faderift | [open] Satinalia/Hand Your Life To Me

Entry tags:

[open] Satinalia/Hand Your Life To Me

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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! ]

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.

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."

Edited 2021-11-04 00:54 (UTC)

The sound of the explosion brings her senses back in overdrive.

Her knees buckle as she expects the louder explosions to follow, the telltale rolls of the earth - inevitable - followed by angry flames bursting up from the floor beneath them, and it's only by instinct that her gaze darts from Ellie to Holden, fear now completely apparent.

"We- we have- we have- to-" She tries to speak and finds that she cannot, her breaths shallow as her heart beats anxiously, thrumming away in her chest, as loud as war drums. Gods, it's so much worse, knowing what will come. Her hands reach out, grasping at them both blindly, because she sees their faces but her brother's, too. And her father's. The fear. The helpless resignation - the utter cold realization before the heat of death.

Her fingers find purchase on something - fabric. Jim's, perhaps? Her vision blurs and more tears fall from her frustration. Why are they so still, why aren't they moving, running for their lives?

"We have to go-" she tugs, aggressive, choking over her words and pushing them out against the squeeze in her throat. "We have to get out, we- please, let's go-"

Ellie's immediate instinct is to comfort her friend, to put hands on her and pull her in close, shield her from whatever's coming, but years of fighting for her life have taught her what her hands are best at.

She catches Margaery by the elbow, leaning her into Jim's arms so she won't fall.

There's a knife in her hand before she knows it, and she's between them and the noises, the panicked voices, her other hand on the young woman's back. There is no panic on her face, and no resignation. Just that determined, restrained violence.

"We're getting out," she says in a low voice, as her eyes ignite, golden. An assurance, like she can speak it into existence. She heads for the kitchen door -- he's in the kitchen -- it's where the explosions are coming from, but it's also where they'll find the most likely escape route.

And the culprit.

There's a part of him that wants to go with Ellie — for all his trust in her, it's hard not to worry — but they're far from alone in the room, and she won't be without help if anything happens. And Margaery can't possibly be left alone, not like this.

(Did he know, before, that Ellie's eyes could do that, that there's power at her disposal? He does now, and it's something to fold into the tactical assessment of the situation a part of his brain is running.)

But Margaery's hands are bunched in the fabric of his shirt, her face shining with tears; and he moves his hands now to hold her head, fingers at the back of her neck, thumbs by her ears. There's a pressure, gentle, so that she's looking at his face, his eyes, which show nothing but concern and steady assurance.

"Listen to me: We're going to be okay. We're going to keep you safe, and that's a promise. And we're going to get out of this. Ellie and I are going to make sure of that. But first, you have to breathe. Okay? Just take a deep breath with me, and then we'll figure everything out."

Her mind has never struggled to process so much before - the sound of Ellie's voice, all the more comforting because of how much it sounds like flinty steel and certainty, and Holden, who isn't shying away from her panic but leaning in, hands suddenly a warm, anchoring weight, eyes so steady.

(For a flash of a moment, she sees the sight of his kind expression going up in green flames, and her hands immediately tighten around his forearms in response.)

But time is on her side, even if her own mind isn't, and although she can't truly allow herself to think that she's safe, Holden's voice is soothing enough to get through her tangled mess of thoughts.

Breathe, he tells her, and she tries. For all her efforts, she may as well be more helpless than a newborn, her instincts fighting each other to take over, muscles locked and shaking in the anticipation of a clap louder than thunder - she can smell smoke, overpowering the alcohol and perfume, but she keeps her eyes fixed on Holden's face, because the longer he stays whole and complete and unburnt, the more she knows that she hasn't closed her eyes and missed the sight of him incinerating completely - the more she knows they're still truly alive.

It makes her want to turn and see Ellie too, for no other reason than verifying that every breath hasn't been their last.

There are a thousand things she'd like to say. None of them make it out of her mouth.

Ellie is not the only one to head for the door -- Enchanter Rowntree gets there first, blasts the entire fucking thing off its hinges to get to the other side, and the culprit.

Smoke wafts into the gigantic room, and Ellie puts a hand up over her face, squinting her eyes to shield them from the sparks and heat, but aside from a terrible smell, billowing smoke and low voices, it's done.

The view is blocked by the bodies of those who responded, but Ellie spots Derrica inside, immolating the absolute fuck out of the man responsible. It's not clear whether it was her magic or the bottle of Antivan fire he clutched, but he's very, very dead.

Ellie knows where she's not needed. The look on the man's face, the way his lips moved -- she knows despair, defeat. She's fast, heading back, her knife away just as quickly as it was out. Puts one hand on Jim's back, another on Margaery's shoulder, and draws them away from the crush of people.

"He's dead," she says simply, her voice low. "They got him. They're gonna secure the rest of the Gallows next."

Though her words are for them both, the gentleness of her touch is for Margaery, and the silent thank-you in her eyes is for Jim. She's glad that he was there.

He wishes he could say it was easy to keep his attention on Margaery. But nothing about the battle in the kitchen is quiet, or anything short of a ruckus, and it takes every bit of concern and discipline he has to keep his eyes on her. As she tries to breathe, keeps her eyes on him, he slowly drops his hands, lets them go to her shoulders. Still a point of contact, but letting her stay with him of her own power.

He looks up, finally, when Ellie joins them and moves them a little away from the rest of the crowd. There are probably a hundred questions he could ask, but he says,

"Thank God." Then, for the benefit of both Ellie and Margaery, "Marcus isn't the kind of person to do anything halfway."

He hadn't had the chance to see anyone else involved, but this is easy enough to attest. The look he gives Ellie as he speaks says something like, Likewise.

"We're safe now."

He's dead is what tears Margaery out of her reverie, and the agonizing suspense over what comes next.

"Dead?" she repeats, reaching out to hold Ellie's hand without actually realizing she's doing so, squeezing as tightly as she can, relief flooding in her veins somewhere, amidst the internal chaos -

Her breathing is still a turbulent storm and with it, her voice rises and falls, breaking from from a closing throat and strengthened by disbelief - hope. "Already? It was just one person? He- nothing else? No other fires? No other ways he could have possibly set traps for us?"

She looks at Jim then, stunned into a silent stillness for a long beat until the real tears come, and with it, the real explosion: her legs weaken enough for her to sink to the floor, body functions still beyond her control as she shakes from the force of her sobs, hands withdrawing so her fingers can curl into the expensive fabric of her gown, creating wrinkles where there were none.

There's a part of her wants to scramble to her feet, dagger in hand, and find the man responsible for completely undoing her in such a way. At least if she'd actually died, she'd have peaceful oblivion, not this deeply unwelcome quicksand of trauma.

But no satisfaction can be found in stabbing a corpse, with its master already long gone.

"Not looking like there's anything else," Ellie reassures her, squeezing her hand back. It hurts, but it's a negligible amount of pain. She's got so much in her eyes, she knows she's asking because she needs to.

"They're checking, to make sure. But the fucker already offed himself."

Rude of him, Ellie thinks, but isn't willing to follow that train of thought further. Especially not when something inside of Margaery breaks free and the relief and fear all comes out in a torrent. Ellie's expression twists into something edging on broken, just for a split second before she squats down next to her, right there on the floor, and drags her in close.

She doesn't speak; just like she didn't the first time they met. Instead, she just gives her a safe place to cry, between her and Holden.

Already offed himself, now that's unexpected. But maybe that's fanatics for you, he thinks, cleansed himself in fire even if he failed to take anyone else with him. The enormity of what could've happened unspools somewhere in the back of his mind: how they were here in their home, unarmed and dressed for a party, and one of their own hoping to burn them all in the name of fucking Andraste. They got lucky tonight.

But — the idea of luck is easily set aside, in the face of this.

He crouches with the both of them, offers his presence, and maybe some cover from curious bystanders. There's a thought that isn't fully formed in his mind, but lurks at the edges. Margaery at a very different gathering, asking, Do you believe in an afterlife?

She's never felt a rage quite like this before.

So much of her has always been boxed away, tucked into neat spaces so the heat of her anger never gets enough oxygen to keep burning, but this unnamed perpetrator has effectively thrown that system into chaos. Margaery may still be too gently bred to carry out what actions her mind is entertaining, but that only means the desire grips her tightly, forcing her to feel the acridity of her own pain as it keeps bubbling to the surface.

Stitches torn off of a gaping wound, forcing it to bleed heavy once more.

"Coward." she snarls, and if this world has any semblance of an afterlife, she hopes her curse accompanies him to it.

Later, when she's more coherent and truly sound, she might confess to Ellie that she's never wanted to kill someone more, that she truly might have if she had the chance despite her history. And she might tell Holden that she couldn't bear the sight of his face going up in flames, yet her mind's eye kept replaying it, mercilessly reminding her of what she lost.

But for now, this will have to do. This, and the way she reaches out for - and continues to grasp - their hands.

"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?"

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.

Margaery's smile grows - slight, but in a way that makes all the difference when it comes to the intention of her expression. As perceptive as she might be when sizing others up, it's always incredibly rewarding to have absolute proof that they enjoy their gifts. The leather stretched taut over her hands looks even better than she'd imagined it, too.

Of course, her glee is interrupted by pure amusement when Abby's face does the most wonderful cringing. She's far too polite to laugh outright, but gentle teasing? It's always an option. "I think if you're still in the stages of tasting the alcohol that much, you're nowhere near where you need to be. You could be staring down a long, long road. May I?"

She reaches out for the wine Abby's holding, intending to swirl it around some and smell for the notes.

"My family used to be known for our hippocras, which is wine mixed with sugar and spices, and so I'm used to sweeter tasting drinks. Perhaps one of these days, I will try my hand at recreating some bottles and share them with you?" She lingers, a bit, as she hands the glass back. Their fingers brush. "I would be very much intrigued to find out what sort of drunk you are, Abby."

"Go ahead." It's a heavy red, the kind that makes the inside of your mouth dry and tacky when you drink it. Abby is struggling, planning on finishing it; maybe she should try knocking it back, but it's too intense for that and made wholly worse (in her opinion) by being at room temperature. Why did she take it in the first place. No idea.

... Trying to look classy?? First the sword, now this, why does she bother.

She does like that Margaery takes great care to lightly touch her hand while she's passing the glass back to her.

Abby copies her, that gentle swirling motion so that the wine circles the glass. "I don't think I'm intrigued for you to find that out, though." No... that's the last thing she wants: to lose her composure around somebody like Margaery, who has it in spades. Embarrassing. "You'll have to imagine it."

"Well then, you have to give me something to base my thoughts on."

Margaery seizes the opportunity to look up at Abby through her eyelashes, a small hopeful smile rounding out the sweet nature of her expression - although someone like Abby can probably also see the mischievous challenge laden in it.

"Otherwise, it'll be entirely up to my interpretation and... I really don't think you want to know what I'll imagine."

Her lips purse, eyes narrowing in playfully contemplative thought. It's the look Margaery has when she wants someone to feel especially exposed - but in a good way.

Softly, "Or maybe you do. Despite your better judgement."

She pauses with the edge of the glass at her lower lip, pressing gently inward on the skin.

"I'd better give you something," she decides eventually, after letting the silence hang for a moment too long. Margaery fills it in with tiny shifts in her expression anyway; Abby can't say she doesn't enjoy looking at her. "Otherwise you're going to imagine something way too flattering."

The reality is the opposite.

"Shared a room with a friend of mine, back home. We used to get drunk and watch movies together after open assignments sometimes." Movies, ha. Anime. She can't– bring herself to admit to every single detail okay, "He always thought getting me drunk would sap all my strength, for some reason. Idiot." Her tone is ridiculously fond. She punctures it with a sip, and a sigh.

... And a secret: "Sometimes I let him beat me at an arm wrestle anyway. For the sake of his pride, y'know."

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[open] Satinalia/Hand Your Life To Me

late evening (cw: panic attack, traumatic flashbacks)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

closed to abby. pre-late evening. ✨

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject