Oh, if only Josephine had known what an interesting night they would be having.
The party was fascinating. The masks were mildly unsettling. The whispers about her being Dalish, though, made her want to Chain Lightning those damned shemlen nobles out of Thedas. A strong hand on her shoulder made Lavellan swing around but it was The Iron Bull standing there, not the enemy.
"Let 'em talk, Boss. Orlesians live for gossip and bullshit." He said reassuringly. Lavellan shrugged and conceded with a hand motion. Bull passed her a glass of something that smelled of fruit and Embrium, but tasted so dry.
"You're right, Bull." She said, taking a measured breath and then another swig of the Orlesian Wine. Luckily, she did not wear a dress. Unluckily, she was wearing some awful suit that all advisors and her team wore as well. Wine, though, made it easier.
Then came the weird part where everyone was named- Nightingale, Former Knight-Commander, yadda yadda... and then... "...Mai Balzytch of Kourse..."
Lavellan snorted and tried to hide her amusement, glancing around for a furiously giggling Sera, then over at an absolutely mortified Josephine.
"...her elven man-servant..." Lavellan looked at Solas, his face void of any definable emotion. Biting back her laugh was so hard and she made a mental note to talk to the apostate about that later. Oh, racism.
The night continued at a fairly slow creep. Lavellan slipped around, speaking with her people, playing The Game with the nobility as if she had played it her entire life. She danced with Duchess Florianne- and from the reception of said dance, Lavellan figured it had to be decently impressive.
She did get chastised by some Orlesian noble for jumping over a table, though. Apparently Orlesians did not take well to not trodding like their pretty shoes were semi-stuck in mud.
Her advisors and team seemed oddly comfortable. Leliana just wanted to chat about shoes. Of all things. She met Josephine's sister, a girl with wild eyes and a dress, who looked like Josephine but with impulse written all over her. Sera was keeping an ear on the servants. Bull was drunk. Already. And had found himself a few admirers who definitely wanted to bed the Qunari.
She could not find Cole. Possibly for the best, all things considered. She did hope he wasn't too uncomfortable.
A drunken Solas leaned against a wall, watching everything intently. Far more comfortable than she ever would have imagined. She only knew he was drunk due to his informing her as such. He knew she was drunk because of her ridiculous grin and the glass in her hand.
Coming upon Cullen made Lavellan start giggling furiously again. He looked so collected in the face of danger and death but for the love of Mythal, no one should throw that poor man to the sharks as they did. The shemlen looked terrified, yet his admirers seemed ignorant to his discomfort. He was fending off requests to dance and marriage requests furiously- as well as declining any drinks being handed to him. Probably not a terrible idea. She slipped through his small crowd fluidly, leaning against the man with a playful grin. He jumped, muscles tensing, before relaxing as he looked down to see a silver braid.
"Care to dance, Commander?" Lavellan asked.
"No." The answer was so quick and so forceful that Lavellan stopped short, muttering an apology. Embarrassed, the man backtracked. "Not- oh, Maker- I didn't mean..." He sighed. "It's nearly a default answer."
"You are particularly popular, aren't you, Commander?" Lavellan teased. "Even in this awful suit, they all surround you. You sure you wouldn't care for a dance? You are the one who taught me, technically."
Cullen dragged a hand through his hair. "I'm not too sure, Inquisitor." He said, but a smile curled his lips nonetheless.
The night stopped droning on so horribly long somewhere between the murder of elvhen servants, Briala and her spies, and the attempted assassination. Lavellan got the adventure of "defending the Empress and killing shit while drunk", which had to be some sort of an achievement. She helped set Briala up to pull some strings with Empress Celene, solidifying a chance for stepping closer to equality between elves and humans. In Orlais, at least. Maybe even reuniting a couple. And meeting Morrigan- that shemlen was intense, wild... knowledgeable. And stunning.
And then she stained up her shoes.
The Orlesians loved it all, and loved her by the end of the evening. Casual racism still abound, naturally. She was passed around for dances with nobles throughout the remainder of the evening, many offering drinks she had never heard of. One Nobleman offered Antivan Sip Sip- and Josephine nearly fainted before snatching it from the Inquisitor, hissing "no!" furiously.
Imported Dwarven ale tasted like piss, and Lavellan steered clear after a swig offered by a chortling Iron Bull.
The night began to wind down, the servants who weren't murdered slowly beginning to clean up. Lavellan's world was spinning but she felt great after the adventure and all the drinks. She wandered out on to a balcony, watching the night sky, when footsteps behind her made her spin around, anchor flaring to life in one hand and veilfire spitting in the other. As she saw Cullen, she relaxed.
"Hello, Commander." Lavellan said with a smile.
"Inquisitor." He nodded, then held his hand out. "Would you, er... like t-to, uhm, dance?"
A smile. "Only if I can take these shoes off for it."
"Of course, My Lady." Cullen said with a mock bow. Lavellan peeled her shoes and socks off, laughing, before grasping the shemlen, staring up at him with eyes glazed with alcohol. She still moved fluidly though, body against his, hyperaware of how he felt without the armor. He was sturdy and just as warm, and she found herself wondering what he tasted like.
He dipped her, and she squeaked in surprise but kept her composure. As their dance ended, Lavellan wrapped her arms around the Commander's neck, their faces mere inches apart.
"Inqui- Lavellan..." His voice held a warning that Lavellan desperately wanted to ignore as the gap between them closed and then she was kissing him. The alcohol made her less nervous, less worried. He tasted faintly of ale- he must have had a bit to drink after all- and a little of just... himself. His arms held her hips, and a small whimper escaped her throat.
"Maker's breath..." He said as they parted, hands still holding her. She bit her lower lip, meeting his stare.
"-she should be right over here, My Lady, I-" A hurried voice interrupted the couple, both heads swinging in the direction of the noise. A servant looked hurried, Celene striding behind him. Lavellan narrowed her eyes, anchor burning, as it had a tendency to do when she was stressed. Cullen heaved a sigh. Couldn't even have a moment.
Celene quickly started to drone on about Orlais' next steps and their solidified alliance with the Inquisition. Lavellan listened... or tried to. She wondered if a hangover would greet her in the morning.