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

[arkitect]

"Would that any of us could make as effective a statement with such a thing-- but I do not doubt it would look ridiculous enough on some."

Himself, for one. It would look absolutely terrible, something he is well aware of.

With a thoughtful little sound, he adds, "Though mayhap that would still have the intended effect, albeit... in a very different manner."

[elegiaque]

“I'm sure we could find someone already nailing 'off-putting' if we put our minds to it.” What an uncharitable thing to say in such a tone that suggests they wouldn't even have to try very hard, but Gwenaëlle—and her voice is very distinct—is not exactly known for feeling moved to be charitable.

“But it's the difference between a drunk and a lush or a madman and an eccentric.” A beat. “Money and bone structure.”

She's rich and pretty, so she gets to be difficult instead of fucking intolerable.

[arkitect]

"Or charm, in sufficient supply-- which works best alongside good looks, naturally, but I have seen it employed quite effectively even with a lack of both of those benefits."

A slight shrug, there, a little wave of the hand that isn't holding his glass. The glove bears the emblem of the Imperium-- he's borrowing the aesthetic of the enemy for the night, evidently, which unsurprisingly looks fairly good on him. It's just the vibe.

"Far harder to find, however."

[elegiaque]

“Well, that's something else entirely,” she says, terribly reasonable, the tilt of her expression suggesting at the meaningful rise of her eyebrows even as they're hidden beneath the masque. “If you have to be charming as well, you are missing something from the equation.”

A gesture, lazy, to his get up: “Tevinter hasn't felt the need to charm the the south, Maker knows.”

Before Corypheus, even. The difference between a drunk madman and an eccentric with a taste for fine wines is power, at the end of the day—

It's a joke, but it's funny because it's true. Or less funny, because it's true. Probably depends on where you're standing in relation to power.

[arkitect]

Have to be, is it. He evaluates all of this quietly, but just arches a brow, one corner of his mouth quirked slightly. "Given what I have heard of Tevinter," he says, lightly enough, "I rather doubt they possess it in sufficient supply to think of trying it... though I expect our work may be that much more difficult if they had."

A sufficiently convincing enemy can be worse than a sufficiently strong one, under the right circumstances-- he's played both sides of that enough before, and if he's going to be working at odds to a force he would previously have been well-suited to working with... frankly, he'll take what he can get here.

After a moment's pause, he continues on: "But this is not, however, an occasion to think of work."

[elegiaque]

“As a charmless person who thinks about work too much and typically avoids this sort of bullshit,” it's sort of upbeat, where it might almost be a joke except she definitely means it, “I'll defer to your greater understanding of the sense of occasion.”

She'd been—in the mood for something, restless, sick of her own company. She'd wanted, the first Satinalia night, to slough off her own best behaviour; she isn't really sure what she actually wants to achieve here, tonight, disinclined to dance and selective about her company. Maybe it's enough to have come. Maybe that qualifies as making an effort, even if she couldn't define exactly what the effort had been, or why she'd gone and made it.

She didn't spend the evening brooding or sulking or picking at her stitches. Good job.

After a moment, “It's just life at this point, isn't it.” Work. She'd meant what she'd said to Abby—isn't it lovely that frivolous things still exist, what the fuck are we fighting for—but she feels clumsy and awkward holding them.

[arkitect]

"All too easy for life to become that way, when the state of the world sits as it does now."

When it's in the midst of war, when one belongs to an organization helping to wage it-- and when it sounds as if peace was a somewhat tenuous thing even before this particular spark was lit. It's all something he's observed time and time again, though rarely has he had to care as much about how he, personally, might be affected by the outcome as he does now.

"And it is all too easy to say to simply appreciate the smaller things in life when a pall may be cast over them at any moment, when a weight hangs over much of whatever occurs-- when it feels as if there is always something which ought to be done."