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WHO: Everyone
WHAT: SATINALIA
WHEN: Firstfall 1
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Party hard, use content warnings, move explicit content to inboxes.

Named for Satina, the smaller of Thedas' two moons, Satinalia is a celebration of freedom, marked by wild celebration, pranks, the donning of costumes and masks -- not the fine, delicate masks of Orlais, but animals and caricatures and playful horrors -- and the exchange of gifts both sincere and satirical. There's also the crowning of a Fool to rule for the day, or two Fools, in this case: Iskandar and Valentine are given crowns and the right to issue orders. Non-military orders. Unless they manage to start some kind of battle between their imaginary kingdoms.

Elsewhere in Thedas, the festivities may last a week. At Skyhold, no one can pause the war for that long. But all those who can be spared are released by late afternoon, given the night and the next morning -- handle those hangovers before reporting back to work please -- to enjoy the celebration in the fortress or the even less restrained revelries in the valley.

This day was originally a celebration of Zazikel, the Old God of Chaos, but let's not dwell on that.

SKYHOLD

Tables in the Great Hall are piled high with several whole roasted tuskets, meats thinly sliced in the Orlesian style, a tower of cheeses and candied fruits, and great bowls of Antivan pasta with brightly colored sauces. Casks of ale and wine are tapped, emptied, and replaced to keep a near constant stream of alcohol flowing, only improving the efforts of a trio of bards in the corner playing music that's spirited but still easy to speak over. An area near them has been cleared for entertainers: a small troupe of exceptionally limber acrobats tossing and climbing each other in increasingly impressive shapes, and then a team of dancers, romantic and expressive, performing a piece made famous in the theaters of Val Royeaux.

Even once the entertainers finish and leave space for the guests to dance, the party remains more on the sedate side. The celebration indoors is meant to impress and entertain visiting dignitaries and nobles: others are welcome to assist with the schmoozing, but anyone too rowdy or otherwise controversial will be asked politely to relocate, and no one who looks even slightly mischievous or inebriated is permitted into the gardens or library or other easily-damaged areas of the fortress.

The courtyard is noisier. The sparring rings and archery targets are claimed for contests of strength and skill made intentionally ridiculous: soldiers fighting in costume with raw fish as weapons or their hands tied behind their backs, training dummies dressed in discarded finery, an archer capable of standing on her hands and shooting with her feet who's happy to give demonstrations. As the light fades the play-fighting does as well, replaced by music and dancing, with the way lit by braziers and candles and glowlights from Orlais strung in the trees and along the walls.

After midnight, the celebrations within the walls taper off. Some people need to sleep. But those who don't may make the journey down the path and into the valley.

THE VALLEY

In the valley, there's no one to say shush. The party starts early and runs late enough to be early all over again. The food is less fine -- stew and bread, cider and ale, some barrels of young wine and rough liquor gifted by the quartermaster from a mistaken shipment. For anything nicer than that you'll have to bring your own or charm someone who has, but plenty have brought out their carefully hoarded stocks tonight. Flasks of rum from Rivain or treacle-sweet wine from Antiva, tiny boxes of candies and chocolates, small pouches of smokeable herbs: there isn't much of anything but there's a little of everything, all available for the price of a well-played trick or well-placed kiss.

Tonight instead of the usual spattering of camp- and cook-fires, the camp is lit by torches and roaring bonfires, the entire valley caught in the shifting, flickering firelight. Shadows flare and twist, flames limn masked faces in gold and orange and red, and the constant crackle and spark provides its own accompaniment to the music. Fiddles and drums pound and wail, spinning dancers faster and faster, whether big circles of linked hands tugging each other round and round the fire, or a crush of couples, each clasping and spinning and catching and pressing close again. Some duck into shadows, clutched together out of sight until the wind changes and shadows shift, revealing some and concealing others.

There are games down here, too: knives and axes and arrows aimed at hay bale targets, circles marked out with rope for grappling or boxing rings, a bizarre struggled over a greased pumpkin, even pairs growling across tables as they arm-wrestle. The prizes are mostly just the cheers of a wildly enthusiastic crowd and maybe a half bottle of stolen brandy, but there are plenty of challengers all the same and plenty willing to bet on the outcome. The Inquisition is a truly motley assortment, and scattered around are plenty showing off their skills, from juggling to firebreathing to telling fortunes. Instruments from a half-dozen countries can be heard, and small groups clustered around dry patches of ground or upturned crates roll dice and deal cards two dozen different ways.

Unlike up at the keep, this party takes a little while to ramp up, as more and more people finish their shifts and make their way down to join, and it only gets louder as the hour grows late. There haven't been many chances to let loose since all this began, and Maker knows they've all been under plenty of stress. Loud laughter and singing and music continue well into the wee hours, and the crowd only finally thins out several hours past midnight, with a hardy (or foolhardy) core still just stumbling home at dawn.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

So of course Church flops into a seat by her (and by seat, read barrel laid sideways and stoppered from rolling), handing her a mug of mulled wine. "Gotta keep those fingers warm if you're gonna be playing all night. You're looking very unlike death, so that's an improvement."

Probably still comfier than whatever they passed off as seats in the Avvar hold. Boulders. Frozen boulders. Fur only hides so much. Wiggling her fingers simply because she can now that her hand doesn't protest with agonising lances of pain or worrying grinding noises, she inhales, the gracias somehow coming out in the same breath.

"I feel very much alive. Or the bits I can feel. A few toes, the tip of my nose, perhaps not but the rest of me? Much better." So let her just lean her head on your shoulder because you were honestly one of the very best people when everything was terrible. "And you, Church? Are you enjoying the party? Full of life?"

"As full of life as I usually am. I like to keep all the life on the inside of my body. If it starts getting on the outside, something's wrong." Wait, are we talking about life or blood? "Yeah, things are great down here. Better than the frou frou upper crust up in Skyhold smacking each other with fish. ...But that is really funny. To be honest. Fish! Why?"

Well you look like a guy to her, you could be talking about a third thing Church, and from the way Araceli's face is collapsing in on itself as she tries and fails not to explode with giggles? She's clearly thinking that one until she fans her face, wiping at her eyes until she can speak.

Look she grew up in a brothel, her mind likes to wander down the dirty path.

"Fish are treated with more respect where I come from. We depend on them. And it's so hard to get fish to Skyhold when we're all the way up a mountain and the good fish are all the way in the sea. Just to slap someone with them. But it is such a satisfying sound. I wish they had some pufferfish. Or anything spiny. Nobles are very strange creatures, I have known so very many very well indeed and still I think I'll never understand how their minds work."

He stares at her for a little bit because, wow, didn't think it was that funny--until he realizes what she's thinking. Man, he wasn't even going there, and that's almost a shame. That's a Donut-ism right there.

"Look, if they got out some swordfish? And then like, stuck pufferfish on them? I would sell tickets. I kind of hope those fish don't go to waste and they're, like, gonna get thrown on a grill right away or something. Just to get all the heavy perfume and noble smell off, geez."

"You can't eat pufferfish." Actually no, let her pause to think about it. "You can. If you have a very good chef, very skilled, knows what they're doing. Slice and dice wrong and you've served up a plate of poison. Everything else would be fine but if they had those then no, I wouldn't trust anyone here to know what they're doing with it."

(Simpsons did it, Simpsons did it.)

"Maybe some of us should see about liberating the fish. I already helped with the tiny cakes but this is of course a cause far more dear to my heart."

Hoshit are fugu fish and pufferfish the same fish his brain is getting blown who hasn't seen that episode! "Okay, but the swordfish you could throw right on the grill. Swordfish steaks. And then keep the swordy part and poke each other with it."

He gets filled with ideas when he's filled with, like, danishes and tiny cakes and sweets that get smuggled from on high.

"Okay, so. Liberating fish. You fill a barrel with salt water. Unless they're fresh water fish. So we'd have to salt up a bunch of water in a barrel. Then you--you meant liberate the already dead fish, so we can eat them down here. Is what you meant. Which. I totally didn't just get right this second and knew you were talking about that the whole time. Yep."

"You know, I'm sure we could convince them that this is a truly noble sport somewhere - Orlesians are so very quick to seize upon the latest trend and the thought of them trying to duel with those? Sever the head and they have to use the skull as part of it for holding it too, almost like a rapier."

Araceli is honestly no better when she's been thieving, and Thedas has a truly saddening lack of rapiers.

Laughing again, she leans against him for a moment because she's so very fond of him. There aren't enough people here like Church that she can laugh with so honestly and be around so easily without making sure there's no agenda, just to be safe. "You will be honest if I ask you this, yes? Have you been drinking much tonight? Perhaps my sirena has been generous if she brought any of her maraas-lok with her?" Because Araceli really doesn't touch that if she wants to remember her night. Once was enough when it was just knocking it back until suddenly she forgot where she put her legs.

"I'll definitely be honest. I've been imbibing some. Not enough to be drunk, I don't think. Maybe tipsy? Maybe I'm at that fun tipsy point people like getting to but always end up overshooting. Or maybe I'm drunk, when I start not understanding words in your sentences. Sirens and mars...maras--Mars Volta." Church. Okay, he might be deliberately fucking around on that one, because...

No, the sad part is this isn't him drunk, or maybe that's the good part, the happy part? Tipsy might still be on the table, though.

"Maraas-lok. You know she's never actually told me what that means? I always translate things I tell her and she tells me other things but that could mean anything. One word can mean so many things to them." Like kadan means 'where the heart lies' so that's one word standing for four but it's still metaphorical, and she's going somewhere with this when she shrugs. "Maybe it means 'blast of the dragon' and 'blast' really means something else."

Maybe Araceli's had a bit too much schmoozing with assholes because her laughter comes out with a snort when she says it.

Church leans against her, actually giggling at the stupid hilarious joke. "I don't--" Hold on, let him breathe through it. "I don't think I wanna be close enough to a dragon's dick to get that kind of blast, thanks!" Aaand now he misses Donut. God damn it. "Dude, qunari are big enough and visually scary enough that if they decided to turn dragon jizz into booze, I'd totally believe they could do it. But holy shit, you could market that stuff as an aphrodisiac, how many people would buy it to get that oomph in bed?"

open | the drunk horn's so violent, all spinning out sound

Valley

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