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

[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.

[illithidnapped]

“You’re—”

Stop-start, perhaps curiously so. It’s nice, after all, to be appreciated— complimented— flattered in a way that reads as sincere even to  Astarion’s sharp and equally skeptical eyes.

“You’re being serious?”

One brow arches almost mistrustfully. Almost because he knows Holden wouldn’t abuse his earned good faith, and almost because the option of the man deciding to tease while holiday spirits are high (and alcohol is free at hand) isn’t likely beyond the pale either.

[acreage]

There's a slight pause, himself. A beat of surprise. But it's short-lived.

"I'm being serious." A shade reassuring. Then, "Considering how good you are at dressing other people," with a nod to his own clothes, "it's no surprise that you're just as good with yourself."

His humor tends towards making fun of himself, not friends. And not about the things they take pride in.

[illithidnapped]

“Well I— mm.”

Soft, his voice. Careful as walking along a narrow ledge. Much as he’s taken to finding enjoyment in feigning cheerful, earnest investment tonight, he hadn’t anticipated someone managing to puncture the barrier of that maintained facade.

It’s hard, after all, to let sincerity touch scorched fingers.

“Thank you.” He looks away, shifting slightly. “I...suppose you don’t look so terrible, either.”

[acreage]

"I appreciate that."

And he does, truly. Never mind the hand Astarion had in his costume, an easy jest — well, I should hope so — that he could make. There's something fragile here, in his friend's hesitance, in the look elsewhere. This isn't unfamiliar.

If you choose terrible gifts it won’t be because of me.

So he only smiles, offers a little salute with his wineglass. Picks up his mask with his free hand, lets it dangle at his side. As he turns to go,

"Enjoy the party."