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

[rebellionyell]

Not wanting anyone to get a crick in their neck by their inability to have an eye-to-eye conversation with him Dante leaned back against a nearby table, testing the sturdiness first. While collapsing a table along with everything on it would be amusing, it wouldn't be smooth and Dante was nothing if not aware of his surroundings and the people in his surroundings. He dropped nearly a full foot.

"Now there's an image," an image that Dante didn't want to dwell too hard on, he had a mother and didn't want to imagine some sky vagina birthing him at his grown-ass age, "it's probably a good thing that I wasn't conscious for any of it."

Though the colorful description does get a laugh out of him that's somewhere between a snort and an exhalation of air.

"Well Side-Show is my proper name, but I guess I can allow you to call me Dante."

[elegiaque]

“Oh, if you prefer your proper name, by all means. Did you at least wake up for the fight, or did some poor fuck have to lug you all the way back here?”

The anchor-shard in Gwenaëlle's own hand — at some point maybe she'll give her name, maybe — came from a rift by the other angle, the carriage she'd been traveling across Orlais in knocked off its axels by the violent eruption of the sky. A native of this slow-moving clusterfuck rather than a transplant into it, but the end result is not dissimilar: stuck with first the Inquisition and then Riftwatch, until such time as at least the war is over.

Whichever way that goes.

[rebellionyell]

"I arrived in the middle of a coma, to the misfortune of the poor fuck," Dante raised his hand as though he were holding an invisible glass in toast to the soul who had to lift him, "it was probably a team effort though so I can't feel too terrible."

Dante doesn't elaborate further on his situation; masquerades were a cesspool of ears and anonymity. Aside from sarcasm Dante didn't quite have the measure of her and how she'd react to anything specific about his situation or his being.

[elegiaque]

“The list of people who can close a rift by themselves, even our most illiterate can count with one hand,” she acknowledges, giving him a sort of visual once-over he can probably interpret to be absently doing the math on how much of a nuisance he would be to both keep alive in a demon fight and then transport, unconscious. It's not to any particular purpose, really, just—

Turning on the candlelights and turning off from work are two very different things.

[rebellionyell]

"Well, whoever did the heavy lifting deserves some credit. The probably don't get enough," at Dante's height and mass along it would take 2 experienced lifters could carry him the distance they had but 4 average people to do it comfortably. Granted he was fairly certain that he was only carried far enough before being heaved onto a mount or a wagon.

Still, he's aware of being sized up and gives himself enough room to do an impressive triangular glide. Yes, he can dance, but he' suspected it wasn't a move native to this world.