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

Maybe she should have seen this part coming, but with everything else swirling in her mind she didn't, and her mouth drops open in shock.

"No, of course not!" After that, she sputters for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts into something coherent, but she can't. Her tears fall and she throws up her hands, feeling helpless.

"I am sorry, Church! I am so, so sorry. But I-- I feel this..." Words fail her again and she makes a pathetic little whimper through her tears before pressing a hand to her forehead, feeling a headache form from crying.

"How..." she starts slowly. "How do we move forward? I do not know what you need. I do not even know how I feel. You are scaring me, because the dead do not return here and what you are saying is -- should be -- impossible."

Oh god crying woman how do react???

"I'm still alive here! Here I'm alive, and I'm trying really, really hard to stay alive, because living is pretty awesome! I get--I get to eat things, and sleep on bedrolls or haybales, and kiss you, and those are all really nice things I like being able to do? I'm not a ghost here. I'm not some...artificial intelligence here. I'm not really all that scary, am I?"

She does hate that she's crying, and she wipes her fingertips under her eyes to remove her tears and collect herself. It's so jarring to hear him say these things about still being alive and not a ghost, but she tries to sort through her jumbled thoughts and strained emotions. All that he is -- or was -- back home was something created to be tortured and pulled apart. But here he can be something else and never used like that again.

Her hands come together, clasped tightly in front of herself. Now she doesn't know how to answer him. There is a part of her that is scared of him, because he's some... entity that she isn't familiar with and Christine is so terrible at handling things she doesn't understand. But then she thinks back to the affection he's shown her and he suddenly seems completely familiar to her. It's so confusing.

"I am sorry if I hurt you," she starts quietly. After all he's gone through, she shouldn't be adding to the pain. "You-- You can have a new life here, yes." Her eyes lower to the ground at his feet and she draws in a slow breath. "The... circumstances scare me. I need time to come to terms with things." She forces herself to meet his eyes, grip on her hands tightening. "You must know I have heard nothing like this before."

"Yeah, well," he started, deflating, "it's all pretty new to me, too."

He shouldn't have gone into detail. He should've lied, even though he's really bad at lying. (God damn it, Gamma, why did you have to take that?) Shouldn't have brought them to this point.

"...If you figure out how to deal with it, let me know." Because ignoring the shit out of it only does so much. "Just...just do me a favor and don't tell people about it? Just...keep it between us. You're probably reacting better than a lot of people around here might, is all."

Things really can't be how they were between them ever again. Too much has changed in her eyes. But she nods stiffly to his request, looking back at the ground.

"Of course." Even if she was the type to betray his privacy, who would believe her? His secret is safe with her. She opens her mouth to speak again, but simply doesn't know what to say. They've said it all, haven't they? It wasn't her intent to upset him, but she stands by what she's said. No, it isn't easy for him, but that just makes it less so for her, having just learned about it. Even if he doesn't know what to make of his situation, at least he's known longer.

"Well, I think there is nothing left to say," she finally says with a glance up at his face before she starts to turn away.

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

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