open rp post

[troubleyan]

🏹 texts/epistolary 🏹 prompts 🏹 ota*

* pssst if we've threaded together on bakerstreet, consider this an open invite

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♛ Halamshiral ♛

[firstbornstorm]

Halamshiral. The Winter Palace. Place certainly looked large enough, but he'd seen bigger fortresses on the other side of the world. And these Orlesians, baby snakes playing in a pit; they were infants when compared to the politics of King's Landing or Mereen. Still, it was dangerous enough over here to get you killed, if you didn't play the game or watch your back.

Fucking bullshit, every single bit of it.

Even so, it was child's play to slip away from the Inquisitor's party and stash their weapons in a safe place, because no one was going to go into this cesspit without something sharp or projectile within relatively easy reach. He'd learned how to blend and move with the crowd; even the Inquisition's blazingly loud uniform didn't deter his skills, and when he did garner a second look, a crooked smile, a smooth compliment, and the occasional kiss to a hand left only fluttering heartbeats in his wake.

Daemon did refrain from parading out into the ballroom with the rest of Evelyn's escort when she was introduced to the Empress; the fewer who took note of him, the better. Which left him free to drift and listen, pretending to sip from the goblet thrust into his hand by an elven servitor. Every so often he'd catch one of his companions' eye, but he studiously ignored whatever order they might try to impart. He knew his job; he didn't need to be managed like some idiot waif.

Yet an imp of mischief prompted him to weave through the crowd until he approached the Inquisitor from behind, pausing just enough to murmur at her ear, "Quite a party, isn't it?"

[troubleyan]

Standing in the Winter Palace, dressed in what is essentially cleverly disguised armour passing as a military uniform, Evelyn has never felt so naked. It helps, however, that she is not without protection, although her group of Inquisition members attending is quite unusual.

She doesn't like that Josephine was right, that bringing Vivienne and Blackwall and Daemon was the right thing to do, because Orlesian nobility expects nothing but the scum of the earth to be part of the Inquisition, and here she comes parading all her exemplary humans. Blackwall and Vivienne, for how much they fucking despise each other, are playing along nicely - each stationed where they must be, keeping a keen eye out for everyone attending the ball. Daemon, who has the gift of slipping around unnoticed, is thankfully good at his job, which is more than Evelyn can say about herself.

She should be here working out how to save the Empress from assassination, not trying to recruit new spies for the Inquisition among her court, not seething from the private conversations with Brialla or Gaspard.

She is standing on the edge of a private balcony, leaning against the railing, and trying to figure out her next course of action when there's a sudden presence behind her.

"Andraste's tits," she yelps, in surprise, and then hisses. "Dammit, you caught me by complete surprise."

She turns towards Daemon, taking in the way the red uniform looks on him, trying to keep down the sudden desire to run her hands over his shoulders and play with the epaulettes. He is handsome, and - "Is that my ribbon holding your hair tied back? What scandal."

[firstbornstorm]

He grinned at her, swallowing a chuckle, then lifted his chin slightly, preening under her gaze. Oh, he knew he looked good; the scarlet and gold uniform fit him like a second skin, exactly as he'd insisted. Though it had come to blows between him and Qotho during the fitting; his second and best friend had found no end of amusement and entertainment watching his khal stand in the middle of the room and be wrapped in such ridiculous garb. It hadn't helped that the damned Herald of Andraste had been sitting beside the Dothraki bloodrider trying to stifle her chuckles and failing miserably.

The entire interlude had ended in true Dothraki fashion: with Daemon and Qotho rolling about amid the pincushions, loose fabric, and overturned furniture trying their hardest to pummel each other comatose. Thankfully Josephine had managed to intervene before any lasting damage had been done, save, perhaps, to the poor tailor's heart (the man had had to go for a stiff drink and a lie down afterwards, to calm his scattered nerves).

But the end result was worth it; his uniform jacket held enough hidden weapons that it was a miracle he didn't clank when he walked. Because no way in hell was he going to set even a foot into this crowd without at least five small knives. The rest were stored away with their armor, hidden safely out of sight.

And the rogue did snort an involuntary laugh at Evelyn's comment, giving his ponytail a saucy flip. "Thought it might save me time and these poor, desolate gals a bit of embarrassment," he teased, stepping up beside her to lean his arms on the balustrade. A derisive noise followed. "I have better things to do than say 'no' to every noblewoman who jiggles in my direction."

sob - I'm sorry for the delayyyy

[troubleyan]

"Not every noblewoman," she jokes back, seeking out some comfort in the quiet way she gets to nudge her shoulder against his.

She is technically nobility, of course he knows this. But she still wants to find some of those jiggly women and glare at them - please, as if she has any ownership over Daemon. Or rather, as if she has a right to be possessive.

"Here I was going to ask if you'd come to ask me to dance."

She nods towards the courtyard directly below them, where the guests of this ball conspire in broad nightlight, trading gossips and barbs.

"I caught wind of the Empress hiding something in her quarters. Do you think we can discreetly make out way there?"