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

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

The familiar voice that seems to be aimed in her direction catches her off-guard, and she wavers a little before chancing a glance back. It takes her a moment to recognize Korrin, if only because she'd never seen her decked out quite like that, but she smiles when she does, uncertainly raising her arm a bit higher and tighter to do as Korrin suggests.

"Like this?" she asks as she looks back at the target, wanting to make sure that the subtle movement hadn't shifted her aim too terribly. If anything, it seems to have helped a bit, and she lets the arrow go before Korrin can respond, looking inordinately pleased with herself (and also immensely surprised) when she sees just how much closer she's gotten to a bull's eye.

Nodding encouragingly, Korrin takes a sip as she observes Hermione at work. When she lets that arrow fly, the Vashoth woman grins as she notices where it struck. "Yeah, much better! Keep at it and you'll hit that bull's eye before too long, I bet."

Not without some calluses forming, most likely, but Korrin considers that a fair trade for picking up a new skill and possible means of defense. One never knows when a weapon other than magic or staves will come in handy, after all. Though battle archery is a topic Korrin will have to defer to others, as it's not her area.

Hermione isn't used to using any sort of weapon other than a wand, and even that isn't so much a weapon as it is a tool. So she doesn't really expect to start carrying a bow and quiver with her wherever she goes, but it's good to know how to use it in the event that she's forced to.

But thinking about the sorts of situations where she might be forced to just makes her feel a little depressed, so she falters only slightly before remembering that right, this is a party, and she turns to Korrin again with a small smile on her face.

"I'm far from an expert. Would you like to give it a try? I don't think I've ever seen you use anything that isn't a staff."

"Sure, why not?" Korrin sets aside her drink and strides over. "Before I came into my magic, I was training as an archer, mostly. I could probably use a bow in a pinch, though it's definitely not a skill I'd rely on."

Picking up one of the bows available, she tests the weight in her hands. "I've been at the archery range in Skyhold, but not often. There's always something more important to do, you know?"

Determined not to think about how often "something more important" usually results in an awful lot of bloodshed, Hermione makes certain that that smile is glued onto her face before stepping aside, where she can safely watch Korrin's form a little better once she's ready to begin. "I've passed by the archery range once, but just to watch. It's... comforting, in its own way. There's a lot of calculation involved, and I find that sort of thing soothing."

With a small chuckle, she concludes, "That's why I'd never be able to use any archery skill in the heat of battle. By the time I make the proper calculations in my head, it'd be far too late for it to have been of any proper use."

"Well, archery as a hobby is allowed to be different from battle archery. Go with what works for you and don't worry about what would be most efficient on the battlefield." Granted, Korrin always practices so as not to be completely rusty with her knowledge, but she never seriously expects to use a bow in combat. It's just a connection to her past.

Lifting the bow, she pulls back her arm, keeping it level as she just instructed Hermione, lining it up with the target before letting loose. It reaches the inner ring though not dead center, prompting a soft grunt from her. "I've been out of practice."

Archery has never seemed like a particularly fitting hobby for Hermione. But then, few things that involve hand/eye coordination really seem to be up her alley, which is why every sport is a spectator sport for her, regardless of how much physical activity is actually involved. She doesn't know if she's simply stereotypically unathletic or if she'll just never be talented enough at most sports and games to meet her own high standards.

When Korrin looses her arrow, Hermione blinks, though it's mostly the comment from her friend that evokes that reaction. "Out of practice?" she asks. "That first shot was better than anything I'd ever managed! You must be amazing with practice."

Korrin flashes a smile at Hermione, not one given to false modesty. "Well, I had to get pretty damn good, since without magic it would have been more than a hobby to me. I'd have relied on it to survive as a mercenary. You saw that archery contest a while back, right? I did alright there, but I was eliminated pretty quickly. Those who do this for a living have actual staying power."

"Is everyone trained in some sort of weapon from the time they're young?" Hermione asks thoughtfully. "Or is that just because of your specific... trade?" Granted, wizards and witches are given wands and taught Defense Against the Dark Arts starting at age eleven and can be taught to duel as early as age twelve, but magical combat feels like an entirely different beast than physical combat. Of course that had never stopped the likes of Ron from punching someone in the nose regardless of his age, but Ron feels like a special case in that regard.

"It's because there aren't a lot of opportunities for my kind, otherwise. You're a mercenary or bodyguard or something physical, because that's what people value in us. So yeah, we start young so that by the time we're in our teens, we're ready to join a company on our own. I chose archery because I was good at it and liked showing off." Korrin shrugs, seeing no reason to blunt the truth at this point. She draws back again, letting loose and still striking the inner ring, though not dead-center. Hmph.

Korrin's answer is more sobering that Hermione had really expected. Of course she'd noticed that most people who look like Korrin tend towards mercenary work, but she'd thought it had been a matter of coincidence or of personal preference. "But... what if you'd rather be a scholar?" she asks, genuinely concerned by that response. "Or-... or a tradesperson? Or something that doesn't require a physical specialization? People shouldn't be able to say, 'This person looks like this and so should do this sort of work.' It's racist!"

Right. Because she hasn't encountered racism in Thedas before. Never.

Looking over, Korrin lowers the bow and nods. "Exactly, it's shit. I'm not saying there aren't people who break the mold, but doing so has to be an uphill battle. I wish you could meet Gorse; he joined, but had to return home a while back to help out the family. He's pretty bizarre for a Vashoth; no combat skills at all, but he knows his herbs and plants and such. His family's place is a commune of Tal-Vashoth who didn't want to fight anymore and settled down into farm life. It seemed pretty peaceful...but that's not for me. Staying put in one place like that would drive me crazy."

Despite the fact that she's still upset over the state of things (but then, when isn't she upset about the state of things in this world?), Hermione has to smile a little at the mention of this Gorse fellow. Having no other information to go off of other than him being a Tal-Vashoth who liked plants, she can't help comparing him to Neville Longbottom, a Gryffindor who's always been more partial to Herbology than to bravado. "There's nothing wrong with being a little bizarre. There's also nothing wrong with playing to your strengths, whether they're commonplace among your kind or not. It's just that everyone should be able to have the choice to follow their passions, whatever they might be."

Assuming, of course, that the passion doesn't involve making Horcruxes or committing genocide, but she likes to think that should go without saying.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

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