Under the Second Moon

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Everyone Ever. It's your party!
WHAT: S a t i n a l i a !
WHEN: 1st of Umbralis
WHERE: Kirkwall and the Gallows
NOTES: I volunteered as tribute but have no authority save what having like three free hours has granted me. :D

Once dedicated to the Old Goddess of Freedom, Zazikel—but now attributed more to the second moon, Satina—this holiday is accompanied by wild celebration, the wearing of masks, and naming the town fool as ruler for a day.

---

The Gallows

Even tamped down by both the imminence of Corypheus's assault on Ghislain and the doleful pleading eyes of the Seneschal the Inquisition means to do its due diligence to Satinalia, its members beginning to appear fairly early on in the afternoon in anything from simple mask to full and elaborate costume, largely eager to let off some of the pressure that has been building ever since the news of the unanticipated battlefield broke.

Along with handcrafted decorations made from cunningly re-purposed bits of scrap... everything... that liven the main areas of the fortress it seems like someone has gone absolutely ham on decorations of the webbed variety. The hours can nearly be told by the yells of disgust and shrieks of surprise—and the laughter of companions—that rise above other chatter to mark yet another victim of this particularly sticky prank of an adornment.

The courtyard is the site of much preparation during the daylight hours, and then well-lit and filled with a feast that is simple but plentiful at dusk. Also plentiful: wine. Some clever person acquired an immensity of cheap horrible wine, floated some bundles of equally cheap spices in it to make the poor quality slightly less obvious, and set it to heat in a large cauldron over one of the temporary fire pits that has been constructed. It's good there's a late start tomorrow. Music is largely provided by the members of the Inquisition that make practice of it, and as a result, dancing is less an organized affair and more something that just breaks out every so often.

It is also true to its name tonight, some intrepid souls having decided that the opposite sides of it were the best places to set up the rival “throne rooms” that are mostly benches dragged into configuration in front of stacked and blanketed bales of hay. It's not much, but not much is necessary: the true decorations of the impromptu Fools' Courts are the personalities of their respective rulers, each of whom seems to have already collected a small zealous following eager to accomplish whatever ridiculousness they are set to in an effort to depart the normalcy that contains a fight for the Inquisition that is no longer skirmish mission after skirmish mission but full battle, pitched and outright.

(Are half of them wearing... beribboned and otherwise decorated toilet seats of cloth, wood, or folded paper around their necks? Better choose your allegiance wisely, I guess!)

The island fortress has enough nooks and secluded spaces that some privacy can be found even in the midst of full-scale celebration. In seeking unoccupied places, however, every once in a while—around a corner, down a hall—shadows raise and move oddly at the corner of your vision, although a second harder look always seems to reveal only flickering torchlight.

It's a strange night.

The City of Kirkwall

While the threat of war looms here also, rather than dampen itself, the city outside the Inquisition's stronghold has turned that nervous energy outward in frenetic release.

The festival atmosphere persists all day: the markets are bright, packed with both shops and shoppers, filled with those intrepid celebrants who have already donned mask, costume, or both, and loud with the laughter of children running in wild packs to prank and pickpocket the unwary. Trickery is tolerated, if not openly encouraged and rewarded, especially if clever. Even so, the city guard is out in force, just in case someone gets a bit too excited.

Once the sun goes down, the city is lit in a way that almost recalls the events that earned Marian Hawke her title. Fires, large and small, blaze along the streets well past midnight, although it is torch and brazier rather than barricade and home, and while the streets are further lit by the bright light of both moons, one can imagine it is the second moon's light that better illuminates the revelries below.

And revelries there are, with abandon. Near every street has its ardent lovers, its merrymakers, its gleeful dancing and laughter. And, to go with them, its footpads, its drunkards, its whores and gamblers taking their games to the cobblestones. Satinalia's freedom is a little freer when what lurks on the horizon has come close enough that one can nearly catch the threatening glint of its red crystal in the darkness.

Moreso, when you live in a city that knows what it is to burn.

Comments

IRVING | CW: Spiders

[wythersake]

[[ feel free to have sightings or minor encounters wherever in other threads. but if you’re gonna fight or catch-release her, one group thread pls. ]]

The webs grow thicker, within the shared quarters of the former Templar tower. Here and there now, strange milky sacs from the corners of hallways.

Really good decorations? Or something else?

Sooner or later the answer makes itself known: A poisonous spider roughly the size of a cart horse is wandering the Gallows. It can be bribed with meat enough to get close (even to pet those fuzzy mandibles), but quickly turns aggressive if it feels threatened.

Sudden noises, moves, and screams all make it feel very threatened.

The Dark Court

[bouchonne]

Byerly Rutyer, self-appointed villain, presides over the Dark Court. This Court is dedicated to all things wicked - or at least all things ostentatiously, parodically wicked. Some of the courtiers have been given implements of torture, such as whips (or, well, bits of yarn attached to sticks), hot brands (rods of metal painted red at the end with phosphorescent paint), chains, so on and so forth. All celebrants are likewise dressed in a dark and wicked fashion - "dark and wicked" meaning, largely, "dress in black and please show as much skin as humanly possible." And wickedness is, inevitably, also an excuse for overt sexuality: early in the evening, this takes the form of kissing and light touching, but the longer the evening goes on (and the more substances are consumed), the more likely it is that you'll stumble across some of the invited townspeople engaged in more...intimate...activities.

If you wander too close to The Dark Court, you may be dragged into the absurdity.

You, along with someone standing nearby, may be forced into the "Iron Maiden," a "torture device" that's actually basically just seven minutes in heaven - a closet you're locked into with another person for long enough to get in a good make-out session.

You may end up a sacrifice or an executioner. The sacrifice will be captured and "chained" by the revelers, who take you to the "place of sacrifice," a gallows-like structure with a gathered crowd. However, the sacrifice is nothing violent; instead, it's completing a series of tasks set to you by the executioner, another recruit from the Satinalia parties. "Executions" consist of things such as chugging an entire goblet of wine without taking a breath, flashing one's smallclothes at the audience, or performing a dozen push-ups.

You might also end up in the contest of champions. This is a sparring ground; all weapons on offer are practice blades (no accidental stabbings here). The twist is that points are not just given for martial skill; they're also given for playacting as a character. The more over-the-top your villainous performance, the better.

You can attend the wicked feast, in which disgusting and taboo foods are on offer - brains, insects, eyeballs. Other food, for the less daring, is simply made to look horrifying.

You may also simply be offered copious wine and, if you go to the right corners, narcotics. Hallucinogens are on offer, as are euphorics of several varieties.

Finally, you may also be drafted into the war upon Jester's Court. This will, again, consist of as much over-the-top villainy as humanly possible. We're the Dark Court, people, get into it!

It is also highly likely that you will be propositioned. Fair warning.

Byerly Rutyer | Open

[bouchonne]

Byerly himself has gone all-out in his costume and is dressed, with jaw-dropping tackiness, as Corypheus himself. Papier-mache additions to his head and body give him Corypheus' unmistakable threatening lumpiness. But, this being Byerly, he's not dressed as regular Corypheus; he's sexy Corypheus, with strategically draped cloth and jewelry and cosmetics making his whole air into something uncomfortably sensual. Red lyrium pasties complete the look. So too does an orb filled with some sort of smoke from which he takes periodic puffs. And behind him, there's a comely young lass hired from one of the brothels for the night, dressed as a sexy undead dragon, making eyes at revelers as they walk past.

He's keeping character, which means that tonight, he's endeavoring to look as severe and humorless as possible. Periodically, he orders that a reveler be brought over to him and demands a kiss. If they have the courage to kiss his hideous face, they're rewarded with a trinket; if they refuse, they're beaten with the "whips" (made out of light yarn) that he's given his followers.

sidony venaras | ota

[indissection]

Sidony comes because she's finally allowed the liberty of doing what she would like - there are no mothers and fathers to hover over her shoulder and demand that she do anything, that she dress in a particular way, that she should do whatever they ought to do. It's liberating, in a novel sort of way, everything wrapping around her and making her feel as though she can take care of everything herself - that she is in control for the first time in a long time.

Dressed in a fine black dress, Sidony appears to be almost at home in the midst of it all - or she has the confidence to make it seem as though she is at home. Dark courts are hardly the place she might have been privy to in Nevarra, but she's not in Nevarra anymore. She's in the Inquisition, and that means she can take part in all the fanciful things she could ever hope to enjoy. It's a novelty, so she likes it all the more.

She partakes in the wine, walking around with a full glass that she sips from as she watches everyone else. She hovers around the iron maiden, and it's entirely possible that she might be locked in there with an unsuspecting Inquisition member, her cheeks flushed and her eyes a little wide as she does so. Otherwise, she hovers around the food, more curious about the brains and eyeballs than anything else, a definite morbid curiosity that takes her interest. She seems fanciful enough, more than happy to talk and flirt with her fellow party-goers, her eyes bright and alert as she drinks it all in.

ilias fabria | ota

[libratus]

Ilias doesn't love parties, as a rule, but this one — there is a certain terrible energy to it, a desperation to drink in life to bursting before death or grief scrapes it from your bones, that draws him in surer than moth to flame. It's convenient that most of his wardrobe is already shades of grey, but he finds something suitable in black, and a glass of wine he tells himself is sufficient indulgence for one evening, as if the impending battle weren't already enough to make him want to find a hole dark enough to forget his own name.

If he lurks in dark corners at the start of the evening, it isn't to escape so much as regulate the chaos to an acceptable number of doses — better, too, for a holding a proper conversation. But he does not stay there, lingering at times nearer to the wine and food, eyeing (but resisting) a few of the Dark Court's more potent offerings. Restraint is a tight rope he's had as much practice walking as falling off.

As the night wears on, he might be found watching the contest with a tolerant sort of amusement, or wandering too close to the iron maiden with enough apparent good humor or entertaining reticence to make him an obvious target. Save him, or suffer with him.

Marisol Vivas | open.

[champions]

She's not entirely certain she should be here, which is entirely a sign that she must be. The good and virtuous maidens of Antiva is an almost laughable sort of reputation for anyone who really knows the Antivan nobility. And yet, it is a dance they so often hold to. The appearance of virtue has, she thinks, been used as a weapon by Antivan noblewomen to make them all the more dangerous when the opportunity strikes.

Of course, Marisol would know nothing of that. Her dress, black lace and silk, leaves more to the imagination than many others present might - black corsetry, lace and silk are still in keeping with the theme, though, and still sufficiently— playful, shall we say.

She observes the iron maiden, sipping wine, watching those drawn in, their reactions as they travel hence and their manner when they emerge. Learning, absorbing, always. It is easy to watch at parties - so much can be taken as curiosity and fascination, and there's a point where people become so inebriated that they stop being careful. Those who watch her carefully might notice that she proceeds through her wine slowly, seems to lose a glass that is half full before taking a fresh offering.

The contest of champions certainly gives her a chance to appear more whimsical and relaxed than she is allowing herself to be at this window of opportunity to learn, and she bows very deeply, accepting her blade with a true sense of Drama, and flourishing it absurdly. "I have come to destroy your happiness," she declares, her own accent an exaggerated mockery of itself, before she winks at her opponent.

And she might lurk around those partaking of hallucinogens, is smoking a cigarillo and lounging, but has not taken anything herself, no matter how relaxed she appears. (Which is very.)

( Or just wildcard me, dudes. )

Benedict | OTA

[altusimperius]

I. SACRIFICE

Upon his arrival, dressed, luxuriantly in black leather and velvet, Benedict is ushered over to the Place of Sacrifice. He seems a little worried, the chains perhaps bringing too closely to mind how recently he was in real ones, but he plays along with a smile and waits with a smug expectance for his sentencing.

II. DRUGS

How could he resist such a siren call? Benedict is, for once, staying away from the wine (recent events have put him off the stuff) but gravitates easily toward the proffered narcotics. He seems intent on spending most of the evening lounging across a chaise, staring glassy-eyed and blithe into the aether, a cigarette in his hand.

III. PDA

In his current state, it won't be difficult to convince Benedict to partake in some... darker pleasures. The way he's draped, glancing around at passersby with a come-hither smirk, he looks like he's expecting some attention. [If you want something more than awkward makeouts, let's discuss it!]

six | ota

[swordproof]

I. THE GALLOWS

The Gallows are suitable enough during the rest of the year, but Six finds herself impressed with the changes made for the event. It's livelier, a little brighter than the normal setup of the place. She wanders around and does her best to appear comfortable, but it's obvious that she's a little bit on edge - she avoids anyone with a glass of wine in their hands (most people) and rejects anyone that offers her one of her own.

She looks a little pale at each and every offering, truly.

The music is nicer, and she enjoys that, something like a smile curling over her face as she nods her head in tune with the music. It reminds her a little of home, of the idleness of mercenaries playing songs and laughing together at the end of a long day - but the dancing is a touch different. That's a new experience, and she stands at the sidelines, wondering. She's dressed a little more formally than her usual shirt and breeches, eyes dancing over the people as they spin together.

It's very sweet, she thinks, and there's a pang in her heart. She wants to dance, but... There is no one to dance with.

II. CITY

The city is what draws her attention most. The markets are wonderful, brightly lit and making her warm and curious, trying to make her way through without upsetting any baskets and making a fool of herself. She's tall and bulky enough that people seem to move out of her way, stepping aside as she peers over their shoulders to look at trinkets and tokens. She's looking for gifts for her sister above all else, touching things and turning them in her hands before she sighs.

Her purse is kept tucked away somewhere very safe, not that she fears anyone will touch her. She's not the easiest target.

The night comes and she wanders the streets with equal delight, dragging her eyes over the fires, the moons, the revelries. It's nothing that she's used to, nothing she has done before, and she does her best to embrace it, to accept it, to feel a little more at home than she had before. It's a party, or a celebration of sorts, she thinks, and it means she has to try and take part... Even if she avoids the merrymakers who are a little more ardent than the others, her cheeks a flaming pink.

That she has no interest in.

Gallows

[circleprodigy]

Inessa hasn't explicitly intended to avoid the wine herself, yet she knows her limit and it's not very impressive. Even that would have seen her through at least half a glass, but the quality is so terrible that even a whiff of it has her grimacing. Quickly glancing around, she finds a bush and tries to discreetly pour it out, not wanting anyone to judge her for abandoning party booze. But Six is nearby and when their eyes meet, she smiles sheepishly. Busted.

"...hello, Six. How is your evening?"

Kylo Ren | OTA

[letoldthingsdie]

Gallows

Parties were never his forte. He usually spent them in some secluded corner, hoping to avoid the entire affair all together. Yet here he found himself, unable to escape the noise and the festivities from Kirkwall all the way to the Gallows. He was dressed simply enough, all in black as was his standard, with a mask obscuring his face. He had a drink in hand and was trying his best to keep to himself, save for anyone who might try to approach him. It was hard to be obscure when you're as tall as a tree, after all.

"Uhm, no thanks." Almost on instinct he was turning people down who tried to get him to dance. Some of the more foolish residents who hadn't yet picked up on the fact that he was a Rifter tried to get his attention. 'Tall' and 'broody' were just a few of the words thrown around.

Kirkwall

The fires burned through the darkened streets of Kirkwall, casting an orange glow that created the ethereal shadows that warped to and fro along the streets and the buildings. He found himself watching the shadows more than once between his home and the markets as he made his way about that evening. He stopped to look at the decorations and the masks and the food. Festivals like this weren't uncommon where he was from but they were undoubtedly repressed in the regime of the First Order. It was nice to get a break from constant perill now and again, he's sure. Kirkwall spared none of the details.

Closed - Rey

He knew she was going to be here. She had told him all about this holiday, long before the town had started decorating. She had wanted to go with him, up until everything had gotten so twisted between them. Now, he didn't know where they stood. It wasn't as if he went out of his way to try and speak with her or try and rehash their previous conversation.

He had gotten her a gift for Satinalia, leaving it in her office where she would undoubtedly have found it as he'd found his gift from her. He didn't know how to feel about it, but the words had been clear - she wasn't going to write him off completely. When he does see her, at last, he can't help but feel caught by the sight of her. It was ridiculous, when he knew what he wanted to say for the most part.

"Rey." Her name was a start, at least.

[provenforce]

Rey is wearing black, for a change. Not pure black, but the dress she wears is something she'd been planning for some time, now. Knowing that Ben would wear black, she chose to wear something complimentary to him, and his nature, as well as her own. Her mask is in a similar vein as her gown, though it's more white than black. When she'd put the outfit together she'd had plans to ask him to braid her hair, but since they hadn't been on speaking terms, it's simply tied up and back.

Finding his present had made her heart ache, as did seeing him in the hall she'd worked so hard to make look good for the celebration. When he spoke her name she just wanted to go to him, wrap herself up in him and forget that they'd ever been angry at each other. Instead she exhales, grateful for the mask at least partially obscuring her features. She steps towards him, chewing on the inside of her lip.

"I got your present."

Satinalia Raiders

[katabasis]

At some point during the height of the evening's festivities, an invasion occurs.

It's preceded by a great whooping and hollering, a clanging and stamping of feet that erupts into the courtyard in the form of a dozen men all in various states of debauched dress. They're streaked in tar, decked in ratty cabling and line, festooned with ribbons of tattered sail cloth and wearing masks cut from canvas or simple cloth bound about the face, chalk teeth drawn in ragged lines against dark fabric, and driven along by some shirtless motherfucker. Small though the host is, they make enough noise for twice their number - howling and banging together blocks, playing some shrieking fiddle and barking at any well-dressed attendee that doesn't move quickly enough. They carve a wild, raucous path through the crowd, the raiding party spearhead by a dockcart painted to resemble a ship with 'WALRUS' written in tilting letters on the side which start massive and rapidly become smaller and more cramped as the artist realized they were running out of space on the cart's side.

Two hardly anonymous men are riding on the handcart as it's driven in wild, zagging lines through the courtyard and finally comes to a crashing halt with a shouted order. "You have your orders!" Their Captain bellows from behind his death's head mask. At once, the ragged assembly of whooping sailors split in every direction to steal bottles of wine from tables, casks from the collection set on the courtyard's stairs, and even full glasses from out of unsuspecting victims' hands.

Not to worry; they're just here for your booze. They'll be busy zealously liberating a few casks, loading them onto the cart, and then making their way nosily from the courtyard back to their own fesitivies. But first--

Flint | ota

[katabasis]

Dressed all in black, small skeletons embroidered about the neck of his shirt collar, and wearing a mask fashioned after a skull with the skin about his eyes behind it kohled black to emphasize the sockets, the bellxowing pirate captain at the head of the raiding party somehow bears only a passing resemblance to the man named Flint who so frequently cuts his way about the Gallows and Kirkwall docks. The dark coat is the same, the build is exact, but there is an elaborate zeal to all of this that is as much a costume as the mask is as he leads men through their play(-ish) ransacking.

Empty sword scabbard banging against his hip, Flint can be found overseeing the raucous liberation of a number of liquor casks from the party's stock; or fetching full cups out of the hands of laughing party goers and passing them off to the whooping vanguard with every ounce of faux severity that can be mustered; or, finally, standing on a bench and loudly corralling the invaders with barking orders; or--

((whatever man, wildcard me))

lakshmi bai | ota

[shri]

I. ( CROWDS )

[ If she didn't know better, she thought she might have awoken on Holi, but the night lights up like Diwali itself, and despite her current state, her current misgivings, that despite her intent to remain removed from it all -

- It's hard not to want to enjoy herself as she winds her way through the crowds milling about. Piling in and around without much care except for their revelry. Jostling, pushing and shoving. That eventually she gives up on much in the way of politeness when she spies there are drinks to be had, especially if she is with someone she might know. ]

Come on, seems we must go into the breach.

[ She hooks her arm through her fellows and with an almighty shove begins to barge them a path through the party goers. It was quite the crush, it seemed. Hard to see why not. ]

II. ( DANCING )

[ But here - now - there is a freedom to it - that allows some break like lancing a wound. A knife pulled from, from where it had struck and stuck. The infamous glory of being one more face in the crowd, of being no more than dark eyes behind a simple black mask. Still her, still obviously her, the choli top and lengha skirts hid nothing, after all. Even the veils were pinned to the top of her head, were sheer and light. Hung loosely not in gold but as many flowers as she could place in her hair, hang around her neck.

Least of all when she's caught, laughing behind her mask, and tugged into the thrall of dancers by her wrist. She pushes back not to leave but to get her space. But it isn't a refusal as she takes the space she wants. She cannot dance like that but what she does instead - it's intricate, each step hops, her heels strike the ground to the rhythm of drums, the call of the music, her hands move in intricate patterns where each one seems to pause on particular meaning that is utterly lost here and now. They spread and curl around like open flowers, interconnect around her body to exaggerate each sway of her dance. Dropping one hip by the jerk of her knee, rocking into the motion that bares all her skin, all her body, curving around itself. Snaking her body up and around in a long extension.

Rani, this is not for others to see - damn them. It hardly mattered anymore, did it? If she wanted too, she could. Rao would forgive her. No other opportunities were going to present themselves with battle looming to do what she liked and simply enjoy herself.

Eventually, she fishes up points of her skirts. Her finger lifts, to pick someone - anyone, out of the ring of people about that have mercifully cleared the space she asks for, and she does not even look to see if it is someone she knows or not, particularly. She just beckons with the expectation of being followed ( as always ). The Rai girls danced like this, coming back in from the desert. She'd watch them, clap along to it, but stay reserved behind the trappings of position.

How they would beckon, curve, wish so kindly with the gesture with the sulks and rises of their bodies. A fond memory, half thought through as she holds up the material in her hands, eying up her new found companion. Gauging the distance she'd need around them. Stepping close, enough, almost enough to touch and then darting back the other way with the material waving back and forth like a great fan between her hands. Once, twice, teasing, laughing, listening to the whistles and - just stand still, it's all she really needs, right then.

Then she begins to turn. Holding the material out to keep out of her way as she moves. Each strike of her foot is practised. A sword man's sure footing. A young girl's lessons kept amongst women. Turning around and around on herself so she does not slip. Until it gets enough speed that she does not need to hold the material up at all as it goes flat out with momentum, her hands shifting high above her head. The movements keep up of before, each hand gesture reaching beginning middle and end with the turn, until eventually, she shifts from her spot.

And oh - do not move, friend, don't move a step out of place. Gauged the placement very carefully. She could never have been this good before the blackwater, half hungry to those dancers she had watched. But she is it now with an erring grace, she doesn't miss a step as around the person she has placed firmly in the middle of the circle she spins, she orbits like earth around sun. Moving as fast as the crowd calls her to, clapping to keep her going, to not let her fall over like all spinning tops eventually must. But just to keep her going faster and faster and faster with a whip-like speed. This was not, Diwali, not, it was its own kind of revelry, but it tasted so achingly like home that it goes easy.

The dance will end of course - as she gets closer - depending on how that person catches her. So all that really remains to be seen is, are they falling over together in a pile or not? ]

III. ( DRINKING )

[ Well and truly after she's exhausted herself dancing, she takes in the rest with an easy abandoned. Until she's falling back into the comfort of strong drinks that, any other time, she'd keep herself from.

Because there is a rather terribly unfortunate truth: Rani Lakshmi Bai is an utter lightweight.

And worse, she's an obnoxiously happy one.

It's not two drinks in that she's already laughing too much at the conversation she is in with the perfect strangers she met by the table she has sat at. It's nothing untoward, of course, she is respectful, hands to herself, but there is a direct openness with it that if it were not here this mess, she would not be partaking of. It will take her a second to sober if she must. But the signs are all there: a flush in her face, the open gesture of her hands, the way she leans in, keen, listening over the loudness of the gathering. that if she sees you, knows you, even in passing - she beckons with a curl of her fingers. Come, sit, drink, stay awhile.

What you do with that information, is of course, up to you. ]

II

[villieldr]

( She shouldn’t be watching her dancing, but she is. Even with the mask, she recognised her, the way she moves, and she is half glad that Marcoulf isn’t here to silently judge her into going elsewhere, and half distressed. The dance goes on and on,
Around a masked man that she doesn’t care to try and recognise, and as is escalated and builds and Rani almost falls—

Magni steps forward, catches her.

Totally a fine decision. )

the Light But Very Silly Court

[the_cleric]

Every villain needs a hero. Every fool's court needs--well, foolishness.

Jester, somewhat self-appointed queen of the fools, looks very queenly, even with a toilet seat around her neck. It has been very beautifully decorated, painted a pale pink and festooned with chains of flowers and ribbons and all sorts of decorations.

Her court is dedicated to the hilarious. Courtiers are given their own toilet seat to wear around their necks, similarly decorated. And woe betide he who refuses to put one on! As well as the seat, good guy cortiers get flower chains to wear around their necks--and bladders that, when placed on a seat, produce a hilarious farting sound--and sticks of candy that make your tongue and your mouth change colors--and rats made of gummy candy--and fake vomit--and small firecrackers, some that you can light and run away from, some of the little beads that you can throw at the ground to make sparks.

All the Good are dressed in bright colors, a veritable rainbow riot, satin and silk and dyed cotton. And masks. Flashy, beautiful masks, handmade by the queen herself--though there is a station where you can make your own, if you want to try your hand at some crafts.

If you wander too close to The Light But Very Silly Court, you may be dragged into Jester's brand of absurdity.

There's a dunk tank--a big vat of water with a seat suspended over it. Anyone who looks like they are not having a good fun time might be pulled over to it and forced inside, and then passers-by can lob rubber balls at a target. Hit the target dead center, and the honored victim will be dunked right in that water.

You might end up getting hit with a perfume bomb: a concentrated bomb of perfume that, if you're not wary and watchful, might catch you right in the chest and explode across your front. What's the smell? Anything from fresh-baked cake to mowed grass to poop.

If you're not watching your ass, someone could pin a tail on you. Any variety of animal, from the mammalian to the reptilian to the avian. Trailing feathers, a long sweeping cow tail, a beautiful tiger's tail--and try as you might, this thing is stuck on tight. And while you're trying to get that off of your ass--oh no! Someone just added another flower garland to your neck!

You may end up being the Blesser: a holy elected official who wears a big crown of trailing ribbons and carries a giant shepherd's crook festooned with more ribbons. The Blesser is bestowed the chance to judge the court, in Jester's name. And anyone judged in need of a blessing will be grabbed by the hook-end of the crook, dragged before Queen Jester, and hit with the Wand of Smiles, to brighten up their day.

There's a pie-eating contest, of course: a long table with a multi-colored tablecloth, and dozens and dozens of pies standing by that you can stuff your face with. Of course, times are hard and war is on the horizon, so the pies are actually very very small, but that just means there's more to eat!

There's a milk-drinking contest. Which is more of a challenge, than a contest, really, and maybe sounds lame, except the actual challenge is to drink a glass of milk as quickly as possible, and as soon as everyone around you notices you're drinking milk, they have to tell you as many jokes as they can think of, and you have to avoid leaking milk from your nose. Pretty good, right?

There's the chance to graffiti a wall of the Gallows--an actual wall of the Gallows! And there's paint provided and everything, in brilliant colors. Write whatever you want. Queen Jester, to set the tone, has already drawn a giant pink dick with a smiley face, and a speech bubble that says HAPPY HAPPY!

You might also end up in the contest of good guy champions. This is a sparring ground, and all weapons are actually sticks wrapped in flowers and ribbons and little jingly bells. The twist is that points are not just given for martial skill: they're also given for playacting as a character. The more over-the-top your good guy performance, the better--and bonus points for issuing the most cutting over-the-top insults.

You can attend the Best Feast, which is a seemingly endless selection of cakes, and pastries, and cookies, and fudges, and petit-fours, and cream puffs, and strudels, and pies, and doughnuts, and bear claws, and cinnamon rolls, and puddings, and sweets, and cobblers, and chocolate croissants, and even some sweet dessert wine, as well as iced milks and creams and a milkshake-like concoction.

Finally, you may also be drafted into the war upon the Dark Court. This will, again, consist of as much over-the-top good guy acting as humanly (or tieflingly, qunarily, elfily, dwarfily) possible.

[gatheringstorm]

Well, of course the person who nominated Jester in the first place has to see what comes of her encouragement. There's just one problem, her own garb isn't eye-searingly bright and her own mask isn't nearly as ostentatious. She takes in the very colorful, very noisy gathering with an amused expression as she begins to make her way over to the Best Fest, only to be pelted in the chest with one of those perfume bombs. She coughs, staggering back.

"...fuck, that's a lot of cinnamon...."

Korrin | OTA

[gatheringstorm]

Gallows

a) "...I think I'm turning into a wine snob. Because this? This is fucking gross." Korrin sighs, eyeing the wine in her glass as she would something stuck under her shoe. If she drinks enough, it's true that the quality of the wine wouldn't matter much...but she's a qunari and that would take a lot of bad wine. Too much.

So, she glances over to whoever's nearby and raises an eyebrow. "Who wants to make an emergency booze run with me? I don't care if I have to pack mule most of it back myself, but we're snagging something that doesn't taste like spiced vomit."

b) At various points of the evening, spontaneous displays of music encourage those present to dance and Korrin is no exception. Whether completely sober or pleasantly buzzed, she's not at all shy about moving to the beat, the more energetic the better. Even when she's less than sober, though, she handles herself without any stumbling or trodding on other feet, always careful around smaller folk. Which usually means just about everyone.

Wallflowers don't escape her attention, either. As long as she doesn't have reason to despise or avoid them, any sign of interest in joining the dance floor (however slight) will have her approaching and extending a hand with a quick smile.

"Care to join me? Don't worry, I'm more gentle than I seem."

Kirkwall

Well, shit. The week has gotten away from her -well, the past few to be honest- and Korrin realizes a little late that she doesn't have a mask for the festivities. If she were human, that might be problem enough, but it's going to be even more an uphill battle finding one that can accommodate her large head and horns. Still, she'll make an attempt. The towering Vashoth goes from stall to stall, scrutinizing whatever she can find in hopes of meeting with success the parties truly begin.

If she meets the gaze of someone familiar and friendly -or unfamiliar but at least not shying away- she quirks an eyebrow at them. "Hey, got a moment? I could use a second opinion."

Gallows A

[nadasharillen]

"Reeeally don't think not wanting to drink this makes you a snob," replies Nari, making a face. She hasn't got a mask this year, but she is wearing a simple but lovely chemise dress near exactly the color of her eyes under her cloak. It's the first time she's worn a dress in... it's the first time she's worn a dress. She's also got a mug in her hand and has apparently just figured out the state of the wine for herself the hard way. "And if it does, then we can just both stick our noses up towards the sky and sashay snootily out to the city to get something worth drinking."

She looks at the mug even so, as if not sure what to do with the rest. Can't just... pour it out, can she?

wysteria | ota

[heirring]

I.
"This is nothing like the Spring Equinox."

This Wysteria announces over a full cup of wine, pale eyes bright and cheeks just a little flush from previous drinks behind the narrow strip of the simple emerald colored mask she's wearing.

She's attached herself to the edge of a group or at the end of a bench, and has cheerfully elbowed her way into conversation with her immediate neighbor without any warning or pretense. "Is it always like this? With the, ah, painting walls and," --kissing strangers-- "Ridiculous costumes? I thought it was strange to do this sort of thing right at the beginning of winter, you know. But I'm beginning to see the appeal of it. It's a very nice thing to do right before the weather turns properly grim. And I suppose it's especially true this year, isn't it? Given the, ah, upcoming work."

--For the love of god, interrupt her before she really gets going.

II.
The dancing may not be particularly structured, but Wysteria has very quickly figured out that she needn't wait for anyone to fill her card if she wants to dance.

Which she absolutely does, and has been - right up until, laughing, she's spun out of the circle and crashes into some onlooker or nearby unsuspecting celebrant.

"--Oh, I'm so sorry!" She's here to enthusiastically take her victim by the arm, making an effort to enthusiastically pull them back to the dancing with her. "Let me make it up to you."

III.
Throughout the night, Wysteria can be found party to a half dozen conversations or ambushing poor wallflowers. Trying to stay near the fringe of the festivities? Sorry, friend; you now have company. Or she's getting herself stuck in a giant spider web. Or, very late into the evening indeed, she's popped up on one of the stacked haybales all but curled up for a cat nap and desperately trying to keep her eyes open.

[gritted]

"Oh, no. It's fine. Really, I'm—," and then, quiet and somewhat defeated, "Dancing. I guess."

Kenna's protests aren't overly frantic and she doesn't exactly put up a fight, and as soon as they're in the middle of it she gives the surrounding mob a curious once-over, trying to catch up. There isn't much to catch up with. Some of them seem to be actually dancing, others seem to be hanging off of each other and slowly stepping side to side.

Kenna looks back up at her kidnapper, half-obscured by an emerald mask. Hers is gold and only half a mask, and she actually picked it up off the ground when some drunk dropped it, so. Maybe a little dirty.

"You don't have to. Make anything up to me, I mean. Really."

Rey | OTA

[provenforce]

i

Rey's been working hard on trying to make the Satinalia a special event. There's parts of it that she didn't approve, the Fool's Courts definitely part of it, but she focuses on the main part of it, that people are enjoying themselves and the Gallows isn't on fire. She's more out in the crowd than she has been in previous years, moving among people and stopping to chat with those she knows. She's shades of black and white, a nod to her relationship with Ben as well as her own nature, as being not wholly in the light, not wholly in the dark. The mask she wears is white with black accents, while her gown is layers of black and white. Some might think she's a member of the Dark Court, but she's refused alliances with either Fool for her own reasons. Mostly that she likes to focus on other aspects of the holiday. Like the food.

She can usually be found by the food tables when she isn't walking around, picking through what's on offer.

ii.

As the night wears on Rey finds herself loosening up a little, and she smiles at people, moving in and out of the crowd.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" she asks whenever she pauses to talk to someone, whether she knows them or not.

Alexandrie, Probably? | OTA

[coquettish_trees]

Gallows

There she stands, the top layers of her bright copper curls pulled simply back from her face, the ribbons securing the half-mask of the De La Fontaine family—crested with a Chevalier's feather—threaded cleverly back through them, shining in full-plated storybook glory, the chill evening breeze rippling her split tunic and light cape of sky blue silk, the which her lips and eyelids painted to match. Her hand rests easily on the pommel of her sword, shield settled snugly on her right arm, her eyes watchful on the distance.

Definitely Geneviève.

Of course, upon closer look, the 'armor' is gold-chased silver rather than steel, the feather that bobs proudly above the mask is white with a gold-gilded shaft rather than the Chevalier's yellow, judging from the way the scabbard moves it's just a pommel affixed to the top, and if you wait a few moments that's absolutely the socialite's giggle.

Definitely Alexandrie.

Well, whichever it is, judging by the blue and gold-painted toiled seat she's wearing in lieu of a gorget and the flowers tucked into her hair and winding around her scabbard (and her trailing tufted lion's tail), she's pledged herself to the Light Court and can be found at any given activity throughout the night, with an especial emphasis on flexing her wit and theatricality at its contest of good guy champions.

Otherwise, every time the dancing strikes up she finds herself someone who looks like they'd like to dance but are unsure of it to extend a gauntleted hand to and pull into the moving and shifting merriment.

[ all over the island being super honorable and Even More Eminently mistakable for her twin sister, hmu! ]

Kirkwall

Deep in the night, she's traded her armor for one of the rather revealing gowns of black and lace with patterns in enchanted thread that shift and change as the lights of the city streets flicker over them. She cuts a silhouette far more fashionable by Tevinter's standards than those of the Marches. One which would be chilly without the matching cloak and gloves. Her family's mask has been replaced by a half-veil of the same lace as her dress, and the spiced wine of the Gallows festivities replaced with a small glass of something much harder.

She's a swift dagger to stave off any miscreants she can't sweet talk into walking her to whatever tavern she's headed next when she's alone, and when she's not, well. Her escort is far more dangerous than near anything this city has on offer.

Definitely Alexandrie.

[ tour of Kirkwall's inadvisable parties 9:44D, feel free to find her with the footpads, drunkards, whores, and gamblers! May or may not be suddenly attended by her fella. ]

dancing!!! so my every character can dance with yours ig

[staysail]

"D'you know this one?"

Because Darras doesn't, but he can fake it, at least. What's the point of organized dancing at Satinalia festivities, when half the crowd will be stinking drunk before the bards strike that first note?

Despite what might be read as a protest, he takes her hand agreeably enough. His other hand is holding a cup of wine. Darras takes a final swig and then sets it aside, on a nearby available surface, ready to go along with this.

He's not wearing a toilet seat. At some point, he's been draped in flower chains, which he's left on agreeably, to mingle with the gold chains he's donned for the occasion. All his trinkets and trimmings are gold, down to the buttons and trim on his fine red coat and the rings on his fingers. And his mask is gold and red, too, to match. And, because it's Satinalia: there's skin, of course, his shirt half undone. Because it's Satinalia, right.

"If I give in to this, will I be regretting it later, is the real question here."

Kain | OTA

[in_death_sacrifice]

Gallows

Kain is decked out in one of his many dragon masks, along with some fine clothing to go with it. He still isn't much of a party person, but he's used to the idea of these things being expected of him. Making an appearance here is one of those expectations, he's pretty sure.

He's minding his own business, with a drink in hand, when suddenly, music starts up right in the area where he's standing. He hadn't noticed the musicians who'd been casually tuning and congregating in the area, whoops. And now suddenly, everyone surrounding him is erupting into festive, wild dancing. Uh oh... can he escape from his position right in the center of the dancing crowd? Or is he stuck?

Kirkwall

"Sure, I'll have another." Kain takes the drink someone is offering him, knowing better than to pass it up. Why not, it's a festival, isn't it? Kain isn't normally one to go for getting quite this drunk, but he figures... it's worth it, just this once. He's very much at the stumbling around point, but this makes him seem far more approachable than usual. He even waves when he sees a familiar... or even unfamiliar face approaching.

Gallows

[circleprodigy]

Inessa has promised she would attend (at least for a while) and she does, in her deep blue mage dress robes and a matching blue mask. Scanning the area, she avoids the Fool's Courts altogether and just clears the edge of that chaos when Kain's distinct dragon mask is spotted. A relieved smile forms as she moves to join him, trying her best not to get in the way of the enthusiastic dancers all around.

"There you are. Might I have a dance?"

gwenaëlle baudin | gallows | open

[elegiaque]

( gwenaëlle hadn't actually intended to be here, had had perfectly serviceable plans for her evening that would not have involved leaving the pleasant security of her shared quarters in the central tower, but. thranduil had laid out a dress, and she had allowed that maybe she would have a spare moment, and then he'd added the crown and she'd conceded that it would probably please alexandrie if she went, her hair very slightly damp and in its natural curl, a soft gold veil tucked beneath the crown in lieu of a mask.

she's still not completely sure this is going to be worth the hassle of having come—she's not sold on this much of the inquisition en masse sober, nevermind three sheets to the wind and rapidly approaching the orgy event horizon—but there should be company she can tolerate, and liquor that will make tolerating the rest of it easier.

and she looks lovely. a little late in arriving, since she hadn't been readying herself when everyone else was, but a visual match to her husband in miniature and making a beeline for the wine. )

[coquettish_trees]

[ She will be gallantly and suddenly steered off her beeline by an armored De La Fontaine with a stage-whispered ] Gigi! [ it's apparently the older twin. ] Do not, I pray you! You shall regret it entirely if you start with the wine. We have so very much of it because it could strip the paint off the face of a sixty year old whore. Here.

[ Here, the appearance of a small waterskin that is absolutely not full of water (in a way that is a damn sight better than the last time Lexie brought Gwen whiskey.) ]

Then you shall not mind as much.

Fifi | OTA

[untiltheyarent]

Kirkwall

Unable to spare the energy for making her way on foot to the Gallows after a full day's work, Fifi opts instead for one of the market parties in the evening, where she's never far from whatever music is being generated from the various corners of Hightown's streets.
Her dancing is joyous and skillful, delight writ on her half-masked face whether she's alone or joined by a partner, pausing only for the occasional drink or snatch of street food. It's the first time since her arrival in Kirkwall that Fifi has visibly enjoyed anything, let alone with such inner fire.

She's happy to dance with anyone, friend or stranger. She may be difficult to recognize at first, with her hair pulled into a decorative dancer's knot, her lips red and her dark-lined eyes peeking from behind an inexpensive but well-loved black Orlesian mask. Her dress is an old style for someone from Val Royeaux, but a vibrant green and perfect for fankicks.

beleth

[arlathvhen]

To the surprise of probably no one, Beleth can be found for most of Satinalia in the courtyard, taking full advantage of the free-flowing wine. She stations herself at a table like it has her name written on it, and from there she keeps a sharp eye on the Satinalia proceedings. Having fun is fine, but she wants to avoid anyone getting too carried away.

While Beleth is indeed a bard, she doesn't choose to add to the music. However, she can be heard softly humming along, or even quietly singing to songs she knows well.

At one point, she does wander off from her table, only to return shortly afterwards, irate and with a great deal of fake cobwebs stuck in her already thick and curly hair. She then proceeds to spend a lengthy amount of time trying to pull them out of her hair, with a steady stream of low grumbling.

gareth

[foundmyselfagain]

i. gallows

There's a decade's worth of Satinalia's in the Gallows that Gareth has attended, and this one is unlike any of the others. As it is with many things that happen here anew, he wonders briefly if he'll ever get used to it. To celebrating, like normal people. Surely he will, at one point or another.

(If he survives that long, a darker voice says, and Gareth pushes it aside. It's Satinalia, dude, no need to be weird about it.)

So Gareth can be spotted around the Gallows, wandering here and there, stopping to chat with anyone he recognizes. Plenty of time is spent in the courtyard, where after some requests and sad faces he secured some nonalcoholic drinks. And, of course, food. For someone as scrawny as he is, he can sure tuck it away.

ii. kirkwall

For someone who spent most of his life in the general area of Kirkwall, the city proper remains a bit of a mystery to Gareth. The twists and turns of the streets make no sense, like the Tevinter who designed them was on a mission to fuck with every poor idiot who made their home here. Not unlikely, he supposes.

Several times, he quite nearly gets lost, but manages to wind his way back after a few minutes. But he doesn't sweat it--it's Satinalia, after all, and what good is Satinalia without a little trouble? So, he roams the streets, dipping in and out of groups of revelers at his pleasure, trading jokes and quips with anyone who'll listen, and occasionally gets pulled into a dance or two. Luckily for everyone involved, no one can notice just how bad he is at it, when everyone else is drunk to the void.

Occasionally, glasses of alcohol get pressed into his hands, and each time, he thanks the gifter, then promptly turns around and passes it to someone else, with no explanation. Happy Satinalia.

A Stranger | OTA

[sincerelyours]

Those who attended the Grand Tourney may recognize a familiar figure: a partygoer of enormously burly stature, swathed in a black cloak and face obscured, standing silently when not lurking by and partaking of the various food tables. They don't seem hostile, but neither do they seem friendly, speaking to no one and seeming in fact to ignore any who try to initiate conversation.

As the night goes on, they take to wandering and eventually return bedecked in a floral garland and a rooster's tail from the Light Court.

Fingon

[utulien_aure]

The Gallows

Fingon usually limits how much jewelry he wears on a normal day, but he came to Thedas in full monarch's garb- and today much of the jewelry comes out of storage. It's not just gold braided into his hair but sapphires that shone with their own light, with necklaces and rings and earrings besides. And a mask, of course, beautifully painted in blue and gold with the sharp beak of an eagle.

An onlooker might call the sheer amount of adornment tacky if he didn't wear them like he was born to them; he'd laugh at the comment and tell them that he didn't even have the largest collection of jewels he knew of.

For much of the night he stays in the courtyard with his harp, playing Thedas' usual staples with easy, confident flair. It's later in the night that he tries music from home: translations of songs he's heard in the lands of the Edain, to see how the comic ballads of Hador's people fare in Thedas. And finally one of his own composition: of an elven prince, and a particularly ornery goat.

If asked, he'll admit it has some basis in reality. Autobiographical? That's for him to know and you to wonder....

Kirkwall

The amount of jewelry Fingon wears is mostly back to normal levels as he wanders the streets, but he's still recognizable from the Gallows celebrations from his mass of braids and his eagle's mask. He frequents the taverns of Lowtown for a while, drinking and playing cards as the mood takes him.

Late in the evening, he finds himself at one of the bonfires near the docks. The singing around the bonfire -and the toasted snacked being passed about- are an amusing pastime for a while. By the end of the night, he sits at the docks and watches the moons shine over the ocean, admiring the glow of their beauty.

Geneviève De La Fontaine

[bouclier]

i

Anyone looking for Evie this evening may make a mistake and seek out her sister instead. Certainly the two of them are dressed quite like one-another. Rather they're dressed like they'd be were they in fact the other twin.

Tonight, Evie is an uncommon vision in white, a delicate and expensive-looking butterfly mask completing the look. Her red curls are expertly braided and twisted elegantly up around her head, and pinned into place with pearl-tipped pins. She's not unaccustomed to wearing extravagant gowns, but even the most flashy of her own are not as involved as the ensemble she wears tonight. She can be found with a drink in her hand most of the time, wine of a mysteriously better vintage than whatever swill is being served up by everyone else. (The dress is quite large, easy to obscure a hip flask among the skirts, as well as a dagger or two in case something happens she isn't happy with) She poises herself as her sister whenever she can, inserting herself into conversations she usually wouldn't, and moving from one place to the next with a smile.

ii

At some point Evie disappears from the party to one of the less populated rooms so she can be herself for five minutes. Anyone who happens upon her will find her with one of the practice swords she's stolen from the Dark Court, swinging it idly in practice archs as she nurses a glass of wine in her other hand. Her mask is pushed up atop her crown of red curls and braids.

If she notices she's got company she'll look up and smile, arching her eyebrows.

"Oh, Hello. Are you lost?"

i

[judgemewhole]

Following in this bright butterfly's wake is a more dour if no less dashing figure in black and silver, dressed in the Orlesian style. Honestly, if anyone had ever figured out it was James under all this frippery, he might have won for 'costume most unlikely'.

As it was, the flask was often slipped away by this black knight, filled and returned to the depths of the white dress, and Evie was never without a menacing figure for anyone who might mistake her for her sister and get more fresh than she intended.

After the third or fourth time, James sighs behind his mask. "I have a great deal more sympathy for your father than I previously have, my darling."