faderift | SATINALIA 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO.

Entry tags:

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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Descending the stairs in the most luxuriant robe and slippers a secretary's money can buy, and carrying a towel and a little basket of his favorite bath things, is Benedict. His hair is tied back and a joint hangs from his mouth, his eyes slightly glazed over as the high has already begun to hit and he is clearly committed to the cause of Absolute Relaxation.

It's been a stressful time. He's earned it, and the baths are calling.

Having spent much of the chaotic first Satinalia party waiting anxiously, and then much of the following day behind a heavily barred door—waiting anxiously—where there had before been a certain amount of grim determination about Petrana's insistence on doing Satinalia correctly this year there is now a sort of relief and release in deciding that they shall, actually, attend the better attempt. Despite Marcus's close proximity to the worst of it, even his costume did not suffer greatly and they had all been put away before the skeleton war descended upon the Gallows so while Marcus smells slightly of ash and smoke,

well, that's hardly unusual for him. They are resplendent in the same costumes they had worn to the first party (such as it was), Petrana aglow in a white and gold gown made from one of her first Satinalia gifts, her hair worked into an elaborate crown held up with summoned gems that glitter and curiously match those that lazily orbit her new staff, reflecting the light of the diamond within it. The sun, flanked by moon and stars—Marcus in white, and Julius in black touched with glimmering silver—they make a fine picture only very slightly marred by soot and singeing. Perhaps the white had been ill-considered.

Lighting a thin cigarette off of one of the sparking gems, Petrana says, “Do you mean to dance?”

Dante deliberated over his decision to attend, noting that the last celebration around this particular native celebration had been upturned by a series of unfortunate events. What were the odds of lightening striking the same place twice? Not that he wanted chaos to erupt, but fancy parties that involved any degree of dressing up, that was the sort of aesthetic his parents would have enjoyed.

Presently he was sequestered in his small quarters, door open to give the illusion of sociability. He wasn't averse to a conversation, but he was also a bit lost in his own thoughts. There wasn't much of interest in his room, nothing that he felt anyone would risk themselves over to attempt to try and take while he was physically present. There was a sword heavily bound tucked away in one corner. On the wall a pair of blocked off guns were hung, little more than decoration at this point. They had the inscriptions Ebony & Ivory on one side and For Tony Redgrave by .45 Art Works on the other side. The only other thing in this room that seem to be worth anything at all was a photograph of a woman in a gilded frame on his small bedside table. She was very pretty in her fineries, the glaring opposite of Dante, but there was also something haunting about her as well.

Finally decided he rolls out of his bed, if something happens, he probably shouldn't miss it especially if it means saving a few lives (and knocking in a few undead skulls would beat a dull evening staring at the walls). Smoothing his clothing out and throwing on his duster he did a pirouette on the heel of one foot and then addressed the photograph.

"What do you think, are we gala ready? Yeah, I know it's not what you would have picked, but I'm a little too old for the short-shorts and the frilly tunics of ye olde yesteryear," does he always talk to himself?

--

In the event that an opportunity to take a jab at Dante's stylistic choice was missed a second chance is readily available at the celebration to have another crack at. He had no intention of bedecking himself in most of the provided costume pieces, unfortunately considering he stood out enough already. Fake jewelry? Pass. Big hats? He has big confidence; a big hat would just give him an ego. Fake velvet? Discount dad is that you? Harlequin coats? Reminded him of a clown he once slapped on the nose. Still, he wasn't a terrible sport, opting to borrow a black half-mask that did things for his eyes though he wasn't sure what kind of things.

Once presentable Dante chooses to socialize on the perimeter of the party, not avoiding people (granted he wasn't used to mingling among so many), but keeping his eyes and his ears open for anything that could go sideways. He'll drink with anyone offering and dance with anyone with enough interest (and enough rhythm) to keep in step with him or the reverse considering his lack of formal dance training.

When you show up at a costume party, you either show up to be hilarious, or you show up so stunning that others come away pissed off about it.

Unfortunately, the one person Ellie wants to piss off is not in attendance, and she's unreasonably grumpy about it.

The constellation-inspired outfit is primarily the fault of Astarion. Ellie would never have worn anything approaching this level of finery on her own, especially with such a plunging neckline, wicked scars on display, but he's had a shitty time of it lately and dressing her had seemed to cheer him up a little bit. Ellie she loves her friends. The one thing she'd been firm about was boots and pants, on the logic that if anything attacked this party she needed to be able to fight.

She doesn't strictly need the various knives secreted through the outfit, but there are several up her flowy sleeves anyway.

► Dancing

Masked and dressed up, Ellie is finding it hard to assume her normal position as wallflower, nursing a drink and running a quiet commentary with a friend or two. Instead, she's been asked to dance by a few people -- more once they realize she actually can dance. Perhaps you've asked her for one.

Perhaps she's even asked you.

► Perimeter

Or perhaps you have happened to catch one of her hasty departures to the sidelines, or even outside to the courtyard.

Several times through the evening, Ellie roams away from the party, trying doors and windows to ensure they remain open and unobstructed, to make sure there's no one hiding in the dark shadows (other than her) and to check the parapets to reassure herself that there is nothing glowing red on the dark ocean waves.

► (Wildcard!)

Edited 2021-11-18 06:29 (UTC)

[Well, they have two things in common, tonight. The reason behind their outfits, for one (and with similar enough motivation for it)-- and a tendency to depart from the party itself, here and there, though he's doing it more for a little reprieve. He didn't get out of the last attack unscathed, but the only reason he's even here is to be observed being totally and completely fine, absolutely not recently stabbed, thank you very much.

So he's already lingering in the courtyard, a cloak hanging off his shoulders despite the lack of cold, but pulled back enough to show the underlying outfit and its accents (also present on the cloak.) Emet-Selch is resting against a wall, at first, but on realizing anyone else is nearby, quickly draws himself up to stand with his usual idle bearing.]

...tired of the festivities, are you?

The perimeter is definitely where Emet-Selch seems to prefer to be, for a decent amount of this party-- for the most part, he's just watching as well, keeping an eye on the festivities (and maybe joining in here or there, just not too terribly often.)

Dante's face isn't a familiar one to him yet, which is what leads him to be loitering in the same area. His outfit is slightly on the fancier side, cloak hanging off his shoulders, with golden scaled accents; there's a wine glass held in one gloved hand, the glove itself bearing the emblem of Tevinter. There's little better excuse to steal some of the enemy's aesthetic than a second Satinalia, after all.

"Is this your first gathering here?" he asks, taking a moment to look Dante over. "Either that, or we've simply missed each other thus far."

The latter can certainly happen, in an organization of any size-- but he's feeling things out a bit. Seeing if this person recognizes him at all, for one thing; it'll be a lot more convenient if the answer is no.

Edited 2021-11-18 08:39 (UTC)

This is officially now the third time that Gwenaëlle has publicly worn a costume she originally intended to be an extremely private gift. In a gesture towards at least varying it slightly from a party barely a week previous, she has made one addition to her existing outfit of tightly laced Vauquelin green corset, ruffled knickers, improbably soft leather boots designed to look like stockings—

She had considered the thigh holsters that Flint gifted her with for Satinalia—they'd have made the look rather more threatening, which she's not opposed to—but in the end had dug out of storage the exterior of a gown she's not worn since Orlais, and not for several years, besides. It is now between curves of glittering, jeweled chandelier that everyone is still getting glimpses of her backside, and it really is somehow more risqué with that suggestion of a skirt. The lit candles are enchanted, and offer little in the way of real fire hazard, but it does serve its long-time purpose even now: preventing anyone from reasonably expecting that she will dance with them.

The addition of an Orlesian masque may have more to do with the fact she got herself a black eye fighting the undead than anything else, though.

“Set it up here,” she's instructing one of several de Coucy footmen, tasked with laying out the spread of cold pies and Orlesian pastries that would best travel from Hightown to the Gallows, having taken it upon herself to bat her lashes at her grandfather's chef in order to convince him to bend his talents to Florent's ends. “And the wine caskets.”

Maybe she'll reconsider her unwillingness to dance after a few drinks. Someone may have to help her unlatch her chandelier.

Edited 2021-11-18 10:42 (UTC)

To her right and holding a glass of fortified wine is Marcus, watching the gathering with a sort of removed interest that is not as hyper alert as it might have been, all things considered. There is a cloudy grey streak of soot-based staining that he'd been unable to remove, up the arm he'd used for casting. Otherwise he'd made it out of the first Satinalia's incident less worse for wear than some. His position on griffon back throughout the invasion the following evening also means he has no injuries to speak of.

The mask had survived being discarded on the floor, anyway, and is in place now—a very simple white half-mask of some form of rough silken fabric, shining silver in certain light. He sips his wine, makes a face. It is sweeter and heavier than he'd expected, but at least it dissuades him from drinking too much. His gesture towards the possibility of disaster is to stay keenly sober.

Which likewise possibly contributes to: letting Julius answer first, although his focus does switch towards the space dedicated to dancing, to see how many are making use of it.

I: BENEVOLENCE

It’s as if luck itself had a hand in steering Astarion entirely unscathed throughout the nightmare of whatever this last week had been: immolating devotees and red lyrium laden walking dead, and he’d been absent for all of it. By choice of course, not foresight.

But tonight is different, the air feels clearer now, suffused with Andraste’s mercy, perhaps.

Or— well, just Andraste, in a sense.

Golden wisps of hair bright as starlight curl about his shoulders, outshone only by an unmistakable circlet, its dagger-sharp edges radiating outwards into cardinal points. The dress itself is tactlessly sheer (and not just by the standards of an insulted Chantry), but long as he is, he wears it well— gilt embellishments catching in the fire’s glow, flickering when he shifts. The tasteless make their jokes crass.

The truly enlightened shamelessly opt to go all out.

“My my. It’s a wonder what spit and elbow-grease do to erase the stench of spoiled lyrium. Even my nose can’t detect any trace of it here.”

Maybe elsewhere that’s a different story. Thankfully, they’re not partying elsewhere.

II: CHARITY

He’d brought wine. Poor as the funding for this affair must have been, it seemed like the right thing to do.

Sort of.

If stolen wine counts as sacrifice for the good of the party.

Still, Astarion leans forward as he uncorks his own offering, a pale curl slipping diagonally along his arm to almost kiss the edge of the table.

“You poor thing,” he tuts softly, sympathy threaded just throughout his voice. “First a fanatic tries to kill you— and not even the one Riftwatch put in time out— and then an entire fleet of unliving corpses? Someone might start mistaking you for a notable hero with all these failed assassination attempts.”

III: MODESTY

“I’m curious.” Offhanded and conversational from some unlit corner of the gardens, his silhouette still stands out with remarkable clarity, probably a mixture of golden detailing and his own paler features.

“Do you think the Maker took offense to Andraste....mm dabbling with her elven companion, or was it really more of an open marriage sort of thing?”

His painted lips purse slightly, the faintest trace of crystalline slickness gleaming where it catches moonlight.

“Or— maybe he just liked to watch?”

IV: WILDCARD

[ooc: come invite him to dance or be dragged out for it instead, discuss the finer points of the last few harrowing days, mix and match prompts or do something completely different, I'm here for it all.]

Someone might start mistaking him for a notable hero in the whites of his costume, meant to evoke Prince Sebastian himself. Astarion's doing, of course. Jim hadn't remembered a damn thing about costumes till Satinalia came and went, would've likely eschewed dressing up altogether just like last year. He's borrowed a white mask from the party entrance; the shade isn't quite the same as the armor, but it's close enough.

Not that there's any chance of Astarion not recognizing him. Not that he doesn't recognize the voice in question either, looking up from his reach for some wine to

pause

as he clocks that outfit.

For a second, he doesn't seem to know how to react. And then he bursts out laughing, the sound bright in a way better befitting the untroubled boy he'd been than the more serious man he's become.

🏳‍🌈 Ellie Greatly Approves

For the record, he heard that comment earlier, and if Astarion happened to glance his way at the time-- he certainly received a flat look in return. But he'd let it be, and it's only now that he's met up with Astarion properly, lingering outside as he is wont to do tonight. He's seated with a glass of wine in hand, reclining, posture slouched more than he would allow to show in others' company; he's been on his feet for a while and would prefer not to be again for a time, thanks.

"Of course you would wonder," he says dryly, over the rim of the glass at his lips. "Why? Are you hoping to draw the gaze of the divine yourself, with that getup of yours?"

Utterly content to dance alone or with a partner, Mado is an uncomplicated soul. When asked, however, he shines with the light of both Thedosian moons, light-footed and grinning and just happy to be here.

"You look thrilling!" he enthuses to Ellie, giving her a little spin, "the night sky itself!"

For his part, Mado is dressed in his Riftwatch uniform: it's the nicest thing he owns, and he feels fancy in it.

Unfazed by the chaos of the last week (or at least appearing to be), Mado comes out for the party with his full capacity for enthusiasm-- which is a lot, but he's learned by now that people prefer he not get it on them.
Sometimes drumming along with the musicians, sometimes dancing, and only occasionally drinking, he occasionally casts a glance over at the unfamiliar face of the silver-haired wallflower, eventually making his way over with a friendly grin.

"Haven't seen you before," he says cheerfully, "are you new to Riftwatch?"

[Ellie spots him leaning up against the wall, the way he straightens as though determined not to be caught. She gives him a searching look, the edge of her mouth crimping in what might be the urge to laugh.

Some ageless and horrific being, putting on airs at the sight of her.

She lifts her eyebrows at him, shrugs one shoulder. A casual gesture that the clothes make elegant, and she takes a place near him, leaning against the wall in a way that she imagines Astarion will scold her for, if he sees. She's getting it wrinkled.]

Always. I kinda hate these things, actually.

[She glances back at the revelry, and shrugs her other shoulder.]

But I keep making friends with people who like dragging me to them, so. Here I am.

You?

Mado's bright even on the darkest of nights, and she can spot his smile leagues away -- and really, she'd rather dance with a friend, someone she's sure is enjoying themselves, if she has to dance at all.

She doesn't expect him to spin her, and it takes a second for her to relax, stumbling over her feet. She doesn't seem to be put off, though. If anything it loosens her up, gets her smiling. She reaches out to spin him right back. Switching to lead.

"Thanks," she says genuinely. "You're looking spiffy yourself."

Sometimes, you're a person whose Satinalia habit is to show a lot of skin. But sometimes, when you're cold, miserable, and hurt, you need to cover yourself up. Break with tradition. Swaddle yourself in cloth. And, well, what better way to swaddle yourself than to go as a mummy?

Plus, it's so topical.

On rather short notice, miraculously, Byerly has managed to source not only strips of linen cloth, but also Nevarran trinkets. And so he is here as a member of the revered dead, mummified from head to toe, sipping a glass of mediocre wine. If someone approaches, he may give a melodramatic moan that's very like the dead who just attacked them.

Oh, something similar enough.

[He waves one hand in an idle, almost dismissive gesture.]

I would not say I dislike them, as they do prove interesting enough to observe at times, but-- I had not exactly thought to attend for my own enjoyment. [Adjusting the way his cloak falls over his shoulders with a quiet huff, he adds:] More an indulgence on another's part, as well.

[Easier to blame it on that than on his own motivations for bothering to be seen here, though it isn't really a lie either. Just another facet of it.]

They cross paths right at the base of the stairwell, Astarion nearly smacking straight into the stray mage, only catching himself at the last possible second— which is lucky, as a matter of fact, given that Astarion’s already gone through the trouble of putting the last few finishing touches on his festive regalia, and ruining it now, before he’s even had a chance to make it to the party, would be an utter shame.

Still, though, it doesn’t take long for Astarion’s attention to wander once he catches a glimpse of what Benedict is wearing.

“Oh. That’s a novel costume.” slight and feathering, head tilting just to one side as he studies the stitchwork of those robes. “Very mundane. Very down to— erm, hm. Thedas, I suppose.”

His tongue clicks. It’s a thoughtful little noise.

Amused, even.

“You’re going to stand out for certain, looking like that.”

“Oh don’t be so stubborn, no one’s ever too old for that.”

There Astarion stands in the open doorway, having slunk in like a stray cat through an open window, perfectly content to take the absence of a locked door as an invitation. Still, it’s his voice that’s most recognizable, now draped in sheer fabric and possessed of long, heavy golden curls that tumble down past his shoulders.

If it wasn’t for those red eyes and sharp teeth, he might be unrecognizable at first glance.

Almost.

“But I suppose the empty pockets of a fledgling Rifter are your curse at present.”

It’s impressive, really, how silent he manages to be in sneaking up behind her. Then again, they’re both in Scouting: even in heels, there are just some things that come far too naturally to learned creatures like them.

Or so Astarion assumes.

“You really ought to stop being so paranoid. Didn’t anyone tell you that that’s my job?”

In response, up come two very slender fingers to catch the underside of Jim’s borrowed mask, attempting to flick it aside.

All that said, however, Astarion isn’t wearing anything but a smirk.

This is Astarion’s own victory, after all. The laughter, the fact that Holden is attending at all, especially after what happened before. The man could easily have opted to spend tonight lapping his wounds and wallowing.

He isn't.

“So good of you to join us, Prince Vael. For a little while, I thought you might not show up.”

“Well if it worked once...” Astarion purrs sweetly, heavy lashes batting for good measure. “You do look ever so dashing tonight. Fit to tempt murder, if I do say so myself.”

A single beat sits there, widening his smile by degrees.

“You know, for being a Magister, I mean. Not for anything else.”

"I daresay your other suggestions would have tempted it further, and in light of that... I do believe I will take my chances with this one."

Would it have been funny? Sure. Less funny if anyone took offense, though, so-- magister it was. He takes a drink before he continues.

"But you are biased in your compliments, you do realize."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 15

SATINALIA 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO.

Benedict

for Astarion

petrana, marcus & julius. open.

Dante

Ellie | Open

perimeter

no subject

gwenaëlle | open.

no subject

Blessed Andraste Bride of the Maker (twitter verified) | OTA

ii

Not Here

iii

dancing

no subject

no subject

no subject

Byerly

no subject

no subject

no subject

Perimeter;

no subject

no subject

no subject