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

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.

Not Here

[notathreat]

🏳‍🌈 Ellie Greatly Approves

[illithidnapped]

In response, up come two very slender fingers to catch the underside of Jim’s borrowed mask, attempting to flick it aside.

All that said, however, Astarion isn’t wearing anything but a smirk.

This is Astarion’s own victory, after all. The laughter, the fact that Holden is attending at all, especially after what happened before. The man could easily have opted to spend tonight lapping his wounds and wallowing.

He isn't.

“So good of you to join us, Prince Vael. For a little while, I thought you might not show up.”

[acreage]

He's too busy making some attempt at salvaging his composure to protest about his mask — not hung up on it, besides. Astarion's welcome to take it, or do whatever he pleases with it.

"And miss my number one fan?"

Apparently, he is never going to let this joke go.

[illithidnapped]

“Mm. Well. One of these days the real Princely heir is going to turn up here, and I’m going to tell him you’ve been in love with him from the day you fell face-first out of the Fade.”

Revenge.

Well— revenge beyond upturning that mask, at least, letting it tumble only a nominal distance to settle against the serving table between them. Which, now seen to, has Astarion the Pious retuning to pouring himself a glass of wine, with the addition of one more.

For Holden. Not himself.

[acreage]

"I'm not sure I'm his type."

Goes unsaid, but not because he isn't tempted: but if he's receptive to courting a rifter, that means you stand a chance.

Truthfully — he prefers the lack of the mask, the feel of the chill, herb-scented air against his face. He makes a note of its fall, so he can pick it up later and return it to Florent properly, but he won't spoil Astarion's satisfaction right now.

"I'd ask how the wine is," he says, eyes landing on the glasses, "but I can guess the answer to that." Astarion doesn't do things by halves, least of which his enjoyment of the finer things in life. "What I can't guess is how long it must've taken to get that outfit made."

It's beautiful, genuinely, and so many things in Thedas take time.

[illithidnapped]

The reality? Neither of the present pair are the very devout prince’s type, but hypotheticals are always fun, and it’s possible they’re both in need of that right now.

He sets the full glass of wine in front of Holden, offering it with a proud, jagged grin. It should be unsettling, the image of Blessed Andraste with the fangs of a wild animal— and maybe to a certain extent, it is— but it’s just Astarion’s own trademark by now.

“I had time to prepare. It’s been a long few months since I first arrived, and I decided to do my homework for once.” Said despite the fact that he’d been decidedly absent the night of the initial party.

Strange.

“Mm. Come to think of it, the rest of you did too, but I’ve made the strict decision not to judge you all too harshly tonight. In the spirit of things.”

[acreage]

It should be unsettling, the fanged grin. But after knowing the man in front of him this long, it isn't frightening, only Astarion. From the smile Astarion gets in return, it's clear that alarm is a far, far thought from his mind. He picks up his glass with a nod of thanks, takes his first sip with a grateful sound. It matters to Astarion, being thanked, and he tries to remember that.

"That's appreciated."

The lack of judgment. Holden's had a lot longer to prepare for this party, hadn't. Astarion's absence at the initial party had been noticed, though in the aftermath set aside as a it's better he was safer. Here at the party tonight, it's clear he isn't missing out.

"Your homework paid off." Sincerely, "You look great."

Flagrantly heretical, yes. But the outfit is flattering as much as it's outrageous, and that's impressive itself.

iii

[arkitect]

For the record, he heard that comment earlier, and if Astarion happened to glance his way at the time-- he certainly received a flat look in return. But he'd let it be, and it's only now that he's met up with Astarion properly, lingering outside as he is wont to do tonight. He's seated with a glass of wine in hand, reclining, posture slouched more than he would allow to show in others' company; he's been on his feet for a while and would prefer not to be again for a time, thanks.

"Of course you would wonder," he says dryly, over the rim of the glass at his lips. "Why? Are you hoping to draw the gaze of the divine yourself, with that getup of yours?"

[illithidnapped]

“Well if it worked once...” Astarion purrs sweetly, heavy lashes batting for good measure. “You do look ever so dashing tonight. Fit to tempt murder, if I do say so myself.”

A single beat sits there, widening his smile by degrees.

“You know, for being a Magister, I mean. Not for anything else.”

[arkitect]

"I daresay your other suggestions would have tempted it further, and in light of that... I do believe I will take my chances with this one."

Would it have been funny? Sure. Less funny if anyone took offense, though, so-- magister it was. He takes a drink before he continues.

"But you are biased in your compliments, you do realize."

[illithidnapped]

His glance to one side is performative: a show of absent, deep set consideration. The very picture of a philosopher mired in fathomless contemplation— if said philosopher was pretending to be the Bride of the Maker herself.

When he flicks his stare back towards Emet-Selch, it’s filled only with faux naïveté.

“Fairly certain I’m biased in just about everything.”

[arkitect]

"So you are."

That comes with amusement in his tone, a smirk curving his mouth; the glass is lowered for now, attention more fully on his companion.

"That hardly means, however, that you should not be kept aware of it-- I do hear it serves to aid the ego."

[illithidnapped]

“Which one?” He asks, saccharine as spilled honey while meandering a touch more closely. Something blasphemous perhaps in the wickedness of Andraste coiled near the arm of a magister.

Symbolically speaking, anyway.

Maybe also literally.

“Your ego, or mine?”

[bouchonne]

"Thank you, your holiness, blessed Andraste," Byerly replies. His voice is rough and breathless, weak, like he's in the depths of a nasty head-cold. Still, his manner is cheery enough, and he tips his glass to receive the wine. He's wrapped in bandages, dressed to resemble one of those living corpses himself.

"What do you think? Would you mistake me for a hero?"

hurls my shambling corpse at your feet finally

[illithidnapped]

“Our enemies certainly might be, given how fervently they’ve been trying to off you as of late.” With one hand he pours into that waiting glass, and with the other— coupled with an all too sly wink— he delicately pulls at a hanging section of bandaging, akin to tugging on a cat’s tail.

“But I could anoint you as one, and I think that might count just as much.”

The bottle’s righted. Astarion drinks from it directly.

“Pity, though. I was looking forward to seeing more of your handsome face tonight.”

kisses your dead nose

[bouchonne]

"Trying to off all of us," By corrects mildly. He reaches up and unwinds a length of the bandage - obediently exposing a bit more of the pretty face for Astarion's approval. He uses the loose fabric to tie around Astarion's pointer finger, gently tethering him to himself.

"I should not pretend there's anything special about me."

:0

[illithidnapped]

That newfound favor between them, leashing their equally delinquent presences together, is subsequently also given the lightest of pulls for good measure: Astarion's painted lips idly curling as he studies it with all the muted interest of a cat having just found an insect wedged beneath its own paw.

Short-lived, of course. He lets it slacken a moment later, finding an only somewhat odd angle to hold his hand upright in midair.

"You're right: all of you." Comes a matching adjustment, neither bark nor bite to be seen despite the topic at hand. "I was quite comfortable in Lowtown on both occasions."

wildcard!

[indissection]

Sidony is, of course, enjoying the party a great deal after the nightmare of the last attempts to celebrate - she is still a little tired, a little sore and frustrated, but the notion of not taking part did not even occur to her once. She has a beautiful dress, her hair is styled, and she feels a confidence she hadn't been able to show in some time. Choosing the path of a healer doesn't lend itself to the wearing of silks and beautiful garments, but Riftwatch rarely leaves her out of her pretty dresses for too long. It's one of the reasons why she is so gleefully content most days.

Familiar faces are abound, and there's no hiding the delight on her expression when she catches Astarion at the celebration, quick to slip around the people already dancing and enjoying themselves to make herself known. Their last party together had been a rather fond introduction, so she has no shame when she offers a small, practised little curtsey, lifting her head to give him a soft, coy little smile.

Part of the fun is the flirtation, the falseness of it all, dancing around and joking because so many other people would be far more droll.

"Darling," he voice is gentle when she offers her hand. "Would you mind?"

[illithidnapped]

“Mind? No, never.”

But she knew that already, Astarion suspects, given the directness of her approach. The subtle gleam in her eyes. He takes that offered hand with endearing ceremony, long curls tumbling forward as he bends, careful not to put her eye out with a circlet that honestly seems both historically inaccurate and woefully unwieldly besides.

If Andraste truly wore this damn thing, it's no wonder she had so much trouble.

“But the Bride of the Maker is very much known for miracles and misfortune rather than dancing. I’m terrified I’ll disappoint.”

[indissection]

"Thank goodness for that."

It's easy to step into the movement, letting herself fall into the familiarity of it all. There is so much fun to be had, especially with people still so desperately on edge from the insanity that was their first attempt. It doesn't stop her eyes from glancing around a little, though, to ensure that it is safe, to judge whether or not her hackles can be relaxed.

She's just sharp, discontented even in her enjoyment of the occasion, prepared for the worst. All her recent celebrations have been marred, after all, by some misfortune or another.

It doesn't stop her from curious interest in his headpiece all the same.

"I am certain you shall bring nothing but pride to the name, darling, of that I can vow. You will be like clouds on the floor."

[illithidnapped]

“You'll have the entirety of my very best effort at your disposal.” All this talk, and yet his footsteps glide with ease even in high-tipped heels, silent as death itself even without the ebb and flow of nearby music.

“Or at least a third. Maybe less.”

He sees that peripheral anxiousness. Those looks designed for simple self-assurance in the wake of something terrible as the past few days. Something absent in Astarion himself, content in perfect contrast, and confident in his every movement.

“You have me curious now, though. Lovely as you look— radiant as starlight— what is your costume? A famous duchess? Elven goddess, perhaps?”

[indissection]

"A third? Consider me both touched and impressed that you would offer such a great deal," Sidony is no stranger to dancing herself, even in her lovely heels, shifting with the movement of the music and letting herself be led and guided. It's easy enough; it's how she learned when she was at home.

He keeps her anchored, almost ironically, and she lifts her head to look at him before she laughs softly.

"And if I told you I was dressed as a Nevarran noble set to be mummified would you believe me? Or would you accept it as a quiet excuse to wear a pretty new dress to a party?"

She lifts her shoulders.

"I could be a duchess, or a goddess, but I think my husband would find it an unkind match to his choice this evening."

[illithidnapped]

"A Nevarran noble it is." He chuckles smoothly in return, tongue to the back of his own sharp incisors. A silent conspiracy between them, held between perfectly timed steps— his grip on her loose for the sake of grace alone, slim fingers curled taut along the small of her back.

"Besides, given the chaos of the last few days, I'll excuse you doing anything you like, darling."

And not just excuse it. Offer it an absolute alibi. Partake in it himself. So little is off the table, in essence.