faderift | SATINALIA 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO.

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

They cross paths right at the base of the stairwell, Astarion nearly smacking straight into the stray mage, only catching himself at the last possible second— which is lucky, as a matter of fact, given that Astarion’s already gone through the trouble of putting the last few finishing touches on his festive regalia, and ruining it now, before he’s even had a chance to make it to the party, would be an utter shame.

Still, though, it doesn’t take long for Astarion’s attention to wander once he catches a glimpse of what Benedict is wearing.

“Oh. That’s a novel costume.” slight and feathering, head tilting just to one side as he studies the stitchwork of those robes. “Very mundane. Very down to— erm, hm. Thedas, I suppose.”

His tongue clicks. It’s a thoughtful little noise.

Amused, even.

“You’re going to stand out for certain, looking like that.”

"I'm--?" Benedict begins, and it only becomes clear what Astarion means once he's gotten a full glimpse of the elf's getup, in all its holy glory.
It's briefly enough to distract him from the correction, a smile twitching onto his face as he admires the details; and, to be fair, Astarion's not all that bad to look at.

But then, after several moments of taking in the sight, he remembers what he was saying.
"I'm not going to the party." Still pleasantly enough, he nods his head toward the stairs. "I'm for the baths. It's... honestly a bit surprising anyone's in the mood for more excitement than that."

“Oh I doubt it’ll be anything thrilling. But you should go all the same.” Said as he reaches out without warning, only to tuck a few wayward strands of unkempt hair just behind the curve of Benedict’s ear where they’ve otherwise fallen out of place.

“I realize it’s tempting to get some much needed rest, but take it from someone that’s been thrown— quite literally— to the wolves on more than one occasion: if you don’t get back into the ring right after being mangled, all you’ll ever think of when the next opportunity comes is being mangled.”

Like the punchline to an unsaid joke, he waits a touch longer before adding, coyly.

“And there’s only so many zealots in the world.”

You're an idiot, Benedict thinks to himself as he feels his face grow hotter, making no move to stop Astarion touching his hair, in fact even ducking his head slightly as though to give him better access.

"Look, I... I know all that well enough," he admits-- there's no need to elaborate, but there's sincerity in the statement, "...but everything still smells like smoke, and dead people, and the least I can do is get it out of my hair."

“I’m sure the gardens will only smell like flowers and wine, and maybe a little eau de pit depending on who forgot to perfume themselves ahead of time.” It’s almost amusing, how pliant Benedict always manages to make himself. The sort of instincts most suited to a pretty little starling or a wide-eyed doe.

Astarion thinks it’s no coincidence that much like the former creatures, this one wouldn’t likely survive outside of captivity, either.

“Come on, then. No excuses.” Spoken as he links Benedict’s arm with his own, winding it tight to his side.

“Consider it a calling from your Maker.”

"No--! Astarion!"

The elf is stronger than he looks, and although Benedict isn't as weak as he used to be, he'd still rather not cause a scene, especially not with any sort of physical altercation, when the only thing standing between him and the eyes of the whole world is a bathrobe.

"I can't go like this!" he hisses, trying to pull away as politely as he can.

“Oh stop it, why all this fuss? You’re already dressed for it: in fact I’d wager you’ll be one of the most suitably costumed attendees.”

On Astarion presses, heels clicking softly over stone as though he’s a gilded executioner, marching Benedict ever so demurely to his own demise.

“—you are wearing something underneath that, aren’t you?”

"Why would I be wearing--" Benedict stammers, "I'm going to take a bath!"
He drags his feet, attempting to extricate his arm from Astarion's. He likes to think he'll only allow himself to be pushed around so much before he calls a halt to the degradation, but as a pattern that remains to be seen.

“And yet you had to have realized that any number of problems might intercept you on your meandering path to the baths: a critical emergency, an urgent report, more undead—” The chuckle he lets out is smooth, even as his footsteps finally slow to a halt.

“Me.”

In other words:

“Never took you for an exhibitionist.”

"I'm not!" Benedict cries, with the somewhat heightened pitch of someone who absolutely, under no uncertain terms, is not an exhibitionist yet feels himself careening toward exploring the role nonetheless.

But Astarion stops, and Benedict finally wrenches his arm free, taking a few steps back to ensure he can't be recaptured.

"Leave me alone," he asserts, red-faced and wide-eyed, clearly still sorting through some feelings on Astarion despite how fervidly he denies the kittenish imagery projected onto him.

Ah. There it is.

The tipping point.

What a shame to have stumbled on it so soon.

Benedict wrenches himself away, eyes wide and wet with frustration, and Astarion opts to let him go without any look of fuss or wickedness— in fact it’s almost remorseful, the look he wears in that moment, made possibly all the more effective by the framing of golden curls tucked around pale features, like the Chantry walls themselves are perceiving this grievous misstep.

Woe is him.

“As you like, my darling.”

Asserting himself is something fairly new to Benedict, but sticking to the assertion in the face of negative consequences is a different task entirely. At the look on Astarion’s face, something in him seems to shrink, and suddenly he doesn’t know what to do.

“…sorry,” he mumbles, face burning with the awkwardness of it. Perhaps slinking away to the baths will be his only salvation.

SATINALIA 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO.

Benedict

for Astarion

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