Open Drags on a Dragon

[Petra Darthinian]

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---

It had started with a joke.
Something about scales and sequins.
A throwaway comment over cider and blunted training swords, shouted between taunting laughs.

And now?

Now Petra had a clipboard in hand, a whistle hanging from her neck, and the full weight of a monastery-wide festival riding on the backs of weeks, nay, months of prep. They had transformed the training grounds into a space fit for a festival. They had built wooden bleachers to ring the performance area, and a stage, ready for any of the knightly performers when they weren't on dragonback.

It was there that Norvyk lounged now, the great emerald storm dragon lay stretched across the entire main platform, wings tucked in, one golden eye half-lidded as he watched his rider with a look of supreme resignation. His scales had been cleaned, hot-oiled, and dusted by squires in enough rainbow shimmer powder to blind a gluttonous king. They’d spent months getting him used to the idea. And he’d taken to it with... moderate grace. Although Norvyk had refused to speak to Petra for a week after agreeing.

Petra herself had been up before sunrise, though she hadn’t slept much. There was no time. There’d been last-minute fabric deliveries, an endless amount of crystals glued where they needed to go, and a whole emergency involving someone spilling wine on a silk dress. Petra had handled it all. Barked orders, fetched tools, kissed foreheads, kicked carts. She’d been directing people since dawn, striding across the monastery training grounds like a woman possessed.

“No no no NO— the shroud crystals go around the base of the stage, unless you plan on pulling a spotlight out of your ass, Rilo!?” she barked at the scurrying squire, pointing with the feathered end of her pen at another group of workers, “Caravans to the east side, not by the fire dancers — I don’t want another incident like this morning!” she called out, swearing she could smell the singed ends of her curls still. “And tell the band we’re doing a final soundcheck in twenty!”

A local band had been training weekly with the knights, learning timing and cues and the music to all their performances.

Decorations lined every post and railing. Colorful streamers, enchanted lanterns, swaths of rich fabric in iridescent hues. Shroud crystals circled the main stage, charged to provide spotlights and color effects later in the evening with the help of trained squires. Near the edge of the grounds, the Knoll had set up bright little kiosk tents selling their brews, charred meats, candied nuts, and Louretta's famous scones. A performance troupe had been hired from Crown's Hold to support the events of the evening. There were tarot tents, fire dancers, acrobats, knife jugglers, and even a sword swallower who’d swallowed two practice blades and scared three children.

And already, the locals were arriving.

This thing had been advertised in Astenvale for weeks, flyers passed from hand to hand, trailing rumors of last year’s infamous Himbo Fest. The excitement was electric and Petra expected a crowd.

At the far end of the field stood a massive canvas performance tent, painted in vivid violet and stitched with gold thread. It was the tent she had set up specifically for the Knights that were performing in drag tonight. She'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit that a few of the volunteers had left her surprised. And most of them were already inside, working through their transformations.

Petra checked her clipboard one last time, biting the edge of her lip.

Wigs? Delivered.
Backup lashes? Three sets.
Last-minute fabric repairs? Done two hours ago.
Emergency elixirs for sudden nerves or allergic reactions to glamour powder? Syr Josai had assured they were stocked.

She took a breath, rolled her shoulders, and started toward the tent. This was the last thing on her list before they could get started. The moment before the fabulous madness.

Her voice rose over the noise like a thundercrack.

“Alright, queens and creatures, I’m coming in! If you’re not decent, get decent enough!”

She swept the canvas flap open and strode inside.

 

[Milo]

"I need something that is going to bring out my gorgeous eyes you know Nyra?"
Milo persisted as he held open his eyelids with two finders, twisting between his friend and the mirror, eyeballs protruding.

"Can you not change the colour of my hair maybe?"
He grew more excited as the idea struck. "
You know, ive seen green orcs with blue hair before and it works quite nicely."

With a big smile on his face, hands finally no longer exposing the entire contents of his eye socket, he waited for his proposed hair colour.
Instead, his dreams were crushed. Nyra let out a low huff of air, one that would tell any baystander this conversation had been held countless times. Scratching her brow in an attempt to stay cool the women simply said,
"Milo, how many times do I have to tell you this? I can shape shift, I cannot make you shapeshift. Thats not how it works.". With that she turned around and left the dressing area.

"She just doesn't want to share her powers with me, selfish little fox."
Milo grumbled to him self as he pulled on a pair of squince tights he had borrowed from a ballerina - well more along the lines of she had left them and never enquired again of their wear abouts. Afterwards he applied some koal around his eyes, determind to make them pop and succeeding eventually after nearly causing his own blindness a few times. Finally he added the finishing touches - feathers everywhere.

 

[Cahir Omin]

A fanged smile quirked the side of their lips at the grumbling Cahir heard somewhere over their shoulder, gaze focused on the sharp wing that lined their left eye. Finishing touches always took the longest in most everything they did, and makeup was no different. Glittering gold dusted in an ombre to cream beneath their brows. Lashes were painted dark this time to blend with the sharp cut of kohl they were currently working on matching with its sibling. A perk of having androgynous features meant they needed little contour for the right face structure. Some shadow here along the hollows of cheeks, some highlight there just beneath the temples, and they were set.

The real question: did they paint their lips or not? Decisions, decisions...

"I'm sure she'll eventually share," Cahir mused innocently, somehow managing to keep the grin out of their voice. "Just keep asking, surely nothing will go wrong."

They shifted in their seat, the fine robe draped over them slipping from one shoulder as they leaned forward, setting the brush down. Clawed fingers drove through ashen strands for a moment, testing the salve's strength they had combed through usually curled locks about an hour ago to keep it straight and moldable. So far, it seemed to work. 'Good enough,' came the thought. Styling would happen once Cahir changed into the chosen attire for the event. It would be a silken cream, gown-esque piece, the flowing fabric aimed to hang from their hips, and a center panel showcasing a double split. Why? To show some leg, of course, why else? A thin V worked up from the navel, cresting over the chest before capping at both shoulders into twin curtains that draped over the lower open back. A sheer bodice encased the inner side of the design, sequenced with small gems and shiny pieces of fabric in almost starburst patterns, matching well with the color palette they were going for. Something light both in color and weight because they sure as hell had no plans on strutting around in heavy garb. If Cahir was doing this, it would be in style and practicality.

A honey gaze cut toward the woman striding in through the canvas flap. A wild yet genuine grin split across their face, head tilting slightly at the reflection before turning their head to glance over their shoulder. "The busy bee herself! Looking a little crazed there, darling, finally coming to take a breather?"

 

[Roki]

An audible eep at the sound of Syr Darthinian's approach. "Not done yet! Not done yet!" he called out, and moved in a storm of snatches and pulls.

Fingers whose nails were painted the deepest purple plucked up at the gown that would be his cover for the night's festivities, and he pulled it on.

Golden velvet slipped over bare green skin, like sunlight come spill over the dip and swell of sure green valleys. A loose robe made to billow, flow and drape, clung to the edge of bone, and the line of muscle. The long split down the middle still hung loose to show the dip and lead of the squire's flexible physique.

Bright white pearls hung from his neck and rattled against each other. Draped low to settle beneath the rise of his chest, and he saw that he was still undone, grabbed up the ties and cinched them shut to show just a little less skin.

Nod.

Breathed a little easier, and peered around at the other queens to be. Lips pursed, curious and his golden eyes wide. "You all look so great," he said, if a little breathless with his own worry.

He still needed to work on his make up. And for all the acts he had partaken in. He always hated doing his make up.

 

[Oliver]

Fucking fabulous.

He kept finding glitter in his mouth, from all the breeze, the smiles and the incessant blathering he’d got upto since he’d brushed his entire moustache with it. Must be the heat undoing the glue — At this rate I’ll be shitting sparkle for weeks too.

Blowing out a breath, he picked his lips clean and checked his teeth before one of the mirrors in the tent, leaning closer to it with one hand on the vanity. Though himself wasn’t partaking in the actual contest, he had still dressed up for the occasion — loose and billowy fashions, the sheen of silk and dusting of iridescent sparkle about his white shirt that lay open to reveal the painted beads and charmed brass about his neck and chest. High waisted vermillion breeches that terminated at the buttoned and bucked knee, outfit completed with stockings and perfectly sensible black shoes with red soles and heels. Two inches.

His ears he’d decorated with larger hoops and his eyes with winged eyeliner that then had been surrounded with the painted aspect of a firebird, to be sufficiently extra. Swooping, furious lines in orange, red and mellow pink. Head tilting, he frowned at the mirror to watch the image distort, crinkling, sufficiently distracted with inspecting a smudge about one of his eyelids to not flinch when Syr Darthinian sauntered in as a glorified thunderbolt.

“ Darthinian. “ He greeted, clattering through the brushes laid on the table as he looked for the proper one for correcting his make up crimes. That was, having skin beneath it all. As he rose and eye back to the reflection, he spied what he’d figured himself was here for — cluelessness, a dash of worry, perchance? He lingered yet as if transfixed by his own task of touching up the vibrant red about the crease of his lids, dabbing it with a small brush and more pigment.

“ A perfectly dazzling appearance you are as well, Roki. Complements and compliments. “ He started casually once the lad was closer, gesturing with one hand from his hair to his outfit. Purple and gold, straight flowing lines.

“ Have you chosen yourself a name yet? “

 

[Delores Solidad]

Dawn. A new day; one represented by the radiant sunlight accompanying an ever-shifting breeze. For some, this mix of temperature and wind-based pleasures would be considered "sensational". For Delores, however, this weather was much of the same as an Astenvale Commoner. The beautiful nature was but one small yet critical detail that came with living here yet - now being amongst the humdrum of a tirelessly curated festival, it felt so much larger; so much more important to the moment. Today was the "Drags on a Dragon" festival. It was concept, admittedly, she hadn't much knowledge about. With that being said, she certainly wasn't about to let it stop her from a full day of entertainment.-- If anything she'd just learn along the way!

"Purse? Check.", tiny feet could be heard tip taping around a reserved cottage room,
"Favorite Boots? Check.", as Delores continued to move about the room in search of her things, she took momentary pauses to ensure she hadn't forgotten anything before pressing on. "Alright, I think I've got everything I could possibly need. Now there's just one thing left to do!", bursting out of the door, Astenvale's favorite gardener whizzed past the kitchen and toward the exit of their abode; kissing her husband lips and son's forehead respectively prior to doing so.

"Food has been made and is warming up for whenever you two are hungry, oh, and honey? Make sure Anwar doesn't eat too many snacks while I'm gone; you know how his stomach can get if he's had too many before dinner time!"

SLAM!

--

With time passed and distance traveled, Mrs. Solidad found herself at the entrance to the festival. Entertainment, food, shops, this place had it all! She hadn't quite known where to start first initially. Honestly, she found herself a bit overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all; especially with her being a teeeeny shorter than most folk here. Nevertheless, she slapped her cheeks lightly and balled up her fists before taking her first steps into the event; determined to turn this momentary freedom from everyday life into a spiritually relaxing day.

"Okay Delores, you've got money saved up since the flyers first got posted and every bill has been taken care of in advanced. We can't go too crazy, however, let's have fun out there okay?", nodding assuredly, she scanned the area up until noticing a farming and gardening merchant in the distance selling high grade tools and seed packets she was unfamiliar with. "Well, now that I've noticed it, I almost HAVE to visit it at least once, right?....Right.", With a hop to her step, she made her way over to the stall; enticed by their offerings from afar.

"Have a great day and make everyone I meet smile; by hook or by crook".

 

[Vyn]

The sequins had caught fire first. Glitter huffed and puffed, jealous, until it too started a mad jig in the teenage flame. It wasn't that bad, really. Panic and screams still came. Small runs and smaller patdowns. Someone threw a pitcher at her, lump on her elbow serving as witness. Three sets of props and a wig later, they were safe.

Vyn had sworn it wasn't her fault – which was, you know, technically true. The routine was meant to end with a burst instead of a blast. But the timing was off, the wind had ideas, and her wrist still stung from the blowback. She called it a happy accident. Someone else called it arson. She hoped they could make a deal and proceed with flamboyant arson.

She'd been keeping a low profile since.

Which is why when she saw the her – the same knight she nearly set on fire, ducking under the tent flap with a look that said she hadn't forgotten...Well, Vyn didn't need to be told twice.

Took but a blink.

She Marcyed away. Quick spin on her heel, shoulders dipped, and vanished into the crowd like a raccoon in rhinestones. Half as fast, thrice as guilty.

She nearly eblowed the tallest Deva the wolrd had ever seen on her way out. Looking at the size of... that was one poor mother. No time for giants. Only escape.

 

[Roki]

"Oah," mouth fell open. "Syr Oliver!" was that his name today? A shake of the head. Pearls set to rattle with it. Reminder to slow. Just a touch. Don't want the jewels lashing.

A settle of breath.

"My name," he parroted. Hands loosed some against his knees.

Sat before a vanity over, all dark wood with bright panels of honey toned maple, and deep coffee walnut. Pallets of makeups set across the plane. Purples and reds. Touches of electric blues. As cold as they were hot. Colors he had always liked.

"Uh, yeah," he nod nod, and wondered at how the noble Syr had thought to paint such stunning wings about his eye. How the zazz of all the glitter and gleam of jewels all popped and sparkled radiant. He grinned wide and full of himself.

"Sugarplum Heat," like he got away with something.

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Petra swept into the tent like a storm covered in rhinestones, clipboard in hand and glitter clinging to her boots. The air was thick with hairspray and perfume, tasting faintly of nerves and rosewater.

Knights moved between curtained dressing alcoves, each one stuffed with hung garments and stacked crates. A long shroud mirror, a conjuration courtesy of one of the Duskers, stretched the length of the vanities, a pane of enchanted water that reflected their faces.

"Alright, darlings!" she called, steadying one knight who passed on wobbly heels, and flashing a dazzling smile to all the rest who called to her. "Hello, hello, yes, yes. You're all looking wonderful! But we're less than an hour out from start time, so let’s rein it in, tuck it up, and listen sharp— this is my final roll call and set order check.”

The paper of her clipboard snapped with a flair. "Okay, if I don't call your name, please tell me immediately. Otherwise, you're going to be left with convincing Norvyk to allow you on his dance card." Her lashes fluttered, wicked. "And I don't know how much mercy he has left tonight." Norvyk's reputation for sass could surely give any drag queen a run for their shroud.

A few scattered laughs eased the nervous energy.

“Right. Once we’ve got the order locked, Lady Una will do a final once-over on your ensembles. So please, please, make sure you have stretched and that all of your lacings are secured." She smiled, and winked to them all. "I would hate for something you didn't want to slip out."

@Oliver @Una @Roki @Vyn @Delores Solidad @Cahir Omin @Milo

 

[Una]

Petra was certainly the storm: all precision, spectacle, and impact. But then Una was her little afterglow assistant, the rainbow trailiing behind her platform heels, gliding close with the kind of elegance only nature’s palette could rival. If Petra stomped or high-kicked a jewel loose from her custom ruby thigh-highs, Una was there in a heartbeat: couture kit in hand, crystal jar flicked open, a smear of thick shroudpaste glue smoothed with a fingertip before the scarlet gem was pressed perfectly back into place. To others, it looked like sorcery. To Una, it was just fashion done right.

"Lady Petra, don’t forget your tiara!" The seamstress trilled, trailing after her into the tent with a gleaming circlet of tiger’s eye and gold helix dangling from her elbow. She scurried to Petra’s side and gave a vain little hop to set it in place, then paused, deflated, as the height gap difference between them proved too much. With a sigh, she resigned herself to carrying it instead.

In addition to that, she carried her own clipboard -- pink, sparkly, and totally charming. A gauntlet of tape, thread, and notions on her wrist, and the caddy strapped to her hip. Married utility to style with an extravagant lavender blouse and chiffon pussybow that fluttered with every move. Her headfins stood alert, waiting for Petra’s next command. Though she looked the picture of professionalism, a giggle played across her lips at the mention of things slipping loose.

“If anything isn’t fitting quite right or causing discomfort, please let me know!” she chirped, bending with a graceful curtsy.