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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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.

It stands to reason that, having established the truth of this thing between them, Loxley might be inclined to repeat that sentiment from time to time.

Kissing him is easier than sorting through the flickers of conflicting emotion hearing it stirs in her. Derrica arches up onto her toes, an insistent little edge to their kiss. Her hands, still closed around his offerings, press knuckles against his chest. There's little need to brace herself. Loxley is doing a fine job of it.

And maybe they could stand here for some time, just letting this kiss spin out and deepen. But Derrica had cautioned them the first time, and she does so again, breaking with a smile.

"Go sit," might be promising to hear. "I have something for you too."

Though first order of business is to very reverently find place to the bottle and scarf among her things. As disorganized as the space may imply, there is a method to it. There is absolutely a reason why she steps around him to open up her trunk and settle the objects within it rather than allow the scarf to join any of the others draped over any of the many surfaces in her room, or set the bottle on the dresser alongside the jewelry there.

"Alright."

Like the small kisses exchanged on the landings, Loxley sneaks one more in against the corner of her mouth before releasing them both from their tangle. Shrugs out of his coat now that they're separated, laying it over a chair back before he opts to take a seat on the edge of her bed.

As she finds a place for the scarf and the bottle of perfume, who goes about unbuckling his boots, bolstered by explicit invitation to stay the night to make himself more comfortable. The little glints of jewelry that decorate his horns, the gold cap wedged onto each curling point and the thread of chain that links one cuff to his earring, will likewise need to be disentangled and removed.

No rush, on his part, watching her out the corner of his eye.

"I might have given them to you earlier if I'd encountered anything better in Kirkwall, you know, for the occasion, but there's never anything better in Kirkwall. Especially lately."

"I know."

Because she had gone through some trouble herself, finding a gift that felt right for him. There is a whole separate train of thought, worry about the flow of trade and it's stops and starts, but that isn't what she wants to talk about tonight.

The trunk thuds closed. She rises to her feet, joins him on the bed. They make a mirror of last year's Satinalia. Loxley had been in this room then too. The reminder of it glints from the loose drape of his tunic.

Derrica puts the parcel into his lap, draws one leg up to her chest as he lifts it.

The parcel itself is wrapped in soft paper, bound in gold-colored twine. Derrica had taken some care with the contents, arranging the items so nothing clinked or jangled when shaken.

Contained within is a fine linen tunic of emerald green. Meant to fall to the knee, with high slits running from hem to hip and polished buttons of dark stone sewn from collar to sternum and long, loose sleeves. The fabric is light, intended for easy movement. Nestled in the folds are pieces of jewelry: a gleaming copper armband to fit his bicep, a pair of gold caps for his horns embossed with delicate, intricate designs, a heavy gold cuff for his ear. A small collection, built up over the passing months.

A prickle of nerves gathers at the nape of her neck, but she doesn't prompt for a reaction. Just waits, watches him manage the process of unwrapping without hurrying him along through it.

He undoes and unwraps with care, levels of inebriation not so high that he isn't reflexively deft with fiddly things. Moves, when he gets the sense there is more than one item within, but not far, just a slight pivot so that he can start going through the bundle on the bed between them.

"I stand corrected,"

on the subject of Kirkwall being unable to provide.

The tunic unfolded, admired, smile brightening when he spies the gleam of copper and gold. He likes that they decorate each other. He'd been deliberate in refraining from getting her even more jewelry, spending his budget on something more specific, but this seems like permission to continue anyway.

He holds up one of the horn caps, studying its patterns. Oblivious to how nervous she might be. "I never found anything like this in Tassia," he says, presently. "Hardly a market for it, I suppose." Looks up again, maybe catching, then, her anticipation.

Smile doesn't dim, exactly, just gentles to a different setting. "Should I try them on?"

"Would it be alright if I put them on for you?"

It eases some of her worries, watching his expression as he examines her offerings. Loosens her posture, draws her in closer to him as Loxley spreads out the gifts across his lap. And as he speaks, it sparks up some quiet sadness a that idea he might have gone without.

Maybe it's Rivaini in her, wanting to dress him in gold. But he should have these things. He is more than worthy of them. How could it be that he had nothing like it at home?

Loxley likes gold. And Rivain. And her hands on him. These are the sorts of thoughts that skim the surface of his mind, pleasantly drunk without being too far gone.

"Yes please," he says, transferring the lapful of trinkets to the bed between them with a soft jingle of chains and rings. "They're beautiful."

He will watch her pick through them, move where needed. He picks up the band that's designed to go around his arm as if puzzling over its intention, but rather than ask right away, he says, "Do you think I could get away with wearing them whenever I like, or just for special occasions?"

Derrica puts herself into his lap, straddling over his thighs so she might have better access to his ears and horns. Touches his cheek lightly before turning her attention down to the spread of trinkets on the bed.

"Whenever you like," is followed by, "I picked a good jeweler. These are sturdy enough to last."

He should be draped in fine ornament every day, she thinks. This is Rivaini custom, yes, but it is also what she feels is due to him. Loxley is handsome, but he is brave and kind, all good things. He deserves lovely pieces of jewelry. He deserves some elevation of status.

His hands find her waist, an innocent place to rest as he leans back a little to accommodate the comfortably warm weight of her, giving her space to work.

"Then I shall wear them every day," Loxley says. Facetious without lacking sincerity, somehow. "Unless I'm attempting to be sneaky, then they would be counterproductive. To that."

A gentle squeeze of his hands follows, smoothing his palms lower to her hips, his gaze breaking from hers as she focuses on her task. He can instead lazily appreciate how she, too, looks in the low warmth of her room.

"I would like that," she tells him. "I like all of these pieces on you."

Even the ones that hadn't come from her, that he must have been given by others.

She puts her fingers into his hair, thumbs at his temples. Just for the pleasure of touching him, scraping her nails lightly along his scalp, before stretching upwards to affix the jewelry to his horns, slip the cuff onto his ear. Smile a little over the entire process

"Even if you'll have to take them off soon to go to bed."

Though it invites repetition of the process in the morning.

"I'll simply stay up a little longer," has zero subtlety to it, but languidly delivered. There is a lovely sort of meditative quality to staying still while Derrica brushes her fingers through his hair, adorns him in these fine bits and pieces, tipping his head a little bit here and there as his means of assistance.

His hand smooths up the side of her thigh, finding a resting place there, thumb stroking circles and fingertips barely indenting fabric and skin.

With his other hand, Loxley lifts the remaining circular piece for the offering.

"You are so lovely this way," Derrica tells him, indulgent, as her fingers stray back through his hair once more. Her palm cups his cheek, thumb briefly at the corner of his mouth. He's so pleasantly biddable, and the jewelry looks well on him, fits where placed without any effort at all.

Her thumb runs softly along his lower lip before she shifts, taking up the last piece before catching him by the wrist.

"Here, it'll go—"

Coaxing the circlet down, both hands sliding it over knuckles and wrist, over the bend of his elbow, until it settles into place around his bicep. She fusses lightly one-handed with his tunic sleeve, smiles.

"You can save it for the summer."

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SATINALIA

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it's still christmas

it's almost christmas

hell yea

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SATINALIA

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it's still christmas

it's *almost* christmas

hell yea

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it's almost christmas