze lowered for a moment, as a hint of a blush begins to form in her cheeks. "I believe they are," she remarks towards Marco. "So it is that time that we may retire." They leave the table at an unhurried pace, not without stopping for a moment to offer bow and curtsey to Armandine, and then to the Akkadian dignitaries. Farah lets herself be guided out of the hall by Marco. Whereas servants in Mereliot livery will make sure to keep wine flowing, and the musicians will continue to strum merry jigs and gavottes, to encourage dancing.
Smiling a little at Cerise, Yves leans a shoulder into her for a moment and then simply settles in place. Turning his head slightly to look toward Priscilla, he spares the hand not captured by the noble woman to take another drink. Sipping at his wine, he leans over to whisper to the Heliotrope pointedly. Not seeming to mind that it's just the three of them conversing for a moment or two, he then leans forward to ask Raphael, "Monsieur, I've been meaning to ask at the salon, but if I might ask now, is there a way to learn a little about you know, controlling my uh, sharper touch? A little of what you do, without being one of you?"
Cerise grins from ear to ear at Raphael. "A worthy endeavor. Maybe I should visit Rose Sauvage and we can exchange knowledge. You might find some of my insights on navigating by celestial bodies to be useful, and I yours." Her pale brows lift when Yves addresses the Second of the Thorns, and she regards him with a moment's caution that she hastily tosses aside. "Ah. Maybe we can double up. Nothing like hands-on experience, no?" She sets her goblet aside and reaches back to squeeze Priscilla's hand, including her physically if not verbally.
"There are ways," Raphael allows in reply to Yves. "For example, you might find retired Thorns who would teach skills, much as…" He pauses in what he was about to say, "Much as retired courtesans from any house might teach their skills. That would be one way." He looks to Cerise and inclines his head. "You would be most welcome," he says. "And that, perhaps, would be another."
Separating his arm from Cerise's hand, Yves reaches out onto the table and plucks a strawberry first for Priscilla, one for Cerise and then one for himself. Licking his fingers he smiles at them both and then he leans in to the d'Eresse again. Looking past her towards Raphael, he is blushing only faintly and nods his head at the Second. "Perhaps," he agrees, nodding in thought of how that might go, he hadn't thought to actually learn that way, but learning by practicing without supervision seemed like a bad idea. "Are there many retired courtesans who might teach such a thing?" he asks.
Cerise eyes Yves cautiously, and flashes him a dangerous smile. Her hand leaves his arm so that she might nibble her strawberry, then take Yves' chin with her fingers so that she might impart the lingering flavor with a kiss. She tidies his hair, briefly, and then turns again to address Raphael while clearing her throat. "And which would you recommend? Surely you know of a rose in red who might be our compass, with you as the ever sharp needle pointing the way."
Raphael tilts his head at that question. "That I cannot say," he replies. "My concern is with active Thorns, not the retired. But I believe you must be clever enough to find out." He looks to Cerise, lifting his glass a bit though he does not drink just yet. "Naturally I would always recommend my own expertise," he replies, eyes sharpening perceptibly. "We have several highly suitable Red compass Roses, of course."
For his part, Yves smiles at the kiss and manages to only blush about one tenth as much as he would have a few weeks earlier for a much lesser event in a lesser place. But he still manages to look a little awkward and the smile twists into a look of consideration at the words from the thorn. "I see, something to be discussed I suppose," he decides and looks at Cerise for a moment like he's thinking about the idea to its full limits. "I believe we might make our exit soon," he asides, inquiring how the other two feel. He'd been to the event, his dues had been managed, but he isn't trying to rush them either.
Wrapping her arm around Yves' closest, Priscilla presses a gentle kiss to the man's cheek, and nuzzles against it for just a moment longer than may be proper, in a public setting, living up to her canon's reputation. "I am ready to depart when you are, my love. And of course, when Lady Cerise is, as well." The heliotrope intertwines her fingers with Yves, palm to palm, holding his hand. "Raphael. It has been a pleasure. I've a matter of my own I might wish to discuss with you sometime, so I will make sure to stop by the Salon another night. And while I've not much experience with the sharper pleasures in life, given how rarely those who seek out my canon would ever desire to inflict them upon me, I can at least recommend some texts on the matter, if those might ever be of service. I've at least a few in my personal collection, though I'm afraid they've collected a rather large amount of dust over the years." chuckling warmly at that, then sighing as she looks about the beauty of the palace.
"Your expertise is the only one I am interested in, though I'm sure there are a good many fine courtesans who have retired. Even among those who keep their tools and skills honed, I fear that retirement signals a dwindling passion for the art. If Yves prefers a retired Thorn you and I may have to arrange something together." Cerise looks meaningfully to Yves and raises an eyebrow, but then inclines her head when the man suggests they depart. Gingerly, she disentangles herself from the trio of held hands and fleeting embraces, and smooths her hands down her layered skirt. Politely enough, she curtseys to Raphael, though it looks rough — as though she never properly learned how. "Monsieur. It is my hope that we will meet again soon."
Cerise turns back for Yves and Priscilla, ready to take the side opposite the *other* blonde who is Yves' date.
"Please do," Raphael invites Priscilla. "Or, if it is a matter for discussion, you may like to come by daylight when I would have the time to receive you more comfortably." And to Cerise, another precise nod. "Then I must look forward to our next meeting," he replies. "Farewell."
"I wasn't opposed to the idea, I just wasn't sure how he felt about teaching in that manner, and it was his first suggestion that I might look in to someone who was retired," Yves privately asides to Cerise when she suggests that he wasn't going to consider the matter with Monsieur Raphael, though his volume is enough for the Second to hear his thoughts on the matter. On the other hand, now with Priscilla kissing and hugging to his side, he his head to smile at her and rises to his feet smoothly with them both. Letting go of Cerise so that she can chase over to the other side of the Heliotrope. "A pleasure again, mssr," he agrees with the sentiments of his companions and starts to make his way from the Great Hall with the others.