[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

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.”

[wearyallalone]

He raises his eyebrows at her, but doesn't disengage. "I suppose that's natural, given how many hours I've done guard duty compared to how many hours I've attended parties," he says, mild. "I'd hoped I was doing a better job of blending in."

[elegiaque]

Vanya only has himself to blame for the number of her questions he's already answered when she casts him a speculative look and asks, “How many hours have you attended parties before?”

[wearyallalone]

"Fewer than I've stood guard duty," is absolutely what she walked into. But he doesn't leave it there, adding, "I went into the Order young, and for some reason, Templars are not terribly popular at parties."

He cannot imagine why.

[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.”

[armd]

Yeah, she's trying not to look directly at it; Gwen's stare distracts. Abby simply returns it, sips her wine, and swallows a little too quickly. It's a very heavy red and she isn't enjoying it, but she took the glass.

"I'm fine with that." Though she likes that Gwen looks over her like she's considering it, because it makes her chuckle, "Everybody's better off if that never actually happens.

Got your present, by the way." All jokes aside for juuust a moment, "Thanks. I really love it."