faderift | SATINALIA 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO.

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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.

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“Love you, too.”

To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. Not at the near miss, and certainly not at being shoved, which seems only to make the edges of his grin curl all the more vividly.

“But my point still stands, of course. Probably even more so, come to think of it: I didn’t bring you here to stand sentry.”

They’d never talked about it, the first failed Satinalia party. Despite the fact that he was decidedly absent, he knows enough by now about what actually went down. News has a way of finding itself into his very sharp ears. Given her present skulking, he assumes she must’ve been there, and opted to say nothing— either that or she’s objectively terrified of the walking dead.

Understandable, too, given what he’s grasped of her story.

“Especially not looking like that.”

Pretty as a picture, spiting all her scars. An outfit squandered on a place like this, where she so easily outshines, but Astarion likes to think eventually there’ll be a more fitting affair down the line where the finery he’s bought her will well and truly do necessary work.

Val Royeaux isn’t so far as people think.

Love you, he says, dropping it casually, and Ellie believes him.

She wrinkles her nose at him, pressing her lips together, but stows her knife just as easily as she pulled it out, reaching down to awkwardly smooth the silk. Her gloved fingertips linger on the embroidery, self-conscious of it. She's never worn anything like this in her life, and it feels like a costume.

"I feel fucking ridiculous," she mutters under her breath, the darkness hiding the edge of color in her cheeks as she leans in to bump her shoulder against his. She knows she looks nice, because Astarion has excellent taste, but she still has trouble with this much attention on her. It's fine when it's just him, but everyone else?

It's nothing she can't handle, but it's still a lot.

Edited 2021-11-19 22:24 (UTC)

“Well you don’t look ridiculous, darling.” Scoffed light as he reaches out to adjust the glimmering edge of one seamline where it’s begun to hang crookedly off her shoulder. Slight as she is, it’s no surprise.

“In fact, you’d fit right in amongst Hightown’s Elite— scars and all.” Which, at the mention of them, sees the edge of Astarion’s thumb resting just against the notched edge of something nearer to her collarbone. A glancing little brush of a thing, just before he pulls back.

“So stop fussing.”

Astarion isn't always honest, but Ellie knows as surely as she breathes that he wouldn't lie about her looks. He's a great admirer of beauty, and she settles under his touch, pressing her lip together as she watches his face. The traces of kohl around her eyes make them look huge, bring the green in them into startling relief.

"Fine," she says with a soft huff, then tilts her head at him.

"Dunno how you do it."

“Look effortlessly beautiful?” Astarion asks coyly, taking the opportunity to withdraw the hand that’d been fixing her ensemble and tucking it beneath his own raised chin like a high-hung painting.

And then it drops, the joke set aside.

“I was born into this sort of thing, you know. Not this—” he amends sharply with a gesture towards their somewhat slapdash surroundings, given how quickly this all had to be redone at cost. “But this, yes.”

It comes wit a nod towards her finery, which against the backdrop of an open sky might easily be mistaken for the constellations overhead, visible even within the city itself. Glittering like jewels.

“And under my former master’s care, I was expected to maintain that same purpose— the same habits, too. Some mix between the Grand Game and the subtler work of bards, if I had to equate it to something you might actually be familiar with. Mm— much like my most recent mission to Wycome, in fact: information and acquisition through allure. Charm.”

There’s no visible distaste when he says it; facts are facts, and it was one of the few moments of entrapment where Astarion felt the wind on his face. Wine on his tongue. Touch, and laughter, and all manner of things— even if they were false come sunrise.

What comes next, though, is far more direct.

“You’re not in your own world anymore, darling. Sooner or later, you’re going to need these skills, too.”

Ellie's mouth quirks at one edge, but she rides out his posturing, knowing by now that he must, that it's both an act and a part of him as vital as the rest. She wouldn't have him any other way.

She pictures him in gold and jewels and silks, young and without the darkness lurking in the back of his eyes, and the notion seems so hollow. Had she met him then, would she have cared nearly as much?

Tilting her head to a deeper angle, Ellie adjusts one of her gloves, relaxes her shoulders, and shrugs on the mask she learned in another world, another lifetime. It never sat well, even then. She can blend in, but only when no one's looking directly at her. And not for long.

But she can do it.

"Remember how I told you I used to play for important people?" she says, realizing that she never actually elaborated.

“Mmhm.” He hums, studying her newfound poise with obvious approval— though it could just as easily be strictly related to the topic at hand as her own association to it.

“The prestigious corpses with limited options.”

"When I say it was another lifetime, I mean it literally." Ellie runs her fingertips along her wrist, catching the small wrinkles, pulling it all into place. The pins are snug against the stumps of her fingers.

"The god there, the one I got some of my powers from? He created a whole different reality, and then made us believe we'd been there all along. Had never known anybody else. Every single person in the world lived in a giant glass ball, where the rich were rich, and well... everyone else was lower than dirt."

Ellie gives him a slightly sharp smile. "Overpopulation was a problem, so. Kids without parents were especially low on the food chain. And if you got caught committing a crime, any crime, whether it was stealing a loaf of bread or murdering somebody, they put you in this place called the Quarry. And everyone in there fought to the death. If you were the last one standing, you got to live. Instant celebrity."

Her smile turns sharper, her back straight, an echo of those phantom years.

"I was sentenced to the Quarry at fourteen. After, a guy named Nathan took me under his wing. Taught me how to smile and dance and find myself some patrons, and hide how much I hated being a living fucking trophy. Because it was do that, or play the odds. Go back in, bet on myself, the way he and Sam and Wade did."

Ellie shrugs her shoulder, glances back out at the dance floor.

"I know this isn't like that. But this shit still turns my stomach."

Sam. The very same Sam that was here, Astarion suspects, the edges of the picture finally clearing by degrees.

For a long moment, he’s silent. Quiet and contemplative, letting his own thoughts fill out empty space. There’s an opportunity to simply take note of her confession and let it lie. Talk of powers, gods— leashing finery and forced brutality.

His lips purse before he speaks.

“There are some things I can’t stand, you know. Little reminders, like the stench of wet fur.” The vintage Cazador favored; his table was always set with it. Broken glass. Shaving razors.

But he presses those thoughts far enough out of arm’s reach that their memory evokes nothing.

“Realistically I know that chapter’s well and truly closed, barring some miserable mishap where this shard fails and I get sent back along with all the other botched rifters this place has known over the years.” Back, he says, because he refuses to believe they’re all nothing more than dust and dreams like the local prevailing theory.

“But still. You’re the one in control, now, my darling.” Up comes that hand again, the edge of a single knuckle gentle when it aligns with her chin, shifting it higher by the most nominal number of degrees. Something like a nudge, technically speaking. Maybe a scuff.

“I won’t have you forgetting that.”

Admitting weakness, spilling these past moments, are not so hard anymore. She's coming to view them like admitting to an injury. Something to disclose to her partner, because it means they'll be able to compensate, guard her back.

With Astarion, it's better than most. So she listens, easing the pieces together in her mind, bits of things she'll remember so she can guard him in turn.

Her expression settles as she nudges her. Not quite peace, but an understanding. Empathy mixed with reminder. She lifts her chin, briefly grips his wrist, her thumb against the back of it. A brush before she lets it fall away.

"No, you won't," she agrees, her smile losing the sharp edges, easing into something more comfortable. She holds out her hand, offering.

"Want to dance?"

When he takes her offered hand, it's a snaring gesture rather than anything borne out of acquiescence: dragging her to his side in order to trap her in a ruffling sort of squeeze. It means he'll have to sort out her regalia once more later on, but in all honesty, dancing won't do a thing to help keep rumpled fabric at bay, either.

They'll just cross that bridge when they come to it.

“Only if you promise to give me a demonstration later.” He says, still keeping Ellie trapped in a sidelong hold as he leads the both of them towards the dance floor, a tangle of gold locks having pressed their way in against her cheek.

“I want to see exactly what those powers of yours are.”

And how useful they might be, the next time things come to brutal, bloody shove around here.

Ellie gives him a slight squawk as he practically scoops her in close, and grumbles but doesn't fight him on either the hold or the demand.

"Yeah, yeah," she says gruffly, but doesn't hide the small smile as they make their way to the floor, and grabs his hand as they start their steps.

"My powers are a little stubborn, but I think I've figured out the trick."

"Oh?"

His chin tips to one side with fresher curiosity, displacing the heavy hang of gilded curls; that he leaves Ellie to lead this time is a conscious choice. Nothing to do with Andraste, only a measure of trust.

He wants to see how well she'll do on her own.

"And what's that, exactly. Think happy thoughts?"

"Kinda the opposite."

It takes her half a second for her to realize that Astarion's relinquished the lead to her, but she doesn't miss a step, just changes her hold to put a hand in the small of his back, using the pressure of her palm and joined hands to lead, falling into the steps as she eases them into a clear place on the dance floor.

She's better at leading, nowadays, than following.

"The first god's the invisibility, right? The blue one. But the gold's the god of war, and beasts. So if I get pissed off, or really hurt, or even if I just want to win, then it turns on. And suddenly it's like everything and everyone else is a little slower."

Really, it's that she's faster.

"I take hits that should break bones, and instead I'm just bruised. When I aim now it's like... a notch in the air, I know exactly where to move and how much power to use. When I hit things I send them flying. It's crazy. I just wish I could get it to happen all the time."

Invisibility. Time. Strength— or at least that’s as best as Astarion can comprehend the list she’s given him, having only seen the faintest flicker of one of those abilities so far, and it’d been quick enough that if he hadn’t known a thing about it, he might’ve doubted its existence entirely.

“I suppose that means a manifestation might be a little difficult to manage.” There’s something so casual about the atmosphere here, different in its cast than the last party they’d attended, but Astarion treats it no differently: he leans into her movements, likely pleased to find her taking to this so well.

But that might just be the way of adaptable creatures.

“How often do you practice it all?”

"Why, do you want to practice it with me?"

Ellie raises her eyebrows, making it a playful question, but she does mean it. He's quick, and she's curious -- she's never actually managed to catch him in action. Sneaking up on her does speak volumes about his skills, but she has a hunch that he often hides just how adept he is, despite how he likes to show off.

"I've got the invisibility down, and the aiming thing. Mostly. It's that... other state that's tricky. And I get tired, after."

She's not sure why. The invisibility doesn't seem to tire her; but then, it has other limitations.

“Do I look like the sort of person that enjoys rolling about in the courtyard getting sweaty for absolutely no good reason?”

Asked through the edges of his teeth before his expression shifts abruptly.

“—don’t answer that.”

In truth, though, there’s more leeway in play than he lets on: he’d hated sparring against Fenris (the man cheated, using those marks of his), dragged his heels over the idea of squaring off against Thranduil— but for Ellie, he’d make an exception all the same.

Not easily, though.

“Anyway I noticed the Fade tends to screw with us on arrival, to a certain extent. My former weaknesses, the Ascian’s immortality, certain biological features in others— maybe that’s why you can’t quite get the hang of it just yet. Or at least why you tire.”

"Well-"

Ellie presses her lips together when he cuts her off, holding back a snicker only with a mighty effort. She can see that he's thinking, though, and her eyes sharpen at the suggestion, focusing on her thoughts. The way Glimmer's powers had twisted themselves, dimmed the shine of her hair, even muted the color so it would look like something found here.

"Shit, I wonder."

Ellie pauses, then glances down at her arm, feeling somewhat cold.

"... I wonder."

He sees that shift. Hard to miss regardless, but observant as he is, even between strides his focus fits itself to searching out the edges of her expression.

Trying to translate it.

“...what is it?”

Low. As subdued as it is curious.

"Might be wrong, but. I'm not sure if that'd fuck with my bite," she says, feeling vaguely stupid. "That might be what made it safe for you."

She pauses again, shrugging one shoulder.

"Then again, might've been safe anyway? Last world, somebody opened up my skull and nothing happened, so. It's probably okay."

Some part of her has always nursed the vague fear of the infection simply being delayed.

Safe for you.

Those words send an instinctive shiver up his spine. Have him glancing at his own peripheral surroundings as though the whole party might as well be staring at them.

He knows better. It stills a beat later, that impulse, ending in a gentle squeeze of her hand with a reassuring smirk. Cavalier.

He despises discussing his own monstrosity where locals might openly hear, but she’s been vague, and he knows she’d never carelessly twist the knife— let alone strike him in the back with it to begin with.

“Maybe,” Astarion concedes, head tilting thoughtfully to one side as he fights the urge to take hold of their rhythm-driven course. “But you really need to stop telling me things like ‘they opened up my skull’ and ‘I was forced to pander to a bunch of decrepit, spoiled cocks’, otherwise I’m never going to know what to do with all this useless indignance on your behalf.”

He doesn’t mean that, of course. Or— he does, but not in the sense of wanting her to stop. There’s just no other way to express it, the frustration of futility.

Of concern, useless as it is.

Ellie says things, sometimes, that she realizes too late are horrific. She'll watch people flinch, or the color drain from their face, or their curious, earnest expressions turn to shock and pity and disgust.

It always sucks.

Astarion's good at hiding his reaction, but her hand's on the small of his back, leading him in the dance. She feels it when he shivers. Without thought, she tightens her hold, drawing him in closer, responding to his unease as if there's something she can physically guard him from.

Reflex.

But he squeezes her hand, and she eases up, realizing. She squeezes back, glancing away as she listens.

"Yeah, I get that. I feel the same way about a particular fuckface from your past."

It's not an apology, but. She gets it. She eases them into a spin, turning their faces away from anyone who may have been watching them, even if they have no real enemies here. They both guard.

They accommodate each other, he realizes in that moment.

The one that sits somewhere between her hold and his response. The way she follows suit before they’re both entirely back to normal— before he’s oh so quick to snare her at the end of that spin, done playing a game of passivity, and instead simply wanting to play.

“Oh? Which one is that.” Asked as coyly as ~~humanly~~ elvishly possible.

“Speaking of, I noticed yours is decidedly absent this evening.”

"You know," Ellie scowls right back, but the second he pulls on her she doesn't resist, and follows his lead, attuned. She'll steal it back when he's least expecting it, to be sure, but for now-

"... ugh," she mutters, pulling a face that quickly turns thoughtful.

"Is she in the infirmary or something?"

As far as she knew, Abby wasn't out on a mission. One would think she'd want to be on watch, just in case something else happened, and the party was the best place for that.

He pauses in dancing (without pausing the dance itself) to reach high for one thoughtful moment, scuffing at an itch just behind his ear where long curls have been settled heavy against his scalp for a touch too long. They’re not in Hightown; they could choke on wine or fumble their performance and still, by virtue of dress and presence, leave an overwhelmingly positive presence amongst the rest of Riftwatch’s own.

“You know,” he starts, collecting her hand in his once more. “I hadn’t really thought of that. For all we know she might not’ve even made it out— though it seems unlikely, given the way Riftwatch tends to talk.”

But they don’t always talk, do they? After all...

“Then again, she is a rifter.”

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