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

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

Having returned to the Valley as soon as she tired of courtyard shenanigans, Inessa perks up upon seeing the green-haired rifter woman. She hadn't been forgotten, though the elven mage didn't know how to approach her after the gruesome death of her friend. Garahel does, though, heading toward Rydia with a friendly bark and tail-wagging. As his mistress follows, he looks up hopefully for some petting time.

"Hello again, Rydia. I--wait, you mean dancing?" Drunk dancing, at least for some. Given her size, there's absolutely no way Inessa would not end up trashed, so she's been avoiding alcohol altogether. She isn't one to judge, though, smiling at seeing Rydia enjoy herself.

~~Sorry, so late, I'm having kind of full days~~

Oh, there's no better night to meet Rydia again. Maybe. She's not her usual self, the sumoner had too many drinks and not being used to alcohol but- oh boy, life is good right now. There are no dead dragoons to bring home to their families, there are no eidolons kicking her out of home and here are no alien kids probably waiting for her in Mist, only people partying!

"Of course I mean that..." What was that woman's name again? "Nerissa." Petting time follows, she doesn't seem to care about how dirty she's getting while kneeling on the floor to throw her arms around the dog's neck. Sorry, young lady, the summoner is completely focused on your animal companion now.

"Daaw, who is a good boy? Who is a good boy? You are. Yes, you are."

"Inessa...." She corrects absently, though given Rydia's state, she doesn't really expect her to remember. Garahel, suddenly the source of all this attention, happily licks Rydia, tail wagging madly. He's trained enough not to jump on people, but she kneeled down to reach him so of course he has to show some affection.

"He's mostly behaved himself tonight, though don't believe his pitiful whines, he's had plenty to eat."

"That's what I said." Not really. And Rydia may not even know what they're talking about anymore since her whole attention is focused on the 'big puppy' between her arms. She's scratching his head... leaving gentle nibbles on his neck, oh sweet Leviathan did she just lick his nose? Please, stop her. She may have been raised by monsters but normally she doesn't act like this.

"Oh, I see. Well, if he's full maybe he can dance with me. What is his name?" Oh, wait... "I should't ask her... hey, big boy, what is your name?" Because he can totally answer that.

That's...a lot more affection than Inessa is used to seeing someone give Garahel, even considering her fellow Fereldans. For Garahel's part, he doesn't mind at all and responds to the licking by returning it in spades. Hope Rydia likes doggy slobber on her face. Inessa looks as though she's debating whether or not to intervene.

"His name is Garahel, and he's far more enthusiastic about games of fetch or belly rubs. No matter how many I give him of either tonight, he's always ready for more."

Any big animal is meant to be loved and- let's be honest, the only serious consideration Rydia is making is a general his nose is so cold.

"Oh, sweetie my little Garahel, yes." And if it's fetch he likes, fetch he will have. Look at this disaster of a woman, Inessa, while she takes off her (way to large) plumed headpiece and throws it away in the mud... "Go get it, boy, go!"

It would be safer to stop such insanity... or just watch how far a drunk summoner can go.

The plumed headpiece is definitely eye-catching and not an item that ought to be casually tossed into the mud. Suspecting that Rydia might regret such actions when sober, Inessa glances to her mabari. "Gently, Garahel.

You needn't sacrifice such lovely plumage; I always have a ball for him, which you're welcome to use. Well, away from the others." Please, let's not risk anyone getting smacked in the head with it.

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

Valley

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