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

[heda]

It's enough her personality that it almost tugs a flicker of a smile from Lexa. It doesn't quite, no real move of her mouth but something fond and amused around the eyes. They soften even further when Clarke reaches out, and at the brush of fingertips against hair Lexa seems to freeze, hovering still like a hunter trying not to spook her prey, like a doe frozen in the moment before flight.

"Clarke," she breathes, uncertain and soft enough to miss.

[levered]

Clarke might have missed it if less of her attention were on Lexa's mouth, but she doesn't, and she nods a little without being sure what she's agreeing to, other than her identity, which doesn't feel terribly solid right now but also doesn't matter. She hasn't had so much to drink that she doesn't know what she's doing. She still has inhibitions. She still has concerns. Everything that was there this afternoon is there still, but a little more distant, a little foggier, less urgent and overwhelming. She has had so much to drink that wanting to forgive Lexa blurs with forgiveness itself, and deserving something good—both of them, they both deserve it—is the same as being able to have it.

Her hand flattens over a braid and curls until her fingertips have found the back of Lexa's neck through her mass of hair. Not firm enough to grip anything. Clarke knows a few things about Lexa, and one of them is that she won't need to drag her closer. She only has to lean in, herself, first to touch noses and then to turn hers to the side so there's nothing in the way of touching mouths instead.

She's shorter. She catches Lexa's bottom lip between both of hers—just her lips, not her teeth, more tentative than any of the wrist-holding and space-invasion that preceded it.

[heda]

Lexa trembles for that second it takes Clarke to lean in, for their noses to brush, for eyes to slip closed, for the distance to close and their lips to catch. There's the shaky exhale across Clarke's cheek of a held breath released.

There's no need to drag her, mouth gone soft and pliant, but she just returns that same gentle pressure Clarke offers and no more. A hand lifts from her lap, but then stops and only hovers in the air, still hesitant.

[levered]

Clarke couldn't hold that hovering hand if she wanted to, if she knew it was there, because she's still holding her drink. But when Lexa doesn't immediately lean back to tell her that this is a stupid idea—she knows, thanks—she settles in closer, presses more firmly, pulls lightly at the lip she's caught, and moves her bottle-occupied hand around to hold the bottle against Lexa's side, which is almost the same thing as holding her side directly. Good enough, for something that's already a bad idea to begin with.

Someone shrieks behind them. It's a playful shriek, the sort that comes from someone being chased around a bonfire by another person in a costume, but it's enough for Clarke to move back an inch, just an inch, not even enough for their noses to stop touching. Only enough to glance aside, out of startled instinct. When there's no immediate sign of actual danger, she looks back at Lexa, who's very close, and smiles with just her eyes, because her mouth is already on its way back to being preoccupied.

[heda]

Wow Clarke, priorities???

It's the thought that counts, though Lexa would obviously much rather that Clarke's hand were pressed against her side instead of that bottle. Her own hand remains uncertain, and is only just about to land on a shoulder when that shriek puts space between them and she pulls it back again, startled. She's sure Clarke is going to remember herself and make an exit like she's done before, but instead there's that smile, jumping between them like a static charge to light Lexa's eyes, too.

Clarke leans back in and for a moment, Lexa nearly gives in to it. Lips part, head tilts, and she leans near, tips herself almost into Clarke's lap in her eagerness to return her kiss. But even with Clarke's mouth on hers again she's too sober to shut out the awareness that came with that shout, the reminder that they are surrounded by people. As much as she wants to forget everything but the girl in front of her, her position is, as always, the most effective cock-block.

She pushes gently on Clarke's shoulder and pulls herself back, just far enough to tug their lips apart. The effort it takes is easy to read, reluctance in every line of her body and in the hooded heat of eyes she struggles to drag away from the sight of Clarke's mouth. She lets them close instead and sighs out a heavy breath.

"I'm sorry, I can't. Someone will see."

[levered]

Clarke can see the regret. That doesn't make it feel less like rejection—a short, stinging moment when I can't is only I don't want this enough to risk it, amplified by the fact that she's a little drunk. She sits back too sharply and says, "Right. That was stupid."

Someone might see. Bellamy might see, and Clarke will have to explain, and she can't. She can't say I don't blame her or I trust her. She would have to say something about liquor and firelight, and it would be stupid.

But she softens, a moment later. It was her stupid idea. She twists her mouth in another little smile, less a peace offering than a sign of a ceasefire, before she stands up.

"Have a good night, Commander."

[heda]

She very nearly does want it enough to risk it, which is a realization Lexa is currently coming to. It's alarming, how ready she is to throw all of her caution to the wind and abandon good sense, stop caring about her standing and Clarke's feelings and their safety, everything but this moment and the liquor-sweet taste of this girl she's wanted for so many months. It's chilling to realize how stupid she was prepared to be, if they hadn't been interrupted just then.

It's enough to make her pull back further and stand as well, hands folding behind her back as she forms up into the posture of the commander she is and wipes all signs of emotion or attraction from her face. In the space of a breath or two she's gone cold and still in overcompensation, and Clarke's smile gets only a firm little nod in return.

"Good night, Clarke."