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

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

valley;

[inagutterson]

Since Yngvi didn't bother going to the fancy party - not yet at least, because it'd be weird to go there without Asher being around to scandalise some noble or other, probably by spilling wine on them or just not having bathed for a week on purpose - he's brought his own drink.

Or is attempting to. It's a tricky business to roll a cask of Avvar mead when you were already drinking and you've got one nug (it sounds like one nug but it keeps blurring into three, sometimes four) running around your feet the whole time but he manages. Just. Spots something fancier than his booze and gives a heavy sigh.

"Madam." Grave suddenly, almost too grave as he holds up a hand. "Wine inspection, you know the drill don't even try to say you don't."

[bouclier]

Geneviève has just shooed off her escorts when the dwarf approaches her, and she frowns down at him, one eyebrow arched.

"Do I look like someone who would fall for that?" The answer is yes, of course. She likely doesn't look any different than most of the other Orlesian courtiers still up at the hold to the common eye, simply one foolish enough to venture down into the valley.

[inagutterson]

Heaving a sigh, Yngvi does go to roll up his sleeves but then he remembers that it's cold and immediately rethinks that strategy, folding his arms as he adopts his most charming of smiles.

Used to be the Templar smile before they started changing their colours, getting a bit too stab-happy for his liking.

"You related to the de Launcets?" Humans are so hard to tell apart at times, or Yngvi likes to say that as often as he can get away with it. "Look I'm not taking it away for good, s'not that kind of thing, just need to make sure everything is safe and secure - you know what parties like this are like, can't trust folk up here. Not with Fereldans about."

[bouclier]

Her frown only deepens as the dwarf speaks, and she doesn't so much as move. She might be buzzed, but roughly fifty percent of Orlais operates under a permanent buzz. She learned how to drink long before the Academie, and it doesn't quite impair her logic centers.

"That makes absolutely no sense. For one, I am Orlesian. For deux I am Dame Geneviève De La Fontaine, chevalier of Her Imperial Majesty Empress Celene. I can take care of myself and my wine."

[inagutterson]

Chevalier and it isn't that Yngvi goes stiff like a deer does when a clumsy hunter snaps a twig but his face goes very white under the red flush produced by the drink in him and the bite of bitter winter chill. His own dealings had the buffer of Asher, of contracts, but when your second that's now your boss is an elf out of Halamshiral…

The chin tips up. It has to in general but it's like the principle of the thing or something.

"Shouldn't you be off taking care of your imperial majesty polishing her throne with her arse instead of taking care of a bottle? Thought that's what you lot did, yeah? There's a good river, a waterfall, name like fountain," he's not attempting the rest when he's from Kirkwall so congratulations this is your new name, "you could splash your way back right quick if you don't want to freeze solid. But...I did think Gasp-- Gasp-hard," yes, that's how he pronounces it wanna fight about it, "was the swinging his sword about chevaliers ride together, die together boyo."