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

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.

[arkitect]

Truly, he says, and Emet-Selch has no doubt of it. If that arm around him reflexively tightens, just a little, surely that's just coincidence again-

But he has to wonder, as he always does, mind quietly working in the brief moments before he reacts. Over a period of what, to him, is only two centuries-- was it a natural thing, a mental defense against the bitter hurt of remembering something better that one cannot return to? A result of just how terrible it all was, the eclipsing he describes? Or worse-- well. If one wanted complete power over another, it would surely serve well to purposefully ensure they remembered no other life.

Once, he knows, he would have looked down on this. Perceived it as a failing, to have let those better memories slip away.

"You have lost far more than I knew," he says, quietly.

He doesn't know if Astarion would really want to hear I'm sorry. If it would sound too much like pity. For the moment, he does not say it, though he thinks to-- and he would mean it.

[illithidnapped]

Astarion doesn’t have anything to say to that.

It self-contains, after all, that truth. Yes, he’s lost more than he lets on; yes, it’s something he wishes he still had despite this world giving so much back to him already— sunlight, warm water, blissful sleep and the finer taste of food unsullied. A life free of fingertips wrapped tight around his throat.

But it’s not a replacement.

And there’s still more he’s let slip through his fingertips since. A fool in perpetuity.


“Just be silent.” he murmurs, leaning high across the edges of his heels to fit their lips together instead, suppressing the opportunity for an apology that he can almost sense lingering on the Ascian's tongue.

Touch over shallow torment.

[arkitect]

He allows it easily, a soft murmur of assent muffled against Astarion's mouth-- this serves well enough, in place of anything else that he might say. Better, maybe; words are only words, after all, and even the right ones only go so far. It's easy enough to just stay like this for a time instead.

Whenever they finally part, he's quiet for a few moments, remaining in silence before he offers: "Stay tonight, if you would like."

[illithidnapped]

It’s not an offer made out of pity; Astarion can feel the difference. Warmth suffused against perched fingertips beneath the edges of that heavy cloak, acting as a barrier between the both of them and the rest of the world.

The beat that hangs between Emet-Selch’s request and Astarion’s response runs long— but it does end.

In a low breath. A decidedly slow blink.

“All right. Just for tonight.”

[arkitect]

"Just for the night," he agrees-- takes a moment to run his fingers idly through golden locks, before he leans back properly.

Nothing is ever certain with Astarion, really. Nothing like this. It's a small relief, then, whenever it works out.

"But for now, mayhap we should rejoin the festivities. Unless you have already had your fill of them, of course."

[illithidnapped]

Astarion would argue that's the glory of unpredictability, if he could trace something of that flicker of solace running through Emet-Selch at Astarion's own concession.

"Mm. No. Better to be seen leaving formally if and when we decide to depart, I think— that way if yet another night of misery ensues, we'll be safe from all accusation."

And then, correctively:

"Not that I need an alibi, of course..."

[arkitect]

"Yes, of course not," he exhales on a huff of a breath, faintly amused. "None would ever possibly think you could cause trouble."

He braces himself before he shifts to stand, with a heavy breath-- but he's rested enough. He will be fine, for the rest of the evening, or at least he will look like it.

"Come, then."

[illithidnapped]

“Ahah. But that’s the wonder of always being so obvious in making mischief: when it’s open and expected, no one ever imagines you’ll do more than displace a little comfort here or there.”

The self-serving don’t have grand causes. And without that, there’s a limit to the sort of harm they’ll presumably do. The scope’s too small. The disadvantage too great.

Scales don’t tip far from the weight of a single coin.

Astarion’s hand finds its way to Emet-Selch’s back, his slighter frame fitted beneath the Ascian’s shoulder to discreetly manage some of the weight of it all. Not really a kindness per se just....

Practicality.

“And besides, holy Andraste would never.”

[arkitect]

"Of course she wouldn't."

He allows Astarion to fit himself there, accepts the assistance for what it is. It's definitely just practical. And, while they're close, he casually reaches up to adjust the cloak again... though this time he dislodges it more fully, moving to settle it around Astarion's shoulders instead of his own. It's only you I can feel, he'd said, and, well. Maybe there's also something about that thought that Emet-Selch is drawn to. The cloak is still warm from being worn, sure to carry over at least for a short time and blanket him in the same warmth as before.

"But, in place of her holiness daring to make any kind of mischief, mayhap sharing in the enemy's fashion will be enough of a small scandal for your tastes," he finishes, with a light smirk. The paint from the elf's lips now colors Emet-Selch's as well, and he reaches up to wipe away a bit of it from Astarion's mouth, smudged out of place. He'll get it off his own face in a minute.