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

[illithidnapped]

“Just because it’s big doesn’t mean it doesn’t appreciate a good stroke every now and then.”

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.

[arkitect]

"Yes, I'm sure." Dryly, as he takes a sip from his glass: "But I should think you need no help with that, either-- surely you will have everything well in hand on your own."

[illithidnapped]

Well in hand.

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.”

[arkitect]

"I should certainly hope so, else I would question the amount of time you've spent in my company."

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."

[illithidnapped]

“You ought to question that anyway.”

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.”

[arkitect]

"Asking me to question your taste? How unexpected."

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."

[illithidnapped]

“Really? You have limits, now?” Spoken like it’s a rare find or a uniquely jeweled acquisition.

“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.”

[arkitect]

"I don't believe I will."

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."

[illithidnapped]

His scoff is high. Performative to some extent— sincere in others.

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?"

[arkitect]

"Not insatiable, no."

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."

[illithidnapped]

“Be silent.” Astarion hisses, looking more himself for the prickling, wild sneer he wears while shushing his own companion.

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.”

[arkitect]

There's a reflexive tension when he's grabbed, and so he winces despite not being moved-- but only briefly, only just noticeable before he stifles it.

"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."

[illithidnapped]

That hand— Tevinter brand held aloft in the cool night air— pressed to his cheek does a great deal to alleviate the tension threaded throughout Astarion’s expression. Yes, he knows Emet-Selch is more than aware of how precariously they’re fitted into this world’s justifiably fearful balance, but whether or not he’d choose to also safeguard Astarion from it....

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.

[arkitect]

"And what good do you believe that would do me? They may say misery loves company, but I do not think it to be merited in this case."

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.

[illithidnapped]

It makes sense, at least. Even to opportunistic Astarion: power doesn’t just exist to be used, the same way leverage that’s been burned isn’t always better than having it still tucked within your pocket. Even if Emet-Selch wanted him around, having it play out this way would only ensure that they’d never recover from it.

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.”

[arkitect]

His thumb brushes Astarion's cheek, then, glove skimming lightly over skin.

"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.

[illithidnapped]

“What, just in case you’ll need to pose as one of Minrathous’ finest later on?”

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.”

[arkitect]

He probably shouldn't sound amused at that, but he does-- just a little huff of what's almost a laugh, a brief shake of his head.

"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

[illithidnapped]

“Relying on a vampire to help shield you from the cold? Desperation indeed.”

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.”

[arkitect]

He rolls his eyes slightly, there. It might not be as seasonably chilly as usual but look, he just runs a little cold. That's all.

"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.

[illithidnapped]

“It can.” He confesses, though the wording and tone feel perhaps a touch uncommitted at first— chin sinking in against the center of Emet-Selch’s chest as that cloak runs high across his shoulders.

“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.”

[arkitect]

It's coincidental, surely, that an arm slips around Astarion's waist to support him right about then. Nothing to do with the reminder. But with that hollowness evident in his tone, Emet-Selch says nothing of the topic, acknowledging the answer with a quiet hum before letting the subject shift onward.

"Many might find themselves jealous. A convenient thing, to be able to shrug it off so." To only feel warmth, when it's present.

[illithidnapped]

“And all it costs is losing everything about yourself you ever knew or cared for.” Astarion scoffs, feather-light. He can feel that arm settle itself around him; heat too difficult to ignore when so much else is as numb to him as nothing at all.

His voice is dry with bitter humor when he speaks, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Such benefits.”

[arkitect]

"The tradeoffs never are truly worth it, are they."

Both of them know that well enough, given what they've been through before, but-- part of that is unexpected in its wording, gives him pause once he hears it. He's quiet for just a moment, before he asks, "...everything you ever knew?"

[illithidnapped]

“Difficult to withstand two hundred years of...well. Let’s just say Cazador was exceedingly thorough in eclipsing whatever memories I had in life.”

Lost, like offerings on a hungering, hateful pyre.

“I can’t even remember the color of my eyes, you know. What my face looked like before all this. Who I once was. Truly.”

Truly, Astarion says, light enough that it isn’t remotely performative or laced with self-soothing pity. Hard to grieve fully over something you can’t recall.

Harder still to admit it.