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

[bouchonne]

Even under the wrappings, Byerly's grin is obvious. "Better for seeing you," he says, and grabs Bastien's hand to tug him down onto his lap. From that angle, he studies Bastien, and his voice is clearly envious when he says -

"It's so offensive."

[cozen]

Bastien goes down onto By’s lap without resistance, because it’s Satinalia. They’ve both been far more publicly debauched on Satinalia than this. But even so, once he’s there his chin tucks down a little, while his eyes are bright—a shy anyone could see and a proud anyone could see, neither of which would matter if it were anyone else’s lap, competing for dominance on his face.

The pride wins, at the—compliment? Compliment. His chin comes back up, and he drapes his arm around By’s mummified shoulders and grins.

“I am writing this in my diary,” he says. (He doesn’t keep a diary.) “The day I was more provacative than you. I’ll remember it always.”

[bouchonne]

"So will I," he replies, wrapping his arms more firmly about Bastien's waist. One of the great pleasures of having a short lover, he decides, is that when they sit on your lap, they still are perfectly well-positioned to kiss. "With envy and, let's be honest, amorous hunger. There's nothing more attractive than a man who doesn't just make you gasp - he makes a whole room gasp."

Then, grinning - "Do you suppose we look like a political statement right now? The two of us together like this?"

[cozen]

Glowing even through the full face paint, Bastien murmurs, “Is that so, monsieur le scandale?”

He’s the one smitten with a scene-stealer—and not likely to outdo him with any regularity. But he is enjoying himself, especially with any anxiety about other people’s opinions drowned out by the approval of a person who matters more.

He needlessly, fondly adjusts the cloth wrapped across Byerly’s nose and answers in his late-night pseudo-philosophy voice: “Hmmm. Is something political only because it might make a devout Sister have a fit? Or do we need to be saying something meaningful?”