SATINALIA

[incaenstrix]

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.

Comments

[nonvenomous]

A complex series of calculations has rendered Richard’s expression all but inscrutable in turn: how brief is brief, is anyone watching them, why has she asked him to do this. For what becomes the dominating query at congratulations, more apparent for the immediate furrow at his brow it invokes before she can answer in the next breath.

The furrow stays, a little impolite for its skepticism.

Occasionally, Mr. Dickerson is impolite.

“Retaining the position after abetting Mrs. Fitcher may be the greater feat.”

She’s stepped in, so he steps aside, into a loose lead. The music they have is the music they have. Serviceable.

“These people will promote anyone.”

[tender]

Occasionally.

However, the assessment makes her laugh. It's not untrue. She has wondered, for instance, how Byerly Rutyer came by his posting.

But she hasn't wondered about Richard. Even after Mrs. Fitcher.

"I'm glad they promoted you."

Richard isn't Isaac, who Derrica had found easy to work with. But he is a known quantity. She trusts him. He has not flinched from the minor snippets of truth she has offered up in explanation of her own magic. That is commendable.

"And I'm glad you are here. I know it must have been difficult to come back."

[nonvenomous]

He looks at her.

Disapproval creases in rough at his jaw as they turn, the splinter glowing green in his hand beneath hers pierced in like a talon to drag him back broken and filthy down that coastal road. She was there.

“Yes,” he agrees. It was difficult. “I appreciate your support.” Genuinely, if reluctantly, acquiescence in a tip at his notched ear. He won’t argue with Derrica for being kind on Satinalia.

But he will change the subject.

“Loxley is a far better dancer than I am.” Shouldn’t they be off k i s s i n g?

[tender]

"Loxley is good at a lot of things," Derrica counters; not exactly agreement about anyone's dancing abilities, but an observation of skill generally.

But it feels a little bit like prompting, even if Derrica doesn't observe it as a dismissal or an offering of escape.

"He thinks very highly of you," she tells him, head tipped up to search Richard's expression. "And I think he cares about what you think of him, and his choices."

Including choices that have cost Loxley an eye, or more.

[nonvenomous]

Disapproval digs in deeper still; Dickerson is now dancing with the grim fortitude of an old dog with a child’s arms looped around his neck, tension knotted up behind the pin of his ears. No one else is near enough to hear them and it’s dark out besides, fires burning to light the party proper. There’s nothing in his step to betray him.

So only Derrica is there to scrutinize his silence, the way he’d looked directly at her and now won’t look at her at all, mulled wine lending some kick to a suppressed sigh.

“I know what Loxley thinks of me,” he says, finally. He’s here at the party somewhere, easier to pick out for his horns. “His parents set a low bar.

“Why are you doing this?”

[tender]

"Dancing with you?"

The first question that comes to mind, though she isn't exactly sure of whether or not Richard means this exact activity or the topic of conversation or some third thing she hasn't parsed out yet.

[nonvenomous]

No answer.

Richard centers himself in the task at hand, needle to groove, allowing time for discomfort and suspicion to settle. His silence is odd only for the unanswered pair of questions that preceded it.

“I’m glad he’s found happiness here.”

[tender]

The confusion in her face isn't tempered; it is obvious, as she tries to reconcile the questions with this statement.

"Do you think we shouldn't be dancing?"

Because Derrica can't let it lie.

She would have been happy to talk about Loxley; in fact, there is much she might have had to say about the necessity of keeping Loxley safe, questions about his tendency towards a certain type of heroism.

But they're here now. She has a different question to ask.

[nonvenomous]

“Surely if that were true I would’ve declined the offer.”

Easy logic, only a little flippant. The stately black of his attire accented with gifts of Satinalias past contributes to an air of civility he’s never quite earned. Some of it is baked into his affect, the sharp bones in his face.

“Forget that I asked,” he suggests, without having excused himself outright just yet. The promise is there, in the angle to his lead shoulder. “I’ve never quite gotten a feel for the spirit of Satinalia.”

[tender]

The movement of the dance slows to a stop, though Derrica keeps hold of his hands.

"It's alright," she tells him, though her gaze remains on his face. "I'm glad you're here anyway."

Though the suggestion of Richard having hit the limits of his tolerance is not lost on her.

"Thank you for indulging me," she offers, genuine if uncertain of this choice in words.

[nonvenomous]

If he could vanish in a whorl of black ink he would. From most social engagements.

As is, he plays through the template of a gracious nod, parting eye contact, muscle memory rolling in clean to sever the connection with a light squeeze at her hands around his. He is also appreciative. Really.

“Of course,” he says. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

And he will extricate himself to depart there, provided she doesn’t take hold of his cloak mid-escape.