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

[illithidnapped]

"High praise." He croons, practically preening as they move to a more subtle timing.

“Anyway, I’ll get off your back when you decide to start having a little fun while you’re here.”

Says the man that threw himself into an utter fit only a few days prior, but that’s neither here nor there.

[notathreat]

"Okay... what do you consider fun?"

Ellie draws back, lifting her hand to flick a curl back from Astarion's cheek, widening her eyes knowingly at him, because really.

That, and she actually wants to hear this.

[illithidnapped]

“Not prowling this party in search of threats, not leaning into every mission like it’s your own neck on the line, or expecting the floor to drop out from under you.” The words come easily, in all honesty; if it strikes him as unfair, given pot and kettle circumstances, it certainly isn’t hindering his assessment.

“I know, it’s tempting. Believe me when I say I haven’t forgotten where we stand— or what we stand to lose,” or what’s been lost, even, glancing back along the path they’ve already tread. “But I’m not going anywhere, darling. And I’m not about to let the triviality of a war or a little interdimensional displacement get in the way of a good time. We’re going to need some decent memories to take with us into those tunnels, after all.”

He’s joking, of course. But like any joke when it comes to Astarion, there’s always a single little grain of truth tucked away somewhere within it: if things turn for the worse, there won’t be any coming back.

Better to make use of her time now, before it slips away.

“Maybe you should go see Les Chats.”

[notathreat]

Joking, but also serious, and a little too observant, a little too knowing. Astarion has understood her from the jump, and he can see how she handles her hurts, keeps them close. It says a lot that she isn't afraid of him exploiting them.

"Point taken," she says with a sigh, settling her arm back around him, lifting her shoulders with a shrug.

"... I can't tell whether that's something fancy or a peep show."

[illithidnapped]

There, he foregoes proper form, fitting his arm around her shoulders in turn. Grip cool, but strong. Stitched in like a promise, though the conversation at hand doesn’t reflect it anymore.

“Shockingly, it isn’t the latter. In fact it’s a very erm....how should I put it? Captivating play, apparently. Said to truly capture the imagination.” Still, his voice drops in the next beat, becoming barely a conspiratorial murmur:

“I think the Orlesians just watch it while high— which could admittedly be delightful for an entirely different host of reasons.”

[notathreat]

Astarion's hold is heavy but grounding, welcome, and the music edges to a stop, a high note that shivers away, followed by a smattering of applause.

Ellie gives Astarion a squeeze, tugs his arm. Away.

"Are you asking me to get high and watch a stage play with you?"

[illithidnapped]

There are things Astarion chooses to ignore. The sweet sound of scattered applause in this moment is one of them, abandoned in favor of being led away— and subsequently stealing a fresh glass of wine.

“I was suggesting you get high and take someone special, darling. Maybe one of your twenty or so royal companions.”

[notathreat]

The applause is thankfully for the musical talent rather than the dancing, and something Ellie can safely ignore. Still, she steals what looks like a small glass of dark amber booze, and in the same motion, elbows Astarion in the side.

"I'm gonna kick your ass," she mutters to herself through a smile, as she breathes in the scent of the drink, taking a sip. It doesn't completely hide her smile.

"Who says you're not special?"

[illithidnapped]

That elbow earns a contented puff of an exhale from Astarion, presently preening without shame.

You’re only making him stronger, Ellie.

“Mm,” His head tilts, those golden curls unspooling as they’re displaced from his shoulders. “Good point.”

Another sip lives there, before:

“All right. Pick the time and place, and I’ll be there: cross my very warm, still-beating heart.”