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]

Astarion finds him later. After the music's died down into something hushed and drowsy. After he's had ample time to watch Cole make his own way throughout the map of the evening itself, rather than rushing in to ensure the wayward little spirit doesn't somehow manage to make a scene. Though Astarion supposes in truth, if Cole had fumbled here or there along the way, he likely would've made certain no one present would've noticed in the slightest.

—or at the very least remembered.

Blessed Andraste, chosen Bride of the Maker, reaches from behind to fit his arm around Cole's furred shoulders, drawing the tangible spirit in close. He's sitting atop the end of the refreshment table, not at all minding the rudeness of the gesture.

"Having fun, darling?"

[helpinghidinghaunting]

By that time, Cole's makeup is smudged from forgetfulness of him wearing it - his antlers still glittering with fake jewelry, courtesy of Bastien. For once, the night has been relatively peaceful...and this time, he did not get accidentally intoxicated, either, nursing only one drink so he would not seem strange for skipping the table completely.

He feels Astarion long before he is grabbed - and so he does not jump as he is pulled backward, allowing himself to lean into the pale elf with a little smile and bowing his head a little so his antlers do not pose a hazard.

"Hello, Astarion," he murmurs, proving his practice at people. Greetings are important. "Yes. It has been...nice. I like your costume." Still stilted in conversation, but he is trying, has been trying - the compliment is sincere, even if he has no idea that the outfit is meant in satire.

[illithidnapped]

His chin finds its way around the edges of those horns and the accompanying, glittering crystals to settle in the pale, downy nest of Cole's hair— a damned miracle, honestly, given the jaggedness of Andraste's supposedly holy (and very sharp) crown where it could easily tangle in close quarters.

If nothing else, Astarion's exceptionally good at controlling exactly where contact settles in.

"Delightful, isn't it?" The party? His ensemble? Cole's? The company itself? Who can say for certain— because Astarion's absolutely not telling.

Maybe it's just all of the above.

"And no attempted murder this time, either. Which I'll admit, keeps this celebration from reaching a high score, but otherwise...well. Could be worse."

A pause, and then:

"Have you danced with anyone yet?"

[helpinghidinghaunting]

It's with implicit trust that Cole holds still so Astarion can weave his way in - it's nice, being cuddled up to this way, as strange a thing as it still is for the wayward spirit.

"Yes," he agrees, though he doesn't know what he is agreeing to. It has been nice, all of this, a relative calm after a couple of storms. He doesn't speak to the pale elf's comment about the lack of violence, letting it slide past as a jest, whether or not words were earnest.

But at the question, he hums softly in the negative.

"No, I haven't. I've mostly been mingling at the edges, in wait, watching. Trying not to Hear so much."

[illithidnapped]

For that, curiosity seeps in at last. Something Astarion had never thought to ask the spirit— something he wouldn't otherwise consider had they not grown so uniquely close over the last few months, strange a trip as its been.

He exhales low for a moment longer, just before, tone ever-so-cautious:

"Does it hurt you? —listening, I mean."

[helpinghidinghaunting]

The question is strange, to Cole's mind.

"Hurt?" It's an echo of the word, a parrot's chirp, spoken like he's feeling the concept out. It takes him a moment or two to come up with his answer, but then, softly, honestly -

"Not like the sting or stab of steel, or even the break of a bone, but...yes. It does." But he doesn't sound like he minds, because - he doesn't. It's how he helps. It's what he knows. "I have never not listened. It's like blinking or breathing to me, but the blinking and breathing still feel brand new next to it."

A soft sigh.

"It's who I am."