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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

James turns towards the other man, frowning for a moment as he tried to put a face to the mask. After a moment, it clicked, and he smirked faintly as he gave Jim a formal bow.

"There is no rest for the Templar Order, ser. Especially when we can gain some coin for our efforts here in the Inquisition." He smirked faintly, "And if you think the politicians have stopped working tonight ... well ..."

With a bit of an exaggerated flare Kirk return it, playing up his abstracted costume.

"Every weary soul deserves some rest now and then," he countered with a shake of his head. "And lucky for us, neither one of us is a politician, eh?"

"I am not so sure about that." James stated dryly, "Although I am fairly certain my position is something more of an honorary shield than anything else. Besides, I have a drink. Is that not relaxing?"

"You make the finest looking shield I've seen, if that helps," he looked the other up and down and nodded his head. He did clean up nice from the last few times he had seen him, but then it felt like everyone had turned out tonight in one way or another. "Are you actually drinking your drink? Because if it's just a prop, it doesn't count."

James let out a snort of laughter, before he dipped at his waist into a bow, "You flatter me ser, but I appreciate it, all the same." He scoffed, "This ser, is one of the finest vintages that Orlais has to offer. One savors, one does not guzzle."

"One cannot savor if one never takes even a sip," he countered him, and as if to prove his point he took a mouthful of the wine himself. Probably more than one should properly take when savoring wine, but wine had never been his sort of drink - he was a beer and scotch kind of man at heart, born from growing up around dive bars.

"I shall take a sip." James protests, then makes a faint face as the other man takes an entire swallow of the wine. "Tsk, now you won't get the full flavor of it, Jim."

To show him, James takes a much more moderate sip, and closes his eyes to take in the full bouquet that runs across his palate. He makes a quiet content noise. "Like that."

Kirk watches him, swirling his own wine cup slowly as he contemplates the way in which James "savors" his wine.

"Should I give you and the wine another moment alone?" he asked, pointing over his shoulder in the universal sign of excusing ones self.

James snorts as he holds his goblet, giving the other man a dry look. "Just because you drink your wine like a heathen ... doesn't mean I should not enjoy mine properly. Besides, one should always take one's time, in drinking and everything else. To hurry is to ruin the moment.

"I'm the sort of heathen who prefers a brandy or a whisky, personally. Wine was always a bit to formal for my liking," he shook his head, but the smile never left his lips, and this time he does as James directed and sipped slowly from the cup.

"Though you are right. It would be a shame to hurry a conversation with a friend."

"You see, all the more reason to enjoy your beverage." James nodded, lifting his cup again to the other man, a faint smile lingering on his lips. "So tell me, what precisely are you learning here, amongst our gilded class? I know you have much more experience with common folk, yes, in your Federation?"

"Guess that depends on what you mean by common," he gave a little half shrug, looking out to those gilded men and women, at once fascinated and slightly disgusted at the same time. "Not every place has a "common" and a "noble" class, after all, but mostly I - I wonder if they're tired. I feel sad that because they're always playing this game that there doesn't ever seem to be a way for them to be themselves. Those masks hide so much and they just seem so heavy."

He glanced to James, wondering what the other thought of that, though Kirk was surprised at how truthful he felt saying it. As much as he disliked the Orlesian style of doing things, the segregation and outright racism, he understood it to be a product of this Game as much as some other theological and societal practices.

"Hm. I think they have caught themselves in a trap - and now they cannot get themselves out. They cannot show weakness, cannot show the mask falling away, or they will be pounced upon." He sips his wine once more, "Or at least, this is what they've told themselves."

"Spun themselves into their own spiders' webs, have they?" he mused, and could find nothing to disagree with on James' assessment. It was accurate, he thought, for what little he knew as an outsider of the Game.

"How long do you have to stay and play good Templar?" he inquired, tilting his head to listen for the sounds in the valley.

"More or less. Some are clever, they can talk or bribe or seduce their way out of it. Some ... well. Look at them." He nods his head at the posturing nobles.

One smirk lifted on his lips, "Not much longer. I have been Seen and that is the most important part."

"Well, good, because I would like to be Seen down at the real party, and I'm sure many people would like to See you too," he tilted his wine glass at the other. "I think you'll be okay just coming as James though, and not a Templar."

"You mean the party where things are actually enjoyable?" He smirked faintly, "I suppose it would do no harm to be Seen down there. At least for a mug of mead."

He tipped an invisible hat, "James, just James. At your service, serah."

"Then we had best call me Jim or else everyone will be confused," he chuckled, downing the last of his wine in one gulp despite what the other had just chastised him about. Cup set down with a sharp click, he turned to James and grinned brightly.

"Come on, before they snatch you up in another round of "who can get away with the most veiled insult"."

"...Hah, I suppose they will have to." He finished his own cup, a little more slowly, before putting it aside as well. "Clearly, that would be me. So let us allow them to escape this evening. After you, Jim."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

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Sorry about my lateness, my life has been insane for the last week

Re: Sorry about my lateness, my life has been insane for the last week

Re: Sorry about my lateness, my life has been insane for the last week

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