faderift | SATINALIA

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SATINALIA

WHO: Everybody!!
WHAT: SATINALIA!!
WHEN: Backdated to the first day of Firstfall
WHERE: Gallows courtyard
NOTES: Drunkenness and shenanigans. HALLOWEENMAS!!

This Satinalia is, perhaps, less grand than in years past. Blockades are still limiting access to luxury goods, after all, so the fine liquors and dainty foods that have been featured before are nowhere to be found. And Tertia, the temporary Morale Officer, doesn't have the connections or deft touch of organizers past, so things are rougher than they've been before - the musicians are less polished, the ale a little more watered-down, the decorations somewhat haphazard.

But you know what? It's still Satinalia. Nothing can really screw up Satinalia. Especially because there are some rather lovely touches, the best of which might well be the ice skating rink. A section of the Gallows Courtyard has been roped off and frozen over with magic, leaving a (largely) smooth sheet of ice covering it. Skates are available to borrow if you don't have a pair. Of course, some injuries are definitely going to result (if you skate off the edge, you're smacking into stone instead of a soft snowbank, which can be disastrous), but hey, it's fun.

Other perks are the bonfires, with mulled wine and cider being served out of cauldrons around them, where people might sit and reflect while watching the flame. There's also dancing, of course, with the musicians basically being any band that's been recommended by members of Riftwatch - so there are lots of half-competent cousins-of-friends playing here. What they lack in skill they make up for in enthusiasm; this is the first gig for a lot of them, and they're thrilled to be here.

One thing that's missing is the Satinalia fool being named ruler. Tertia wasn't familiar with this tradition and didn't arrange it - so there's a last-minute campaign being held, in which people can either nominate others or self-nominate to be named Riftwatch's greatest fool to be celebrated.

Enjoy yourself. Exchange presents. Get drunk. Have a blast. Don't lose any teeth.

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They could still dance, someone quietly playing a fiddle to bring the darker evening on. They could even still skate, although by now that integrity of the ice slick will be questionable, when it isn't even winter properly yet and Kirkwall weather runs wet.

Neither impulse comes to Loxley as Derrica sits down, smiling on automatic in a way that is no less genuine. "Thank you," he says, reaching for the cup.

He has thrown a coat over his shoulders against the chill, now that he's settled, a more sedate item of earthy brown that cancels out the riot of bits and pieces he'd donned for the occasion. He unfolds an arm to slide it around her waist as he sips from the cup. He has been drinking a little, noteable from the sheen of his silver-grey skin, the warmth of his body.

"Having fun?"

Now there's a good question.

Rather than offering an immediate answer, Derrica takes a moment to sort through her feelings as she leans into Loxley. He is warm, and the weight of his arm is simply, straightforwardly good. She hasn't been drinking, and all this time spent in the Marches hasn't acclimated her to the cold.

Eventually, she settles on:

"It's a better party than last year."

Considering that Derrica spent the back end of the celebration in the kitchen, keeping Richard alive and making sure a sabotaging Chantry brother was dead.

"Where did you learn to skate?"

"Where?"

Loxley takes another sip from the cup, before using it to gesture towards the melting ice rink across the courtyard. "About fifty feet in that direction," he says, offering the cup back. "About two and a bit hours ago. I don't know that this particular pastime even exists in Tassia."

Maybe Richard might know. He doesn't offer this alternative, pivoting to, "Why, are you saying I was very good at it? Because I'll believe you, if you are."

"You were far better than some."

How many collisions had Derrica mopped up?

"We don't have it in Rivain," she admits. "So I'm easy to impress. And you are naturally very impressive."

In all his many colors, among the rest of their number. She is predisposed to offering this kind of compliment to him, ice or no ice. Derrica folds her hands into her lap loosely, observing the puddling slick of the ice before turning her eyes back to fire before him.

"Thank you," Loxley says, just as accustomed to accepting these compliments as Derrica may be in giving them. But his attention has moved from the ice or the fire and is settling more on her, conscious of the heat trapped where their hips touch and the comfortable curve his arm settles into around her waist.

He could prattle on a bit, both playful and earnest in collecting praise as to his grace and sped and et cetera. Instead, "It would have been devastating," still playful, "to think that the one person I care to impress wasn't watching."

There is little need, considering they are already cinched comfortably close, but Derrica turns in by degrees. Tucks in against him properly, closing out what little space was left between them. Abandons her folded hands so she might reach back to set her fingers over his where he's set them onto her hip.

"Devastating," she echoes. Slightly safer ground than the one person, which prickles a mix of feelings in her chest. "I wouldn't want that."

And Loxley is impossible to miss. Not because of his height, or the bright colors. He's impossible to miss because she is always looking for him, marking his position in a crowd to keep comfortably aware of him.

"Are you reassured?" is underscored with a little press of her fingers. "Safe from devastation?"

There is a rueful twist of a smile from him, his dramatics called out. No backing down, though. Under her hand, his fingers stretch, while he reaches blindly and off to the side to set down the cup she had given him. It means he can settle that hand at her knee, where they are more tightly tucked in together.

"In the nick of time," Loxley says, and he leans through that diminished distance to kiss her—it's sweet, gentle, and he isn't doing much in the way of calculating the light of the fire, the length of the shadows, the amount of silhouettes in his periphery so much as doing what feels good to do.

Not so different from before, but perhaps the prickle of awareness immediately after would be different. Instead of acknowledge any of that, he adds, "I'm glad you weren't on duty all day, although I think I missed you when the music was going."

A little moment of—

Not hesitation, exactly. Derrica wants to kiss him. It is only the newness of the moment, of being so obvious.

But how far is this from Kostos' finger catching in the neck of her tunic or Ellie taking her hand in the midst of a packed room? If it is farther, then it must only be by increments.

And it helps, knowing that Loxley isn't doing any of this with intention of leaving some sort of mark on her. There is no calculation in it, so she can squeeze his fingers a little tighter in hers, smile a little when they part.

"Even though it wasn't nearly as nice as what Bastien might have done?" is a little tease of a thing too. She tacks on, "We could still try if you'd like."

They're skilled enough to dance even without any music.

"I quite like where I am now, is the thing."

There's a distinct difference between enjoying finding comfort in public displays of affection without concern for the thoughts of others, and actively seeking it out with great concern for the thoughts of others—this, if Loxley had to think about it. He is more singularly focused on having her attention, and giving his own, at least at this hour of the evening.

And no music to show off to. He slides his fingers between hers. "I'll take or leave the scenery." This close, it's easy to spot the thin cord of leather at his throat, where it disappears into his collar. Familiar, in that it holds the golden pendant she'd gifted him last year.

She is fond of where he is now too.

Self-consciousness aside, she is aware that Loxley has a singular gift. The drape of his arm doesn't feel like a yoke over her shoulders. Even with all that has shifted between them, no poisonous, possessive edge has permeated the way they link together.

So it is simple enough to readjust, put her legs across his lap so she can face him more directly. Mark the cord at his throat, revealed by the open collar of his jacket, even if she only catches the lapel of his coat as she looks up at him.

"Will you stay in my bed tonight?"

Their habit has been his apartment, his little room. The warmth rising up from the tavern, the many locks on his door, the cracked jar of dried flowers on the table. Derrica knows exactly how she fits in that space. They have so rarely found reason to bed down elsewhere.

Maybe she won't want to. She is content with their shared habits, after all. But tonight is a good opportunity to try making some changes. His gift is still in her room, isn't it?

There's a quiet, pleased sound as she adjusts, almost a laugh, Loxley shifting by degrees to accommodate the drape of her legs over his. Laying a hand at the outer of her thigh, feeling the warmth of the nearby fire at the back of his knuckles as a harsher heat than the warmth she naturally gives, against his palm.

He's thought only a little of his arrangements tonight. Had considered the likelihood of laying facedown and sodden with mulled wine on the other bed in Richard's room, for instance, and that was high. Had entertained, too, wrapping Derrica up and carting her back across the water.

But being invited to stay is superior to both of these. "I will," he says, with a tip of his head. Little cosmetic chains dancing off his horns. "Perhaps a little ways into the morning as well."

At his collar, her fingers slip along the lay of draping fabric to trace the leather cord. Her thumb sets at the hollow of Loxley's throat, feeling the beat of his pulse as she looks up to the gleam of metal off his horns, looks into his face. Measures the quality of his response, the warmth of his expression.

It is a small thing, isn't it? Space in her narrow bed, in the room allotted to her here.

But it feels bigger than that. Just like the pendent is something more weighted than it might appear.

"I'd like that," she tells him. "And it will be nice, without having to run for the ferry."

Though the day after Satinalia, barring any unforeseen disaster, is rarely a day requiring people to rush for desks and assignments.

"Mhm," spoken (or hummed) in the tone of someone who has never run for the ferry.

Or at least, someone who has only done so for wholly selfish reasons, a primary one already half-draped over him, fingers at his throat and gaze focused forwards and on him.

"Very logistically convenient," Loxley agrees, anyway, tone teasing. He has been in her space once or twice, but comparatively less than the other way around. On a delay, it's a thought he toys with, turns over in his mind like a coin, and seems to recognise it as a change. He'd sort of asked for change, hadn't he?

In some small way. There are others, too, she could spend Satinalia with, even more conveniently in reach than he. "You know," he says, after a moment, humour not yet leaving his tone. "This party's gotten very dull all of a sudden in the past, you know, five seconds. Want to do something else?"

The slip of skin under his fingers is very warm. The worn gold of the pendant glints at her, within easy reach of her thumb if she traced lower. It has been some time since she put this pendant around his neck; Derrica is pleased to find now that it suits him just as well as she recalls.

"What else would you like to do?" she asks, though she could certainly guess at the possibilities.

One of which might even be wrapping her cloak and shawl more securely into place, trust that no one means to injure themselves more seriously on the remnants of the ice, and let Loxley steal her away across the water.

She has made an offer. There is no expectation that he take her up on it. Derrica isn't even entirely certain what she's hoping for from him, whether it would be a relief for him to say yes, or a relief for him to say no. Or if she's foolish to be so caught on the idea of proposing he join her in a space he's already set foot in, if rarely.

In spite of his claim as to the boringness of their surroundings, he hasn't moved, hand idle on her thigh and content in this little aura of warmth and intimacy she's created. Certainly, if he wanted to steal her away across the water, they'd need to go rouse the ferryman sooner rather than later.

"Well, I've a gift for you," Loxley suggests. "I got it a little but ago so there's been plenty of time for me to question whether or not it's any good. We could find out."

He is, anyway, assuming a specific destination now that it's been offered. What they do when they get there and when is more malleable, while not inscrutable.

"We could."

Or they could sit here until the end of the evening. Derrica, seemingly aware of that possibility, makes the choices for them. Slides her hand up to pat his cheek as she swings her legs down from his lap, stands in nearly the same motion.

"Come with me."

A minor reversal of their dance at the joust, all those months ago. She holds out her palm expectantly, ready to draw him up to his feet.

With a half-cocked smile, Loxley first slides his arms into the sleeves of the coat he was wearing as a cloak, a hand finding hers in the same motion of emerging from the hem.

He stands, a slight bounce in his heels to settle the garment on properly, before lifting her hand up, over her head, making to spin her as if they really were about to dance before they'll settle, holding hands between them. He has had plenty of drink, making his natural long-limbed grace all the more languid.

In a deep pocket, he stealthily checks that aforementioned gift is still there, unmolested and intact.

It is a short trip up the many flights of stairs. Loxley has had plenty of drink and Derrica has had near to none, is content to tow him by one hand up the steps, turn at the top of each flight to take advantage of being two or three steps ahead to peck him a kiss. The Gallows is quiet, with so many occupied outside or already in their rooms. There is no one to waylay them, no sudden, pressing disaster to interrupt the journey.

The door is ajar. Derrica's habit, trusting any who might be passing not to tread where they haven't been invited. Loxley is released just over the threshold while she crosses the room to light the lamp on the small bedside table.

Kindled lamplight reveals familiar clutter, maybe the vestiges of pre-party preparation: a scattering of shawls and tunics, a cloak draped over the room's lone chair, a scarf puddled in the space between chair and window. Jewelry gleams indistinctly from the dresser top where it has been pushed to the far wall. A pair of boots nudged beneath the chair. Her sea chest sat at the foot of the bed, jammed up against the footboard.

Maybe she would have tidied if she'd expected to bring Loxley here. Maybe not. She is undoing the heavy gold pin keeping her shawl in place when she turns back to him.

"There's not much space," is a little like an apology. But he knows what the rooms are like here. It can't be a surprise.

The door resting open is a stark contrast to the comedy of locks and latches that Loxley has secured to his own door. That's Lowtown, for you, and the kind of company he tends to keep.

He closes this door, once through it, reflexively latching it shut as he looks around her space. It isn't the first time he's visited, but it's an infrequent enough event to warrant another inspection. The level of mess reminds him of his own quarters when he hasn't the excuse of someone coming by to get it all in order, and pays no heed to it after.

"We only need a little," he assures. "And I like it in here anyway."

There's Derrica all over, in swaths of silk and glimmers of jewelry, frittered about the room. He decides he would like to kiss her, so his pause to close the door is only a brief break in momentum before continuing a saunter closer, his hands finding purchase on the shawl show is working on removing.

The kiss momentarily stalls her work. The heavy pin clatters to the stone between them; abandoned, but not forgotten, so she can reach up to him properly. Derrica can taste the wine he'd been drinking, and he smells of chilly night air and smoke from the fire.

Her fingers trail the leather tie at his neck, slipping downwards so she might put her palm over the gleam of gold resting over his chest in the opening of his tunic. Even though it has been a year since she gave this pendant to him, and that's more than enough time to adjust to the transition in ownership, Derrica is pleased with how much she likes the look of it on him.

"Wait," she murmurs. "Let me give you something first."

Before they're both distracted past the point of redirection.

To be met with a kiss in return, the grip of her hands and the clatter of the thing she was holding before is very pleasing. Loxley gathers her to him as they kiss, making an appreciative sound as her fingers find his skin beneath his tunic, and he helpfully loosens her shawl just as she's murmuring that to his mouth.

Ah, yes, Satinalia.

"Mm," he agrees, straightening his posture. "Yes, me too. For you. Here, wait."

He gathers her hands between them as he dips one of his back into his pocket. A gift wrapped in a gift—something smooth and a little weight, small enough to rest in her palm, has been wrapped in slippery satin, something that looks like it was purchased in Rivain, given the colours and style.

Which is probably what he meant by having made his purchases a while ago.

It tends to be Derrica's habit to leave gifts where they might be found, rather than put them directly into a person's hands. There is something terribly vulnerable about it, hoping to have chosen well.

Maybe that was a sign too, bringing him here last year. Putting the pendant around his neck herself.

She is thinking of this when Loxley straightens, already a little rueful at having been obeyed. Knowing she will have to step away from him to retrieve her offering, and happy to stall for a moment as he puts a parcel into her hands.

"Oh," is more breath than spoken.

Here, she unravels the satin so gently. Draws it out so she might admire it as much as she will inevitably admire the object that falls into her palm when all the fabric has been drawn free.

Loxley puts his hands on his own hips, feeling more anticipation than worry for her discovering its contents.

The length of silk reveals itself to be a lightweight shawl, with glittering gold stitchwork around the hem on all four corners, of a deep blue-green colour with brighter shades of turquoise forming complex patterns through it. It is, to the touch, probably prohibitively expensive for their salaries.

The thing that rolls into her hand is glass, and at first glance sort of matches its wrapping, of a deep shade of blue with golden trim. The liquid is sealed inside with a stopper embellished with a gleaming, off-white pearl.

He did purchase at least one of these things.

"Loxley," is only a breath, as Derrica weighs the gleaming bottle in her hand. "It's beautiful."

The scarf and bottle both, even as Derrica considers the expense in the exact same moment she takes in how lovely the river of silk in her hand is or attempts to identify the contents of the bottle. Without a free hand to spare, she simply takes a step forward into his space as she unstoppers the bottle. Careful of the liquid inside, she raises it to her nose to inhale the scent of it.

As she suspected: this bottle came from Rivain. It puts her in mind of home, which is maybe more precious than any other aspect of this gift.

"I love it," she tells him, face tipping up to him. Swaying up, a little request in the way her body opens back to him now.

She steps forward, and his hands automatically seek her, resting on her waist as she inspects her gifts.

"Well, you're beautiful," he says, as she tips her face up towards him, and he bows his head to meet her, kissing her, letting it linger sweetly and only breaking it off to say, "And I love you," before re-establishing it again, fingertips light at the edge of her jaw.

He does, of course, also want presents, but this is nice too.

SATINALIA

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it's still christmas

it's almost christmas

hell yea

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