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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Dante's human side and his demon side were two sides of the same coin, one side just happened to be more physically plateable while the other side granted power and life everlasting. He had little opportunity for experimentation, but holding his full demon form seemed to have consequences. That's all he's learned so far, but where his limits were...well he'd have to push it and see.

Dante raised his eyebrows as Astarion revealed a little piece of himself, though he suspected the vampirism was common knowledge or, at the very least, obvious. It might have even explained their first meeting and the knife stunt that Dante obligingly went along with.

"A talented vampire spy, huh? Confidence is key in everything," Rubbing his chin thoughtfully Dante couldn't help but prod, Damon's weren't vampires, not properly anyway but they acted very similar in his world. And then there was the blood sucking Qliphoth. Astarion was not that, but did he adhere to the stereotypes Dante was used to in the myths? "Is that why you're lingering in the doorway, you need an invitation?"

That's hurtful Dante.

“No. That’s because of your unwashed laundry.” Said with a curling sneer of a grin, one finger gesturing towards Dante himself as punctuation for his own joke.

“Lucky for me, Thedas was kind enough to erase all those pesky former weaknesses of mine. So don’t go getting any ideas.”

"Excuse me your majesty, these have been washed at least once since the vampire tree incident. And as you can see, I do good work," and to emphasize his point he did a triangular floor glide, giving Astarion a 360 view of his well-worn clothes and there's not a spot to be seen.

"So, filling a bucket with holy water and rigging a door trap for you would have no effect. Where will all of my hardcore fun come from now?"

“It’d still make for a cold midday bath provided you don’t bungle its execution, but— sadly, no. Running water, sunlight, garlic, none of it will do anything to ruin my exceedingly remarkable existence.” Example given with minor fanfare, chin tilting ever higher.

“But there’s always a stake to the heart if you’re desperate. That one will still get the job done, I suspect, courtesy of a heart that now beats...”

For better or worse. Mostly worse.

"Bungle a practical joke? It could never be me," Dante said punctuating this display of childish confidence by smoothing his hair back out of his face, not that it assumed the position for long before falling back into his eyes, "it's a shame though, I'll never be able to wear a vampire repelling garland of garlic around my neck. One thing I won't be able to cross off the bucket list."

Dante took a few short strides across his room and leaned down just enough to look Astarion in the eyes, before flicking a finger at his long tresses just to be a pest.

"You don't have anything to worry about, I don't make a habit of staking anyone in a dress," or what he means to say if he can bench press you then there's something not very sporting about it, "so you don't have any of a vampire's weaknesses, even dhampirs have some weaknesses...do you still qualify as a vampire? I have an inquiring mind; it needs to know."

That subtle flick to the curls framing Astarion's face earns his full attention in a single instant.

Attempt at being a pest entirely successful.

“Your inquiring mind is more nuisance than nuance—” he snorts, flashing fangs as he reaches out in a bid at snaring the offending hand. A game of reflexes between them. “But I still have my teeth. My eyes. Senses sharp enough to detect the scent of your bedding even from here— and a taste for the one thing that continues to define my monstrous kin.”

There’s something comparable to gravity lurking in that final remark, weight drifting through his stare, held in place by hooded crimson. Dark lashes.

They’re so near to one another, after all. And just because Astarion’s the slighter of the two, doesn’t mean he intends to be humbled by it.

Dante doesn't withdraw his hand, though he could probably if he had a mind to. Instead, he flattened the palm of his gloved hand against Astarion's and curled his fingers around the other's fingers. What could be more irritating that turning a power move into holding hands. What will the nosey neighbors say.

"Nuisance? Ouch, now turn the knife counter-clockwise," Dante said melodramatically gesturing to his heart with his free hand, but he listened carefully as Astarion explained all of the things that still qualified him for the status of vampire, "I'll be sure to pepper my bed with a sprinkling of potpourri for your next visit."

Dante made an amused throaty noise, but considered the dry fragrant plants just for the sake of amusement.

"A taste for blood is key. I guess our first date must have been difficult for you."

It isn’t often that someone actually competes with Astarion for the title of Riftwatch's Most Insufferable, but not only is it effective, Astarion doesn’t seem quite sure about what to do with it. The corner of his mouth pulls higher as he considers that hand, breath sharper in an exhale through his nose— but he isn’t unamused.

And he doesn’t let go.

“That’s like saying just because someone’s set a steak nearby that it has to equate to slavering hunger: I’m a man of restraint, not an animal.” Restraint isn’t a word anyone would use to describe Astarion. Not now, and not long after he’s gone— likely from a lack of restraint.

Don’t let him fool you.

“But if your idea of a date was me slicing your palm open, I shudder to think what your previous affairs must’ve been like.”

If Riftwatch's Most Insufferable was pageantry, Dante would be aiming for the scepter, the tiara, and the bouquet of roses. He would also have a to-all-the-little-people-who-made-this-possible speech written out as well just for the additional flourish. Of course, he was indulging, as long as Astarion was playing so was he and since they were playing Dante ran the pad of his thumb back and forth over the side of Astarion's hand.

"Maybe," Dante said as if doubting this notion of restraint as being the whole truth, "but if someone offered you a steak, you can't tell me you wouldn't take it."

Whether or not he was emphasizing a point or just blatantly teasing, Dante tilts his head to the side, exposing his throat. He often plays these dangerous games of dare.

"I understand that pleasure, fear, love, and pain occupy the same space in the brain. That might be why."

It’s all instinctive. Like a housecat snapping fangs on a sill at the sight of fluttering wings, or the phantom pangs of a lost limb, Astarion can’t stop himself from wanting, regardless of the fact that he doesn’t need blood anymore to sustain him. Because therein lies the difference between desire and necessity.

He can’t tell that his eyes have dilated, that he’s just short of holding his own breath under a long inhale, but he’s aware of that scuffing touch skirting along his hand, the mask of his expression gone uniquely still at the sight of an offered throat.

He’s not about to let Dante have this little victory.

“I’d suggest pleasure is the preferable option, but when it comes to tangled leylines I imagine none of us really get to choose.” His smile flexes, thin. It precedes him tugging his hand free at last— or trying to, anyway, before setting the palm of his opposite hand (just slightly colder than the air around them) against Dante’s cheek.

“But I think in this case, you’re just a fan of the dress.”

There's teasing and then there's cruelty, Dante might yank someone's chain or rile them up for a reaction, but he also understands where to draw the line. He's also keenly aware of something in Astarion that demands dignity and that's the reason why he doesn't draw attention to the physiological response to the teasing. He doesn't even press the issue when Astarion disengages from his hand, nothing has to be on his terms and that's just fine.

"If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride... but I guess it all just boils down to circumstance. Fortune either pays you a visit or he doesn't," Dante would never pretend that life was fair though, but that was secondary in attempting to riddle out what little cues Astarion was giving him. He doesn't shy from the touch; his own skin is warmer than average and it contrasted with the coolness in those fingers. It was surprisingly gentle, especially for someone who wasn't quite so accustomed to gentle.

Drawn out of his own thoughts Dante finds himself grinning.

"Fishing for compliments? I mean it is something, not for my benefit I'm guessing," the masquerade thing he'd wager, "so who are you supposed to be?"

“Ah, right. You’re still new.” Not much time to take in hardly anything beyond the sight of the Gallows and its miserable Tevinter-borne architecture, all Imperium grandeur and spite lingering on after an age.

When his hand drops to Dante’s coat, it’s only to give one of the frontmost edges a teasing little tug in passing.

“Blessed Andraste, most holy bride of the Maker himself— something something the voice of all that is and all that might be, and we are all his children— which of course excludes us rifters, but you get the idea.”

No longer holding hands Dante allows one hand to rest against the top of the door frame, the other he tucks into the front pocket of his leathers. He briefly dropped his gaze to Astarion's wandering hand not minding where it drifted and then fixed his eye back on his companion's face. The half-demon was still stooping a bit to avoid the strain of having to look up at him, especially with the head gear Astarion was currently wearing, better to be as close to eye-level as possible.

"The only maker I'm aware of is the one that gave me life and I'm good with that," Dante gave a small jerk of his head in the direction of the photograph.

He took a moment to consider what Astarion was saying, having very little experience with religion beyond the cults in his world, but understanding enough to get the windmill Astarion was tipping at. He gave the outfit a slow once over and smiled approvingly.

"I am definitely a fan of sacrilege and you're not worried about some zealot giving you the finger wag? I respect the cajones," anyone willing to mock any major religion at some small risk to themselves had his sanctioning behind it, "though you should have warned me, I have some experience with the deified, I'd make a very convincing Maker."

Dante knows shit all about being a god, he knows plenty about mocking gods. As far as he's concerned most gods are demons trying to attain godhood status at the expense of others or are in general cruel beings...and if what he understood about the state of this world was anything he couldn't be too impressed with any creator.

“Why would I worry? We’ve already killed the only Andrastian fanatic in our midst a day or two before you got here, and the man was...” Astarion’s attention drifts briefly, his effort to pinpoint the exact wording evasive for a minuscule little beat. And then, in the darkness of Dante’s shadow, it comes to him:

“To put it bluntly, I’ve seen spiders with more tenacity. The house sort. Little ones.”

For emphasis of that fact, he pinches his thumb and forefinger together as a reference point. Small.

“It’s hardly a wonder he didn’t even manage to take anyone out with him, bless his poor, wretched little heart.”

He certainly did try.

"One tiny man with nothing but a dream and no Sitzfleisch," which for Dante could be doublespeak for no ass or no staying power, "if the mental imagery wasn't so comical, I'd almost feel bad for him."

Now Dante just had a mental image of one of those tiny house spiders scurrying around trying to commit a murder right before being taken out by a tissue. It shouldn't be so entertaining but he has to turn away to laugh.

"Well as long as it's a friendly religion. I don't have much experience with tolerant ones...but the only religion I can say I've ever really had anything to do with worshipped my father. That was just awkward...the spiders weren't tiny and they had a lot of...tenacity," due in part to the fact that it was a religion that was also infested with demons, but that didn't bear mentioning.

“Your father...” he starts, mulling over that confession with idle curiosity, eyeline shifting high to meet Dante’s own.

“But not you?”

A hunch, given the tone. The way Dante speaks about them with an almost unreadable expression. Awkward, he says. Not exactly flattery or fondness.

"Oh no, I don't have any interest in being deified or worshipped, no aspirations of godhood here. Can you imagine? All that adoration would just inflate my ego, I'd be impossible to live with," Dante had enough excitement without the masses gathering at his door to leave him offerings, "besides, people would only get hurt, being a reputable hunter and a nobody is best all around."

He did have some measure of disdain for the Order for a number of reasons and maybe if they had the time Dante would tell stories of his misadventures.

"My father...I don't know if he'd appreciate it either, he wanted a simple life. Love, family, honor...he does cast a long shadow," Dante had very complicated feelings where his father was concerned considering he resented him for a good chunk of his life. There was respect though.

“You’re already impossible,” Astarion snorts with an upwards glance towards that arm braced against the doorframe, as if underscoring Dante’s own point.

But family? Astarion knows nothing about that. Less than nothing, now. Thankfully years of practice amongst the living have made feigning comprehension a much easier affair.

He presses on, returning to pulling his fingertips along the front of Dante's coat.

“I assume he never got what he wanted, then. Aside from you, that is.”

Dante's self-aware enough to know that he's impossible and he has the good grace to smile about it, knowing that's the case.

As for family, it's always been complicated where Dante's was concerned. Love, resentment, rivalry, protectiveness, and keeping close those that he could allowing himself to eke out his own family. It was important to him and difficult at the same time, damn slippery life.

Probably why he found himself at ease with Astarion and why he didn't mind his hands on approach. He lowered his gaze as curious fingers coasted over the front of his coat, one thing could be said about Dante and that was, if anything, he did splurge on leather.

"The opposite actually. He got everything, he spent years after defecting from Mundus as a feudal lord on Fortuna Island, amassed a shit-ton of wealth, fell in love with a mortal woman, relocated to another city where they would live in a colossal manor together, had two sons he taught to fight. He had everything," Dante fixed his eyes on the ceiling his breathing measured, this was all a very long time ago, but it lingered, "then he disappeared because duty calls and at some point, he died. I don't really know the details, but I can hazard some guesses...he wasn't as strong as he used to be. After sealing the underworld away, he knew that his own power was radically out of control and sealed his demonic power along with it. He then further divided his power between his two sons and when he left...I think he wasn't strong enough to deal with...whatever it was that he had to deal with on top of choosing a mortal life. I guess it can be dangerous to get exactly what you want."

"Mm." It's a fragile thing, that story. Easily broken. Misshandled or discarded, it could splinter the whole of their relationship— but for Astarion, incapable of empathy beyond the bounds of his own pain or the shadows of something like it, it's too delicate a thing for his hands to hold.

"Truer words, darling."

Want, in Astarion's experience, never pans out well. Not in Faerûn. Not in Thedas.

So if nothing else, it isn't a lie.

"But if we stand here all night discussing the finer points of our own nebulous pasts, we'll never make it downstairs before the party ends."

"It was a long time ago and I'm still here, right?" Old memories might be haunting from time to time, but the fact that it doesn't wound him to talk about any of it is years and year of building up emotional callouses. He's not necessarily looking for empathy or understanding and while he respected his father, he was also passive where he was concerned.

If there was a niggling of anything there it always came back to his mother.

When Astarion turned it back around to the party the patented Dante grin slid back into place as well as the full force of his personality. Less personal, more instigating.

"So that's why you're here. It all makes sense now, can't go to a party alone you needed a date. So, you asked yourself," wait for it as Dante does his disturbingly best to capture the inflection of Astarion's voice with as much haughtiness as he could possibly muster, "who's the best-looking bastard I know?"

Dante's grin only broadens as he continues, "well, you've come to the right bastard."

That impression earns the stupidest possible laugh. Well done.

“A good guess, but no. I asked myself what I might find lurking in Riftwatch’s tower chambers whilst everyone else is getting drunk on second-rate wine.” And knowing Astarion, he might actually be telling the truth despite all his present, very-much-not-built-for-stealth raiment.

“Officially, though?”

He holds out his own arm, hand extended as though waiting for Dante to offer his elbow— his own substantial silhouette— as a show of acquiescence.

“I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d rather bring along for the evening. Particularly if trouble shows up.”

Fortunately, humility is not something Dante experiences in massive doses, he's not at all afraid of putting himself out there for laughs or a good time.

"Bodyguard, date, it's the same thing really," he grabbed his Devil Arms from the corner, the bound mass was large and unwieldly in its coverings, but he kept it hidden as to not cause children to run away screaming and women fainting in the streets.

Still, if there were to be any trouble, he'd rather have it on him than not and while he could use his fists proficiently enough, he found the intimidation of a weapon on hand was often a good deterrent.

"If trouble doesn't show up..." Dante began offering an elbow to Astarion, knowing how a well-heeled gentleman is supposed to act, "...you'll be able to brag that you nabbed yourself one hell of a dancing partner."

He punctuated that sentence buy closing the door behind him and locking it for good measure. He didn't have much, but what he did have he'd like to keep and he'd hate to have to kick someone's ass over theft.

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SATINALIA 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO.

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