[open] Satinalia/Hand Your Life To Me

[venenifer]

WHO: Riftwatch
WHAT: the greatest Satinalia surprise of all
WHEN: During the party.
WHERE: The Gallows' central tower top floor and Templar tower dining hall/kitchens.
NOTES: A smattering of violence and mayhem, but easy enough to opt out should you not wish to participate! Feel free to create regular party top levels if that's what you'd prefer, as the interruption will be fairly short in the grand scheme of things.

Satinalia has arrived, and with it a bitter rain which threatens to dampen any attempts at outdoor revelry. However, the staffed dining hall in the Templar tower is decked out with festive tapestries and garlands, extra candelabra to offer more light to the large stone room, and a feast appropriate for any celebration. Kegs of ale and wine sit at the end of the food table with an assortment of bottled spirits, carafes of tea and coffee, and at least one variety of juice made from the fruit of a northern region, just for the novelty of it.

The night’s music is largely provided by Riftwatch’s own, with enough variety of musicians among the ranks that they’re able to swap in and out at will, do some dancing and drinking, and return to the fun.

It’s LATE EVENING when the first revelers attempt to trickle off to their beds, but find their efforts discouraged by the entryway’s unwillingness to budge. It would seem that it’s been barred from the other side; it will also quickly become apparent to anyone who tries the door to the kitchens that it is equally compromised, much to the confusion of any kitchen staff currently in the dining hall.

Before too long, a voice begins to speak over the open network, echoing strangely from each individual crystal in the room:


This is the promise we make in her name. We lead by example, untempered by the words of heretics. We fall to pave the way for the Maker’s paradise.

As was blessed Andraste in her time, we must be cleansed in fire. The world must move forward, ever forward, and to do this it must end.

We must all end.

Comments

EARLIER, DIV HEAD OFFICES (locked to Edgard & any div heads present)

[venenifer]

The top floor of the central tower is quiet, with much of the day’s activity having moved downstairs. Anyone working late, however, will hear the sound of brisk footsteps going through the corridor, followed by the creak of opening doors and the tinkle of glass.

If unfortunate enough to be inside one of the offices, they will need to be quick on their feet: a mist rises from within the smashed vial, which immediately begins to manifest adverse physical reactions, such as increased heart rate, darkening of vision, and a closing of the throat. If they don’t escape immediately, anyone in the room will die.
Walking into the closed room after the fact will be similarly risky.

I don't have a designated person to save him, so someone help him or he'll die xoxo

[bouchonne]

Byerly is indeed quick on his feet. But it's Satinalia. Being totally sober on Satinalia is an affront to the Maker. So even though Byerly is back at work now, that doesn't mean he didn't duck down earlier and do shots at the party.

So his reflexes are slow. He hears the smash of glass, but it takes a long moment for him to realize that the sound is out of place. His head comes around, he blinks -

And then fear rises within him. Almost enough to sober him up. He stands, steps forward, fishes a handkerchief from his pocket to clamp over his nose and mouth - but it's not enough. He's too far from the door.

[muckspout]

Edgard is in the hall running and skids to a stop when he hears the smash of a glass. He's sober more or less (everybody has a drink or two at Satinalia), but he took the opportunity of the party to do a little investigating.

He grabs the door and swings it open.

"Grenade?!" He shrieks and then sees Byerly too far from the door and the weird mist. He curses loudly in Orlesian and then runs inside. His vision immediately blurs, but he manages to roughly grab the man. His chest feels like it will burst.

He's two steps from the open door when his vision starts to darken even more. He uses his entire weight to shove Byerly out the door while he falls to the ground just inside.

LATE EVENING, KITCHEN. concurrent with party log (locked to plot participants)

[venenifer]

The kitchen is dark, its inhabitants prone. One figure stands before the door, lit from the sending crystal held in front of his face, as well as an eerily flickering red light from within his robes. A black leather mask pulled over his mouth and nose to protect him from what lingers of the poison in the air.
He’s just finished speaking when he realizes he’s not alone. He turns to lock eyes with the intruder, his own gaze glittering with fervor.

Then, he reaches for the door, a hand ducking into his robe.

[nonvenomous]

Dick already has a dagger in one hand, the other crushing a rag over his nose and mouth. Still, the glow of his own crystal peeks faint through the rings on his fingers.

Rag aside, he’s shorn and dressed for the party: waistcoat, coat, and cape layered in shades of black and brocade -- dashing as any fox decked out at a costume party for dogs could hope to be. His mask is missing.

They lock eyes. If he was considering conversation, whatever he sees there is enough to perish the thought.

He flings the dagger instead, full force from the shoulder, and says into his crystal:

“He's in the kitchen.”

[venenifer]

The dagger finds its home with deadly aim, hitting Gideon full in the chest with the sickening sound of blade penetrating flesh and bone. He stumbles and collapses against the door, gripping at the jamb to hold himself up, never once breaking eye contact with Dick.

His other hand, still in his robe, flings out its contents: an Antivan fire grenade, which explodes at Dick's feet, further ignited by the lingering chemicals in the air.

Late Evening, Mage Tower Dining Hall (CLOSED FOR NOW TO MYRON)

[helpinghidinghaunting]

Something is wrong.

Something has BEEN wrong, and Cole has felt it, but he's tried to squash it down for now. Being a person means staying where you belong, it means not scaring people, it means trying to participate and be social. Satinalia was a fun concept, an excuse to give, something to focus on...but now that it's time to celebrate, Cole can't calm, the caustic caution courting his conscience.

So he foregoes the party, wandering unseen, wringing his hands...until he finds himself in the near-empty dining hall in the Mage Tower, fixing pale blue eyes on who is, for the moment, the sole inhabitant taking his dinner.

Someone who had been Down There.

Chewing his lip for a moment, he draws in a shaky breath...then, in a blink, he appears across the table from the newly-minted member of Riftwatch, expression strained, letting all notions of being off-putting slip away for the moment.

"You were in the dungeons," he rasps, suddenly, with no preamble at all. "I need your help."

[vangelis]

The jovial Satinalia affairs in the adjacent tower were not for him - less so in that he wasn't welcome (though certainly despite the paperwork being all official there would no doubt be a chance of some members of Riftwatch feeling otherwise) and more so in that there were other reasons why he'd rather enjoy the holiday in quiet solitude.

This was, however, not going to be an option apparently. While not one to panic at being startled, Myron is not free of a twitch of the nerves at the alarm of someone appearing from nothing across from him, causing the bit of cheese in his grip to fall to his plate and his jaw to tense. After a moment to process the young man's sudden appearance, he looks up at him and sips at his wine with no pretense of hiding his agitation.

"I'm busy." He picks back up the cheese he'd dropped and pops it into his mouth.

"You're better off finding someone on guard duty, unless you're planning on causing trouble down there," he says, washing down his food with another drink of his wine. "In which case, don't. Either way, I'm not interested."

[helpinghidinghaunting]

Unfortunately for Myron, Cole isn't so easily dissuaded by irritation and arch tones - not when it's important, not when he can feel a faltering fright flashing from further afield. He stays right where he is, leaning forward a little, the corners of his lips trembling with stress.

The man in front of him has a lot of hurt, too. It's already needling him, paint running down canvas, bright and obtrusive.

Focus, Cole.

"But - I think someone is in trouble down there," he hisses, placing a hand on the table and leaning in. "Did you hear anything? Anyone? Something strange?"

satinalia celebrations, open.

[elegiaque]

Most years, Gwenaëlle skips as many of the revels and celebrations that she has the opportunity to attend as she can feasibly get away with, and frankly Satinalia this year would not even be a particular challenge to get out of. She's already spent most of the day dancing attendance on her grandfather, overseeing an elaborate lunch at the estate made to all of his specific preferences and bullying her younger cousins into participating in several extremely stupid seasonally traditional Orlesian games.

It is as near to wholesome as it's physically possible for her to get, so after dinner she digs out her old elven empress costume, sits impatiently while a maid dresses an emerald tiara into her hair and (with a sigh) fastens in place the elaborate matching earrings-and-cuffs that extend her ears into elaborate filigreed points, and puts on what's left of the rest of it. The hoops and sheer skirts were lost to chaos in Nevarra, but she still has the diaphanously-sleeved bodice in Vauquelin green, its corset cinching an already improbable waist improbably smaller, and the ruffled knickers (in the same shade) that connect from beneath with frilly garters stitched in place to thigh-high, fawn-supple cream leather boots printed with ribbons as if they're stockings.

She is definitely, when she arrives fashionably late, already a little bit drunk. But she's also brought a case of wine from Hightown with her, and the willingness to figuratively let her hair down in company for once. Probably not literally; this took nearly two and a half hours to achieve.

[wearyallalone]

No single person has ever looked at Vanya Orlov and thought ah, there is a man who enjoys parties.

That said, he is present, in his nicest shirt, vest and trousers, and not visibly armed. By the time she arrives, he is not drunk in any noticeable way, though he is sipping a glass of spiced wine. He also makes an effort to smile and generally look like a man who is enjoying himself, if quietly from the edge of the room. Enjoying the music, at least, is something he doesn't need to fake. He listens to it with pleased attention, even if he's so far not joined in the dancing.

[elegiaque]

“Well, well, well,” Gwenaëlle is likewise not visibly armed, and there are fewer places on her person right now where she could feasibly be hiding a weapon but that may not actually be any especial comfort when Vanya next glances down toward his elbow and finds her at it. “Don't we look like we'd be a lot more comfortable standing in the doorway with a sword.”

[armd]

Well it's very... fancy.

Abby actually raises an eyebrow at her over her wine glass as she sidles on up. Hopefully not too near. She should be careful to leave space between them for... all of the ruffles.

"Shit," she says, deeply amused, "I didn't know we were supposed to dress up. Would have worn my lace and ribbons otherwise."

[elegiaque]

The ruffles, gently framing Gwenaëlle's half-exposed arse, are a delicate, light-weight fabric cut precisely and gathered so close that—to be fair, there are probably people present who would like there to be significantly more ruffle involved in this costume than there is. If Abby can get close enough to impinge on the dignity of the ruffles (such as it is), Margaery may get the wrong impression about which half of their femmes fatale arrangement she's most interested in.

“Well, it would be convincingly out of character,” she says, amused, casting a glance up as Abby joins her. “I can't picture it, somehow.”

late evening (cw: panic attack, traumatic flashbacks)

[molineux]

I. ELLIE & HOLDEN.

It's a strange thing, how quickly air can tip from swiftly light to something painfully slow and sticky like molasses. It's a sensation she's haunted by every so often, feeling the air go out of a room in one agonizing moment before her lungs ache and Margaery realizes she's simply forgetting to breathe, that all of her, down to her very base impulses, is being held captive by memories.

But she's learned to make her peace with it, much like the brilliantly green shard that still startles her awake if her wrap shifts during the night.

When the threat of death looms at Satinalia, it comes the same way it did before. Slow, the way doom tends to be when it crawls towards the realm of immediate possibility. Her laughter disappears first, and then her smile, face turning even paler than the ivory mask she wears. Her heart begins to pound in her ears, immediate, cramming nervous energy into her limbs -

Cleansed in fire, drawn out in her mind as her wine glass falls from her hand, and Margaery barely notices, barely hears, her fingers still shaking in the gesture of holding a cup as she turns to find the nearest exit amidst the growing confusion.

II. GWEN & LOXLEY.

Being outside helps.

Margaery isn't sure when her mask came off, but she's thankful for the chill in the air that cuts into her skin and reminds her that she's alive. Her fingers are numb at this point, but - that's welcome, too.

And the knowledge that she isn't alone, strictly speaking, moreso.

She hates the aftermath of the explosion. For all the praise she's received over the years in regards to her self-control, the inherent motivation has always been ease in her future, the knowledge that she won't need to exert any more effort than she must to sell the story of the moment.

Now her mind races with the thought of possible irreparable damage she's done to her reputation, and the annoying persistent fear of pity nagging as she weaves in and out of the present moment.

"Thank you for letting me stay with you."

It's not her usual lilted speech by any means, just the exhausted shadow that remains, but she attempts a smile.

NOTES.

[ for those of you who might be confused at ^, this moment is very reminiscent of how Margaery died (no gore, but massive green explosion) and got swiftly dumped into Thedas, so she is understandably upset!! feel free to assume your muse witnessed this lapse in behavior & if you'd like to do a thread about it, please plot with me beforehand! ]

[notathreat]

Ellie and Holden are talking with Margaery when it happens.

The words hit them all differently, but the threat is unmistakable. A trap. Death. Her mind is a blur, but one of action. Ellie's hurts don't center on threats to her life.

The glass that shatters out of Margaery's hand spreads, skittering over the stone floor, and it takes Ellie a heartbeat to remember why. Even if she doesn't know the details, she knows what panic is.

"Jim," she says under her breath, quiet and urgent, as the words continue, and she moves forward to put a hand on Margaery's elbow, there to catch her if she starts to fall. The others are trying the doors, voices swelling around them, a few people crying out in horror when they start to discover them barred.

Ellie looks high up, scanning for escape routes -- she doesn't have the strength to bash the doors down, or even most of her weapons on her, but she can get out. Make a way out for the others. Before she can decide, the sound of something exploding, muffled, rings out from behind the kitchen door.

[acreage]

He's looking up as the message plays out, earlier conversation forgotten — some instinct, the expectation of being able to see who's speaking even though the voice is coming over the crystals,

the implications of which reverberate like a gong as soon as that hits, because this is someone with a crystal,

and between that and the ripple of alarm that starts to spread through the room, he doesn't immediately notice Margaery's lost glass or even her distress until he hears his name. He's never seen her look like this before, paled and lost; and everything in him gentles, centers on her.

(He remembers Shed, their oxygen supplies waning on the Knight; he remembers Amos, in the dark under Ilus; he remembers his own blind terror, so many times after Eros.)

"Hey," he says, and it's soft, and he reaches out his hands to ghost at her shoulders — not quite touching, if that's going to set her off worse, but present. "Margaery."

The sound of the explosion comes, and he flinches, but doesn't look away from her. It's possible that's the promised fire, or else it's coming; but Ellie's presence makes it easy to set that worry aside. She wouldn't let anything catch them unawares, let anything happen.

"Margaery, look at me."

closed to abby. pre-late evening. ✨

[molineux]

"You seem to be enjoying yourself."

Margaery rarely sidles at a gathering like this, but she makes an exception for Abby. There's no sense in thrusting someone into the spotlight if it'll just make them clam up with discomfort, after all. Margaery's got her mask on, with a generously low-cut white gown that still manages to look incredibly tame when she's standing next to Gwen, and still, her smirk remains the most naughty detail about her appearance.

(There's a moment when her eyes catch sight of the gloves on Abby's hands and well, if they brighten, it could merely be a trick of the light-)

"I don't think I've ever seen you drink before. Were you hoping to get into some drunken revelry?"

[armd]

It's funny, because Abby isn't even all that fond of wine. It's something to have in her hands, something to make her look the part as she stands off to the side of the party. From the assortment of people gathered, it's difficult to tell if this was supposed to be a fancy dress event or not. (She can't tell if she's supposed to think of what Gwenaëlle is wearing as fancy dress full stop.)

Margaery is breath-taking, but that isn't new. Abby is starting to suspect she'd look like that in just about anything.

"Fancy seeing you here," she replies simply, and raises her glass into the air in a tiny toast. This is both to make a joke out of the situation and to give Margaery another moment to notice her, "Haven't decided yet. Gonna see how the night goes."

... This is all abruptly ruined by the face she makes when she has another sip.

[elegiaque]

What's a little panicking between friends: “Well, we've all been there.”

Gwenaëlle, sat beside Margaery in one of the Gallows' courtyards where she and Loxley have hustled her out until such time as she and Margaery can feasibly hightail it to Hightown, is enjoying the cold somewhat less with stone against her half-bared arse. Probably she should have got a cloak before they came out here. Oh, whatever,

“Or, you and me and the Provost, anyway,” upon consideration. “My grandfather's got a crystal, so I've called ahead and as it happens I spent literally all of today endearing myself to him extremely so I think my very reasonable request for a pavilion and braziers in his garden is being arranged for us even as we speak.” A querying look, for Loxley: “You can come, if you aren't needed,” but he might well be needed, all things considered.

unrelated but thematically similar (closed to Thranduil)

[untiltheyarent]

What a strange thing to say over the crystal, Fifi thinks, making her way out of the communal bath and latrine room with mop and bucket. With everyone sequestered off doing their Satinalia thing, this has been an ideal opportunity to clean the common areas, with some time left over to change into her party dress and make an appearance downstairs.

But something catches her eye, seeping out from beneath the door of one of the private rooms. Perhaps it's a result of the strange feeling imbued in her by the crystal message, but at first glance, it looks like...
...blood.

The bucket clatters to the ground, Fifi's fingers pressing against her lips in shock; has someone been murdered? Is that what this is?
Her shaking hand fishes her sending crystal out from beneath her shirt as she slowly, silently steps toward the door, and cracks it open to peer inside.

[rowancrowned]

He's bleeding, the blood dripping down between his fingers, his palm stinging from the shards of glass. But Thranduil's stern gaze isn't on his wounded hand, but the stem and the stream of wine flowing down the uneven floor, puddling at the door.

Then it's on Fifi, his smile strained- isn't this embarrassing, aren't we all embarrassed- his teeth half-bared in a grimace. He really wasn't expecting company. The room is really in a state. He wasn't in need of company.

"All is well," he says, and he gestures to the spill with his wounded hand, still half a claw, fingers curled in pain. "I will clean it myself. Did you hear the glass break?"

Benedict

[altusimperius]

Party (OTA)

The voice isn't one he recognizes, but Benedict does find it strange that the announcement it's giving over every crystal is such a foreboding one. He swills his wine in his glass (just one, as promised) as he leans against the wall, taking a moment to observe the uncertainty rippling over the dining hall's inhabitants.
It occurs to him with creeping dread that there are a lot of people in here. That if something were to happen, even in such a large room, with little ventilation it could get out of hand quickly.

On instinct, he begins to scan the room for someone who looks like they know what to do.

for Gabranth and Jone

Gabranth? is hurriedly spoken over the crystal, something's wrong.

[archademode]

[They are late to arrive for reasons not unfamiliar— and also for reasons entirely unfamiliar. Hair that had been longer hangs in his eyes as he stiffly works his own armor into place, having caught the lingering scent of smoke in the air.]

What is it, Lord Artemaeus. [The tension lingering in his question betrays his truer mood. Concern lives there, though tempered, and well-masked.]

[armd]

Likewise, Abby is scanning the crowd similarly but for different reasons: she's searching for somebody who's facial expression puts them out of place with the undercurrent of fear trapped in the room with them. Nobody looks unexpectedly calm, or even accepting. She catches Benedict's eye in the middle of it, and pushes through toward him, lowering her voice.

"The fuck is going on."

She glances behind him. She's counting exits, "This isn't normal, right?"