ғʟᴏʀᴇɴᴛ ᴠᴀsᴄᴀʀᴇʟʟᴇ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deuselfmachina) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2021-11-16 12:17 pm
deuselfmachina) wrote in faderift2021-11-16 12:17 pm
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
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
Symbolically speaking, anyway.
Maybe also literally.
“Your ego, or mine?”
no subject
Some of it might not be unfounded, sure, but still. Emet-Selch doesn't draw away when he meanders closer, allowing him to do as he likes-- for now.
no subject
His hand— the one nearest to the center of his bared chest— takes the opportunity to fan itself, arched fingertips resting light as a fallen feather beneath the hut of his own collarbone, tapping for good measure.
Thank you for walking right into that, Emet-Selch.
no subject
no subject
Hah.
“I always knew there was a reason I liked you.” Beyond the controversy and mystery. Beyond everything else, too.
“But I digress. What’s the story with that slouch? You usually hunch a little differently. Less to the left.”
no subject
A faint smirk, there, before he waves it off. The question isn't answered immediately; he takes a look around, first, ensures they're the only ones here for the moment, before he exhales a sigh and gestures to the left side of his abdomen.
"One of the dead managed a lucky enough hit, close to the end of the night." He'd been more or less tapped out of his magic, exhausted; he sounds faintly irritated, to recall it. "One that was seen to, but has yet to fully fade."
no subject
Friendly advice— set aside in the next beat when his eyebrows lift high enough to kiss the edge of that gilded circlet.
“Oh? Getting careless I see.” His tongue catches in a soft tut against the backs of his fangs, mouth pursing just so for good measure.
“And here I thought you had more power in you. How disappointing.”
no subject
But the lazy wave of his hand isn't fully casual, bears some lingering tension thanks to that second remark.
"I did, for some time-- but it appears this body has newfound limits, when it comes to flinging spells for the better part of a night."
no subject
“I’m going to have to try harder, then, the next time you and I plan one of our little get togethers.”
His laughter is an afterthought; he’s eyeing Emet-Selch’s injured side more keenly, red eyes faintly dilated.
“Purely for study, of course. Just call me an honorary member of Research.”
no subject
He's one of the last people Emet-Selch would ever call an honorary member, jokingly or not.
But he watches Astarion's gaze fall to his injured side, takes note of the way he's looking, and drops his voice to say: "And before your thoughts go too far, no, you are not reopening the damned thing while I am trying to heal."
no subject
Like Astarion himself, it's a complex balance.
"Too far?" Breath leaves him in a sharp snort, stitching together indignation and accusation alike. "What do you think I am, some sort of common, insatiable beast?"
no subject
He's proven more control than that, so far-- enough that it's not a true concern.
But he does continue, idly, as if he hasn't registered that scoff at all: "Were it not already healing, I would have no such compunctions. I mean only that I know you seemed quite satisfied, before."
no subject
The garden that houses this celebration is entirely open. Flat in a way that lends itself to long ears or sharp senses.
His hand closes around Emet-Selch’s arm, and when he doesn’t bodily drag the man from his perch into one of the narrower paths, but it’s more forceful than how someone might handle a mending companion. Doubly so when said companion is a friend.
“I know. I know half of Riftwatch already knows what I am, but what they don’t know is that I still—” He cuts himself off, sharp as he searches for the right wording. “Engage in it.”
Hushed, this time. Leaning in so far that the high point of his circlet reflects a trace of moonlight onto the gleaming edges of Emet-Selch's Tevene regalia.
“Talk of reopening any wound without some sort of vetting as a pair of healing hands has implications in a world like this— and unlike you, I don’t have any intention of nobly swallowing the consequences of my own unfortunate past.”
no subject
"I would not do so carelessly," he says, voice kept low with Astarion so close, gaze cast momentarily to the side to confirm the place is still empty enough; a moment passes before he exhales a heavy breath and forces himself to relax, the last of that tension easing from his posture.
One hand comes up to rest at the side of his face, and anyone who did happen to come out here could be excused for thinking this is something completely different-- which is certainly the point of the gesture. His timing isn't that poor.
"You certainly do not need to tell me how this world takes things."
no subject
Away from the bonfires and softer sources of heat scattered around the party itself, it’s much colder out here. Not that Astarion can overtly feel it, but it’s likely a good thing Emet-Selch is dressed warm.
“I don’t know, maybe you want a roommate in purgatory.” said mildly. Petulantly, even, though muted. One hand rising to rest against the dead center of Emet-Selch’s chest, fiddling with the filigree laid out there.
no subject
It would be short-sighted to drag anyone else (excepting Gabranth) with him, for one thing, when he can use all the well-positioned assistance he can get... but he doesn't think he would keep that company for long after doing so, and that would be a more unfortunate result.
He has no interest in doing that to Astarion, and makes no move to nudge his hand away.
no subject
For the sake of cover, Astarion tips his head against that palm, blond hair snaking around his fingers.
“All right.” He hums, giving the brocade another, heavier little pluck. “I suppose you have a point.”
His gaze falls lower, shifting with apparent calm.
“Why did you come if you’re still healing? You could’ve stayed in; it’s not as if the whole of Riftwatch would hammer you with suspicion for opting to abstain.”
no subject
"I could have," he says, with a one-shouldered shrug. "I missed the last affair, as well, and I doubt it would be examined too closely... but I thought I might prefer to be seen, instead."
Just to be sure. There's been no noticeable threat so far, but it's the potential of unnoticeable ones that he finds more concerning.
"Do try not to pick at that too much," he adds as an afterthought, huffed out on a slight sigh as he glances down to Astarion's hand.
no subject
Sharp as the question is via subject alone, there’s a tameness to Astarion’s tone as well: he’s teasing— the clothing is beautiful in its own right, it can’t have come cheap. Preserving it for that reason alone is good enough, let alone anything else.
He stops fussing with it, and leaves Emet-Selch’s own thumb to skirt where it likes.
“Anyway I’d I were you I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure the last cultist hellbent on cleansing this wretched world for the sake of our salvation did plenty to distract from you.”
A beat, before:
“You know, in the last few minutes before burning away into little bits of ash and bone.”
no subject
"Yes, I suppose so," he answers dryly. "Not as accomplished a spectacle as planned, I am sure, but-- we are far better off for that."
Honestly, his own reasons are the most important ones that he's here, even if Astarion is right that it might not be a concern-- but then there would have been no point in allowing Astarion to dress him for the occasion if he didn't bother to show up afterward. A small part of it is for his sake, but of course Emet-Selch isn't ever going to say it.
Instead, he just casts a glance back toward the main gathering place, and decides he doesn't quite feel like going back yet.
"Come here. It is certainly no warmer out here for the distance."
I'm going to pretend the typo in my last phone tag to you doesn't exist
The words themselves are warm even if Astarion isn’t, lithe arms snaking almost weightlessly beneath the heavy hang of that dark cloak, and chased by the feeling of pressure as the elf opts to lean— not quite fully, for the sake of sparing injury— against Emet-Selch’s chest.
“I knew you missed having me around.”
no subject
"Do not make me change my mind about that," he mutters, with no real sharpness behind it-- reaching up to drape the cloak so it partially covers Astarion as well. And, as a point of curiosity, he follows it with: "Does the temperature ever trouble you?"
He's noticed, of course, the natural chill; he's just never asked whether he even feels it.
no subject
“In the wastes, for example. While I was bleeding out. Uniquely painful after a while, how sharp the sensation became.” Not a fond memory for many reasons, now, hollowness heavy in Astarion’s voice.
“But something like this? No. It’s only you I can feel, warm as a furnace by comparison.”
no subject
"Many might find themselves jealous. A convenient thing, to be able to shrug it off so." To only feel warmth, when it's present.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)