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

[thecookery]

"Ow??"

Avery blinks owlishly, and it takes her a second to realize that she has apparently just been pulled hipbone-first into the side of a table? And by Ciri too??

She is so far out of it right now that for a moment, it's almost comical how confused and betrayed she looks as she rubs idly at her poor, bruised side. And the sad part is, she hasn't had a drop to drink. She is just so bone-tired after all the work she and the other cooks have been doing for days to make this party happen that she's having a little trouble processing what's going on... or what Ciri has just shouted to her.

Once it clicks though, she just grunts, "Go fuck yourself. I'm going to bed." Well, maybe more sighs than grunts, as she's too tired to even put any bite into it. This just isn't right.

[ichaer]

"Ow??"

Because huh? She can't really feel much in the way of hipbones knocking into tables when there is two others atop the same long table stomping their feet to the music so the entire bruising goes well over her head. In fact, Ciri looks terribly confused herself by Avery's own confusion with a touch of betrayal that she almost releases the grip she has on the woman's hand.

Almost. Because, if anything, she holds tighter with Avery's fond farewell to the entire situation. In fact, she hops from the table and gives her a toothy smile.

"Much like dancing that is also better with a partner which is why you can't leave for bed now! It's far too early for bed."

[thecookery]

Speaking of things going over people's heads, Avery doesn't seem to catch all of what Ciri was saying there, fortunately(?), otherwise this conversation might have taken a hefty derailing!

Instead, Avery just narrows her eyes and then looks up to the night sky and grumbles, "It's not, actually."

[ichaer]

"Tonight it absolutely is! Besides, you can at least stay for one dance."

Dancing, spinning around in circles, stomping on tables or whatever people are calling dancing tonight. "I didn't die, you know. So you didn't end up getting fed to anyone's dog and that means we should absolutely dance in honor of not ending up dead."

It makes sense somewhere in her head.

[thecookery]

"Ciri," she says quietly, reaching up and putting a gentle hand on Ciri's cheek. "Dear, sweet, precious, naive Ciri..."

She takes in a long breath and for a moment loses her train of thought. But eventually she gets it back! "That is a lovely thought. But even if I had ever cared about dancing a day in my life, today is not party day for me. It is the last in a series of some of the hardest, most frantic, exhausting days of work I've had in a very long time. So unless you plan on dancing me directly into my bunk, please go fuck yourself."

Again, this is said in the least unkind way such an instruction can be given!

[ichaer]

The hand on her cheek is enough to get Ciri's attention. It's a bit on the side of confused, truth be told. In fact, her green eyes are slightly more focused on the hand than the words but manages to fade back in slightly. Enough to hear something about frantic, work, dancing and bunks. Honestly, it is super hard to focus with all this music.

Yes. That was absolutely the reasoning.

"Don't say things you don't mean. Because I absolutely could and would dance you straight to bed and you know I would." Because she is an absolute stubborn little shit.

[thecookery]

Oh, if Avery was less deliriously exhausted right now, she would be far too awkward for that hand to be there, so any confusion is completely understandable.

Another thing she would not do at any other time: start pouting a little and make a small groaning sound. "Why are you doing this?"

[ichaer]

It is very confusing! Then again, Ciri is also standing here holding her hand still and barely even considering the awkwardness of it. Thank you, alcohol.

Instead, she sort of chuckles. Laughs, really. A stupid but needed laugh when she sees the pouting. So she sort of nods her head in a direction that is away from dancing and back toward the fortress because she's terrible but not awful.

"Do you practice that pouting? You're really good. Maybe we should have had you at this last fight with the red templars and you could have pouted them into giving up."

[thecookery]

Wow. Offensive.

"I don't pout."

[ichaer]

"You do. Put fishes to shame, truly."

Oops. She might be making a fish lip pout.

[thecookery]

Once again, that hand on Ciri's face is back! But this time it is there to gently turn that face in a different direction while Avery scowls. "Shut up."

[ichaer]

Even with her head forcefully turned, Ciri continues to make pouting lips with a smile. "Make me."

[thecookery]

Fine. It is not that much of a stretch for her hand to just move a couple of inches and cover Ciri's mouth.

[ichaer]

Ciri laughs as her mouth is covered, muffling the sound but hardly stopping her because this is so ridiculous. She could easily pull away without issue but instead makes a muffled sound that something close to words but it is hard to tell.

What is easy to tell is that the pouting fish lips have not stopped even though they are currently hidden from the world.

[thecookery]

"Ugh." Avery rolls her eyes and grumbles, "Why are you like this?"

[ichaer]

Again, she laughs muffled behind her hand. "Because either you actually like me or you hate yourself."

[thecookery]

Finally, she drops her hand, glancing away for the moment. "Whatever."

[ichaer]

Ciri watches quietly, frowning slightly but sighs. "Come on, let's walk. You wanted to go to bed, right? I might as well see if the lords and ladies left anything in the great hall that shouldn't go to waste."

[thecookery]

Something about this is off. Ciri giving up so easily? Or at all?

Avery peers at her for a long moment, but thinking is a thing for tomorrow, not tonight. Especially thinking about things like a girl's current feelings and/or her own. So she just ends up nodding gratefully and dryly commenting, "Now that's the sort of thing people I like say."

[ichaer]

"I knew you couldn't deny it. Fighting mages and a giant wolf can truly bring people together."

She's grateful for her woolen sweater under her leathers, the night down in the valley are getting colder and even though she prefers the cold -- this was slightly pushing her limits. Ciri peeks over her shoulder, grinning.

"By the way... were you the one that made those little cakes?"

[thecookery]

"Which ones? The ones with the little things on top?" Avery asks, scrunching up her face in thought and making a vague motion with her hands. You know, the ones with the things. "Those were Burly's. I did do the ones with the other thing though."

Another perplexing hand motion goes here...

"Also. Please tell me you know a way to get closer to someone that doesn't need another bunch of angry mages and wolves."

[ichaer]

"I'm pretty sure I tried all of them while trying to get that cheese tower down here."

The cheese tower was quite the hit despite some of the smelly cheeses. Ciri was, without a doubt, the biggest fan of those tiny cakes though.

"Hmm. Would horseback riding work perhaps? After all, you still have to come riding with Kelpie and I sometime."

[thecookery]

"Oh, um." Avery actually comes to a stop for a moment, then realizes she just did that and is not sure why and starts walking again. "I suppose it would."

[ichaer]

Again, Ciri blinks over her shoulder before she smiles. She seems to be doing that a lot tonight, smiling. Maybe it was the drink?

"Good, I've mapped out a few good trails around here. Easy courses despite being stuck up here in the mountains."

[thecookery]

"You put that much thought into this?" She asks the question without really thinking, a slightly puzzled tone to her voice.