SATINALIA 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO.

[deuselfmachina]

WHO: All
WHAT: A second crack at celebrating Satinalia, because we deserve nice things.
WHEN: Mid-Firstfall
WHERE: The Gallows, in the gardens.
NOTES: n/a

It's twilight when Second Satinalia is in its fullest swing. The weather is unseasonably warm, and so they've made use of the gardens as the site for partying. Carefully placed lanterns shine through the odd tree or hover over bushes that have since lost their flowers.

However, decoration makes up for the lack of springtime flora. The space is decorated in shining garlands of gold and silver ribbons, paper flowers, and hanging ornamentations that flip between moons and suns. (If they look a little used, it's because these are second-hand decorations from slightly more affluent Satinalia parties been and gone, borrowed or donated.) There is also a firepit, providing a source of warmth and light.

In the invitations that went out, everyone was encouraged to come in costume as they'd intended to, but noted that for those whom their costumes were ruined or they would simply like to wear something different, there will be masks available, along with some costume pieces—fake jewelry, big hats, faux-velvet and harlequin coats, and so on, though they must be given back, s'il vous plaît. Florent will also offer his abilities in face painting and makeup prior to the party beginning, and will talk you into going spooky in case more skeletons come and they need to blend in to throw them off. (He can be found with his own stylish paintwork, a skeletal design in silver and white and grey.)

Everyone has also been invited to bring along some food and drink if they have it, as their budget is run a bit thin, but there will definitely be enough wine to go around, and some fruits and sweet pastries purchased from the market that day all offered on a table.

There is some music, a few local musicians (who have been promised, variously, tickets to shows, or work opportunities with certain prominent Orlesian playhouses, which may or may not be legitimate) set up with a fiddle, some percussion instruments, something that resembles a very elaborate xylophone, all playing a diverse array of up tempo tunes that allow for a bit of dancing in the more open area of the garden, but otherwise suffuses the shadows and fractured conversations with pleasant noise.

Drink, be merry, don't kill anyone.

Comments

Benedict

[altusimperius]

for Astarion

[altusimperius]

Descending the stairs in the most luxuriant robe and slippers a secretary's money can buy, and carrying a towel and a little basket of his favorite bath things, is Benedict. His hair is tied back and a joint hangs from his mouth, his eyes slightly glazed over as the high has already begun to hit and he is clearly committed to the cause of Absolute Relaxation.

It's been a stressful time. He's earned it, and the baths are calling.

petrana, marcus & julius. open.

[ipseite]

Having spent much of the chaotic first Satinalia party waiting anxiously, and then much of the following day behind a heavily barred door—waiting anxiously—where there had before been a certain amount of grim determination about Petrana's insistence on doing Satinalia correctly this year there is now a sort of relief and release in deciding that they shall, actually, attend the better attempt. Despite Marcus's close proximity to the worst of it, even his costume did not suffer greatly and they had all been put away before the skeleton war descended upon the Gallows so while Marcus smells slightly of ash and smoke,

well, that's hardly unusual for him. They are resplendent in the same costumes they had worn to the first party (such as it was), Petrana aglow in a white and gold gown made from one of her first Satinalia gifts, her hair worked into an elaborate crown held up with summoned gems that glitter and curiously match those that lazily orbit her new staff, reflecting the light of the diamond within it. The sun, flanked by moon and stars—Marcus in white, and Julius in black touched with glimmering silver—they make a fine picture only very slightly marred by soot and singeing. Perhaps the white had been ill-considered.

Lighting a thin cigarette off of one of the sparking gems, Petrana says, “Do you mean to dance?”

[luaithre]

To her right and holding a glass of fortified wine is Marcus, watching the gathering with a sort of removed interest that is not as hyper alert as it might have been, all things considered. There is a cloudy grey streak of soot-based staining that he'd been unable to remove, up the arm he'd used for casting. Otherwise he'd made it out of the first Satinalia's incident less worse for wear than some. His position on griffon back throughout the invasion the following evening also means he has no injuries to speak of.

The mask had survived being discarded on the floor, anyway, and is in place now—a very simple white half-mask of some form of rough silken fabric, shining silver in certain light. He sips his wine, makes a face. It is sweeter and heavier than he'd expected, but at least it dissuades him from drinking too much. His gesture towards the possibility of disaster is to stay keenly sober.

Which likewise possibly contributes to: letting Julius answer first, although his focus does switch towards the space dedicated to dancing, to see how many are making use of it.

Dante

[rebellionyell]

Dante deliberated over his decision to attend, noting that the last celebration around this particular native celebration had been upturned by a series of unfortunate events. What were the odds of lightening striking the same place twice? Not that he wanted chaos to erupt, but fancy parties that involved any degree of dressing up, that was the sort of aesthetic his parents would have enjoyed.

Presently he was sequestered in his small quarters, door open to give the illusion of sociability. He wasn't averse to a conversation, but he was also a bit lost in his own thoughts. There wasn't much of interest in his room, nothing that he felt anyone would risk themselves over to attempt to try and take while he was physically present. There was a sword heavily bound tucked away in one corner. On the wall a pair of blocked off guns were hung, little more than decoration at this point. They had the inscriptions Ebony & Ivory on one side and For Tony Redgrave by .45 Art Works on the other side. The only other thing in this room that seem to be worth anything at all was a photograph of a woman in a gilded frame on his small bedside table. She was very pretty in her fineries, the glaring opposite of Dante, but there was also something haunting about her as well.

Finally decided he rolls out of his bed, if something happens, he probably shouldn't miss it especially if it means saving a few lives (and knocking in a few undead skulls would beat a dull evening staring at the walls). Smoothing his clothing out and throwing on his duster he did a pirouette on the heel of one foot and then addressed the photograph.

"What do you think, are we gala ready? Yeah, I know it's not what you would have picked, but I'm a little too old for the short-shorts and the frilly tunics of ye olde yesteryear," does he always talk to himself?

--

In the event that an opportunity to take a jab at Dante's stylistic choice was missed a second chance is readily available at the celebration to have another crack at. He had no intention of bedecking himself in most of the provided costume pieces, unfortunately considering he stood out enough already. Fake jewelry? Pass. Big hats? He has big confidence; a big hat would just give him an ego. Fake velvet? Discount dad is that you? Harlequin coats? Reminded him of a clown he once slapped on the nose. Still, he wasn't a terrible sport, opting to borrow a black half-mask that did things for his eyes though he wasn't sure what kind of things.

Once presentable Dante chooses to socialize on the perimeter of the party, not avoiding people (granted he wasn't used to mingling among so many), but keeping his eyes and his ears open for anything that could go sideways. He'll drink with anyone offering and dance with anyone with enough interest (and enough rhythm) to keep in step with him or the reverse considering his lack of formal dance training.

[arkitect]

The perimeter is definitely where Emet-Selch seems to prefer to be, for a decent amount of this party-- for the most part, he's just watching as well, keeping an eye on the festivities (and maybe joining in here or there, just not too terribly often.)

Dante's face isn't a familiar one to him yet, which is what leads him to be loitering in the same area. His outfit is slightly on the fancier side, cloak hanging off his shoulders, with golden scaled accents; there's a wine glass held in one gloved hand, the glove itself bearing the emblem of Tevinter. There's little better excuse to steal some of the enemy's aesthetic than a second Satinalia, after all.

"Is this your first gathering here?" he asks, taking a moment to look Dante over. "Either that, or we've simply missed each other thus far."

The latter can certainly happen, in an organization of any size-- but he's feeling things out a bit. Seeing if this person recognizes him at all, for one thing; it'll be a lot more convenient if the answer is no.

[lumelume]

Unfazed by the chaos of the last week (or at least appearing to be), Mado comes out for the party with his full capacity for enthusiasm-- which is a lot, but he's learned by now that people prefer he not get it on them.
Sometimes drumming along with the musicians, sometimes dancing, and only occasionally drinking, he occasionally casts a glance over at the unfamiliar face of the silver-haired wallflower, eventually making his way over with a friendly grin.

"Haven't seen you before," he says cheerfully, "are you new to Riftwatch?"

[illithidnapped]

“Oh don’t be so stubborn, no one’s ever too old for that.”

There Astarion stands in the open doorway, having slunk in like a stray cat through an open window, perfectly content to take the absence of a locked door as an invitation. Still, it’s his voice that’s most recognizable, now draped in sheer fabric and possessed of long, heavy golden curls that tumble down past his shoulders.

If it wasn’t for those red eyes and sharp teeth, he might be unrecognizable at first glance.

Almost.

“But I suppose the empty pockets of a fledgling Rifter are your curse at present.”

[elegiaque]

Styled part fire hazard and part indecent exposure, Gwenaëlle is hard to miss despite being more than a foot shorter than Dante and slight enough that the corset and chandelier combination has made her waist small enough to get hands around, if only someone could actually reach it. The mask throws her off, briefly, a fucking forest of tall pricks with white hair, but when she gets closer she's more sure that she doesn't recognize him.

Hm.

Interesting.

“You're new.”

[notathreat]

The guy's built like a brick shithouse, the kind of shock of white hair that Ellie's starting to assume means something mortal-adjacent. Given that one of her closest friends is a two hundred year old vampire with blood red eyes, and the other is a sparkly pink magical princess, Dante isn't exactly something that gives Ellie pause.

For her part, other than the outfit she's wearing, Ellie is unremarkable. Perhaps a few more scars than most, and a shade younger than the rest of Riftwatch. She stops in a very precise spot -- just barely out of Dante's reach, like she's perfectly judged his range, and gestures to the drink table, just past him.

"Grab me one?" she asks, then tilts her head at him. There's nothing genteel about her voice, and she doesn't sound like a local. With her gloves on it's impossible to tell if she has an anchor shard, but two of the fingers on her left hand are pinned off at the knuckle. Missing.

"Haven't seen you around before. Out on a mission, or just get here?"

Ellie | Open

[notathreat]

When you show up at a costume party, you either show up to be hilarious, or you show up so stunning that others come away pissed off about it.

Unfortunately, the one person Ellie wants to piss off is not in attendance, and she's unreasonably grumpy about it.

The constellation-inspired outfit is primarily the fault of Astarion. Ellie would never have worn anything approaching this level of finery on her own, especially with such a plunging neckline, wicked scars on display, but he's had a shitty time of it lately and dressing her had seemed to cheer him up a little bit. Ellie she loves her friends. The one thing she'd been firm about was boots and pants, on the logic that if anything attacked this party she needed to be able to fight.

She doesn't strictly need the various knives secreted through the outfit, but there are several up her flowy sleeves anyway.


► Dancing

Masked and dressed up, Ellie is finding it hard to assume her normal position as wallflower, nursing a drink and running a quiet commentary with a friend or two. Instead, she's been asked to dance by a few people -- more once they realize she actually can dance. Perhaps you've asked her for one.

Perhaps she's even asked you.


► Perimeter

Or perhaps you have happened to catch one of her hasty departures to the sidelines, or even outside to the courtyard.

Several times through the evening, Ellie roams away from the party, trying doors and windows to ensure they remain open and unobstructed, to make sure there's no one hiding in the dark shadows (other than her) and to check the parapets to reassure herself that there is nothing glowing red on the dark ocean waves.


► (Wildcard!)

perimeter

[arkitect]

[Well, they have two things in common, tonight. The reason behind their outfits, for one (and with similar enough motivation for it)-- and a tendency to depart from the party itself, here and there, though he's doing it more for a little reprieve. He didn't get out of the last attack unscathed, but the only reason he's even here is to be observed being totally and completely fine, absolutely not recently stabbed, thank you very much.

So he's already lingering in the courtyard, a cloak hanging off his shoulders despite the lack of cold, but pulled back enough to show the underlying outfit and its accents (also present on the cloak.) Emet-Selch is resting against a wall, at first, but on realizing anyone else is nearby, quickly draws himself up to stand with his usual idle bearing.]

...tired of the festivities, are you?

dancing

[lumelume]

Utterly content to dance alone or with a partner, Mado is an uncomplicated soul. When asked, however, he shines with the light of both Thedosian moons, light-footed and grinning and just happy to be here.

"You look thrilling!" he enthuses to Ellie, giving her a little spin, "the night sky itself!"

For his part, Mado is dressed in his Riftwatch uniform: it's the nicest thing he owns, and he feels fancy in it.

Perimeter;

[illithidnapped]

It’s impressive, really, how silent he manages to be in sneaking up behind her. Then again, they’re both in Scouting: even in heels, there are just some things that come far too naturally to learned creatures like them.

Or so Astarion assumes.

“You really ought to stop being so paranoid. Didn’t anyone tell you that that’s my job?”

mutter mutter wildcard mutter

[armd]

It's very late when she finally descends the tower, angling to slip into the party to collect some food from the fringes. Abby thinks that most of the attendants will likely be drunk by this hour, or at the very least not in attendance of the snack table. They'll be dancing, and talking, and enjoying themselves. Good for them.

It's not as if Abby hasn't had her own version of a wonderful evening. The tower has been quiet thanks to the party, good for nursing a few frayed nerves, and she's spent the hours reading, dozing lightly, and keeping the companionship of a new, and unexpected friend: a round, and heavy little mabari war hound, nine months old, nesting down in her room for a first evening away from his old home. He's oddly intelligent for a puppy to an extent (knows to smack his head into the door if he needs to be taken to the bathroom; chews on Abby's boots), and he keeps relatively quiet company.

She's left him knocked out on her bed in search of treats for them both. He snores.

Somebody is lingering near the table with the food, masked, and decked in dark blue. Her attention isn't on the food, but suddenly the door that Abby just came through (she thought she was silent about it... whatever). She ducks her head, ignoring her, and decides to help herself.

"At ease."

Because the person watching the door seems so tense. Abby's shard is uncovered: she works here, okay, she's allowed.

dancing.

[indissection]

Sidony has found herself quite comfortable in her own outfit, content to show just how pleased she is to be able to attend a party once more and settle down into something more familiar. It feels right, comfortable, even, to be at a party, especially after all the nonsense of their last attempts - even if she might feel a little on edge, still, aware that the worst might still happen and her silks might end up a different shade of red if she isn't careful.

It doesn't take much for her to partake in the dancing and, given her own rather happy relationship at the moment, she's content to dance with anyone who asks, no matter who they might be or previous concerns about social standing or thought. She slips into a dance with Ellie with almost little hesitation, offering a little curtsey and a smile before they begin.

"Good evening. I hope you're enjoying yourself?"

► Dancing

[sparklequeen]

Glimmer is dressed in a bit more subtle of an outfit for this party and she's never exactly been a wallflower. A bit shy, maybe, but she's brave. And so when she sees an amazingly pretty girl she doesn't know in an amazingly pretty dress, she decides to just go for it.

Hopefully this one won't turn out to be her best friend's enemy, too. She wanders up to the gorgeously dressed girl and smiles, fighting against nerves that twinge in her stomach.

"Hey, uh..." Is she blushing? Oh she is definitely blushing.

"Do wanna dance, maybe?"

For Derrica (cw: drugs)

[notathreat]

It's a fight to convince herself to unwind enough to really enjoy the party, but there's only so much dancing one can do before new boots fucking hurt. She's only lightly dipped into the alcohol, enough to be buzzed and then sober up again, but the night's still young and she needs a break, and old fine parchment makes for good rolling papers.

Elfroot smells a lot like what she used to smoke at home, even if she hasn't smoked often over the past few years. Hasn't wanted it to tip badly into anxiety, hasn't wanted to associate it with what happened the last time she truly cut loose.

Tonight, though -- just the one. Feels easier on this corner bench, tucked away with company.

It's both familiar and not as she breathes in, holds it, lets the smoke ease out again. She waits, holding herself steady, looking up at the night sky above the courtyard as the smoke drifts up and away into the torchlight.

gwenaëlle | open.

[elegiaque]

This is officially now the third time that Gwenaëlle has publicly worn a costume she originally intended to be an extremely private gift. In a gesture towards at least varying it slightly from a party barely a week previous, she has made one addition to her existing outfit of tightly laced Vauquelin green corset, ruffled knickers, improbably soft leather boots designed to look like stockings—

She had considered the thigh holsters that Flint gifted her with for Satinalia—they'd have made the look rather more threatening, which she's not opposed to—but in the end had dug out of storage the exterior of a gown she's not worn since Orlais, and not for several years, besides. It is now between curves of glittering, jeweled chandelier that everyone is still getting glimpses of her backside, and it really is somehow more risqué with that suggestion of a skirt. The lit candles are enchanted, and offer little in the way of real fire hazard, but it does serve its long-time purpose even now: preventing anyone from reasonably expecting that she will dance with them.

The addition of an Orlesian masque may have more to do with the fact she got herself a black eye fighting the undead than anything else, though.

“Set it up here,” she's instructing one of several de Coucy footmen, tasked with laying out the spread of cold pies and Orlesian pastries that would best travel from Hightown to the Gallows, having taken it upon herself to bat her lashes at her grandfather's chef in order to convince him to bend his talents to Florent's ends. “And the wine caskets.”

Maybe she'll reconsider her unwillingness to dance after a few drinks. Someone may have to help her unlatch her chandelier.

[illithidnapped]

“So you survived after all.” Spoken from just over her shoulder, standing a few steps back (owing to the glimmering stretch of that enchanted chandelier, extravagant and guarding as it is), Astarion’s hovering with one hip cocked at an angle, glass of wine in hand, snared high within a perfectly poised grasp.

“I must say, you do look the very picture of health.”

Wink wink, nudge nudge, etcetera.

[arkitect]

That's certainly an outfit, isn't it.

He doesn't approach for some time, generally preferring to stay to the edges and to those he has more familiarity with-- but, well. No sense bothering to go to gatherings like this just to keep to oneself, if he's going to bother to be here at all.

So, eventually, he makes his way to her side while she isn't otherwise occupied, drink in hand; he's been idly nursing it more than actively drinking, but it's the appearance of the thing.

"Not a bad way to go about it," he says, with a nod to the chandelier skirt.

technically not here.

[tender]

The chandelier would be hard to miss, regardless of who was wearing it.

However, in the course of circulating throughout the room, Gwen's backside receives a look of clear approval.

Nice.

Blessed Andraste Bride of the Maker (twitter verified) | OTA

[illithidnapped]

I: BENEVOLENCE

It’s as if luck itself had a hand in steering Astarion entirely unscathed throughout the nightmare of whatever this last week had been: immolating devotees and red lyrium laden walking dead, and he’d been absent for all of it. By choice of course, not foresight.

But tonight is different, the air feels clearer now, suffused with Andraste’s mercy, perhaps.

Or— well, just Andraste, in a sense.

Golden wisps of hair bright as starlight curl about his shoulders, outshone only by an unmistakable circlet, its dagger-sharp edges radiating outwards into cardinal points. The dress itself is tactlessly sheer (and not just by the standards of an insulted Chantry), but long as he is, he wears it well— gilt embellishments catching in the fire’s glow, flickering when he shifts. The tasteless make their jokes crass.

The truly enlightened shamelessly opt to go all out.

“My my. It’s a wonder what spit and elbow-grease do to erase the stench of spoiled lyrium. Even my nose can’t detect any trace of it here.”

Maybe elsewhere that’s a different story. Thankfully, they’re not partying elsewhere.

II: CHARITY

He’d brought wine. Poor as the funding for this affair must have been, it seemed like the right thing to do.

Sort of.

If stolen wine counts as sacrifice for the good of the party.

Still, Astarion leans forward as he uncorks his own offering, a pale curl slipping diagonally along his arm to almost kiss the edge of the table.

“You poor thing,” he tuts softly, sympathy threaded just throughout his voice. “First a fanatic tries to kill you— and not even the one Riftwatch put in time out— and then an entire fleet of unliving corpses? Someone might start mistaking you for a notable hero with all these failed assassination attempts.”

III: MODESTY

“I’m curious.” Offhanded and conversational from some unlit corner of the gardens, his silhouette still stands out with remarkable clarity, probably a mixture of golden detailing and his own paler features.

“Do you think the Maker took offense to Andraste....mm dabbling with her elven companion, or was it really more of an open marriage sort of thing?”

His painted lips purse slightly, the faintest trace of crystalline slickness gleaming where it catches moonlight.

“Or— maybe he just liked to watch?”

IV: WILDCARD

[ooc: come invite him to dance or be dragged out for it instead, discuss the finer points of the last few harrowing days, mix and match prompts or do something completely different, I'm here for it all.]

ii

[acreage]

Someone might start mistaking him for a notable hero in the whites of his costume, meant to evoke Prince Sebastian himself. Astarion's doing, of course. Jim hadn't remembered a damn thing about costumes till Satinalia came and went, would've likely eschewed dressing up altogether just like last year. He's borrowed a white mask from the party entrance; the shade isn't quite the same as the armor, but it's close enough.

Not that there's any chance of Astarion not recognizing him. Not that he doesn't recognize the voice in question either, looking up from his reach for some wine to

pause

as he clocks that outfit.

For a second, he doesn't seem to know how to react. And then he bursts out laughing, the sound bright in a way better befitting the untroubled boy he'd been than the more serious man he's become.

Byerly

[bouchonne]

Sometimes, you're a person whose Satinalia habit is to show a lot of skin. But sometimes, when you're cold, miserable, and hurt, you need to cover yourself up. Break with tradition. Swaddle yourself in cloth. And, well, what better way to swaddle yourself than to go as a mummy?

Plus, it's so topical.

On rather short notice, miraculously, Byerly has managed to source not only strips of linen cloth, but also Nevarran trinkets. And so he is here as a member of the revered dead, mummified from head to toe, sipping a glass of mediocre wine. If someone approaches, he may give a melodramatic moan that's very like the dead who just attacked them.

[lumelume]

Although committed to enjoying the party, even Mado is rather lower-energy than usual, spotted walking about with a glass at least as frequently as he's involving himself with the music, whether that be in helping play it or dancing to it.
He's unable to stifle his curiosity as to who's under all the wrappings, and he comes over with his head tilted slightly to one side, relying on his sight for once and finding it lacking.
But then Byerly moans, and it becomes clear.

"You had me for a moment there, cogino," he says with a gentle smile, "I hope you're not actually hurt?"

Cole | OTA

[helpinghidinghaunting]

In a way, both big parties Cole had gone to at this point had been costume parties, hadn't they? For the first one, he had been put into fancy gear, scrubbed and brushed within an inch of his life, and tutored on posture and popularity, pushing him towards prattling with people.

This time, the same pale elf had coaxed him into costume - but instead of elaborate finery, this time the little ghost has wrapped himself in furs and set antlers into a headdress, crude smears of facepaint rubbed onto his pale skin to try to further sell his appearance as a Winter Halla. The antlers make him a little nervous to duck his head, but otherwise the clothes are comfortable, the simple pale tunic and pants he has on under the furs much less constrictive than the doublet he had been laced into in Hightown.

Overall, he feels just a little more at ease this time than the last, being in familiar territory. A big jug of fruit juice was obtained and laid on the banquet table, and as usual, Cole himself doesn't seem keen to eat anything that someone else could enjoy instead.

Still a little too anxious in crowds to mingle properly, he mostly hovers around the outskirts, big blue eyes watching everyone else with their usual rapt attention.

[cozen]

Bastien's trying—really and truly—not to do his usual thing, which is treating every party he attends like one he's been hired to work and it's his personal responsibility to ensure everyone has a nice time and/or is not going to assassinate someone. This time he's trying to have a nice time. And it's working, mostly.

But there's only so much awkward wallflowering a reasonably compassionate, slightly tipsy extravert can stand to watch. Especially given what an awkward wallflower did to their last Satinalia party.

So: "Hold still," he says, approaching with a wine glass in one hand and a string of costume jewelry in the other. (His own costume was Undead Gideon, but the hilt he affixed to the front of his borrowed Chantry robes has fallen off by now and his skeletal face paint has smeared somewhat, so now he's just a mess.)