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

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.

[indissection]

Sidony has never seen Corypheus himself, of course, but she had spoken to dear Lexie about his appearance. In her opinion, Byerly makes a far more handsome Dawkspawn Magister than the reality could ever hope to ever suggest, but she imagines that is something of the point. She's dressed in something a little less fanciful - a black dress that shows off her assets and makes her feel quite at home. It's nice, she thinks, to be at a party again.

She's brought to him to offer a kiss - or, rather, she deliberately makes it so that she's chosen to be lead over, her head tilting for a moment. Her smile curves over her face, more teasing than anything else.

"Does Corypheus often ask such favours from his followers?"

[bouchonne]

"Oh, dear maiden, it's hardly a favour," answers Byerly, theatrically lifting his hand to trace his taloned fingers through the air. The long, pointed nails have - a bit incongruously - little hearts painted upon them. "It is a demand. The fires of passion foster the dark rituals that feed his armies. Evil energies are drawn from them into Corypheus, giving him power over the forces of nature itself."

He smiles at her. It's a little out of character, but she really does look lovely like this - the slightly wicked clothing balances out her sweet face ever so charmingly. Even though he had precisely nothing at all to do with her sense of style, he still feels a strange sort of pride for it.

"And besides, it's excellent for morale."

[indissection]

Her eyes follow along the trails of the pointed nails, a small smile settling over her features. It's a very curious and interesting guise, she thinks, a charming one if not for the awkwardness of it being their sworn enemy, and she can see Byerly so wonderfully designed under it all. It makes sense, all the pieces coming together, and she finds herself delighted even as she does her very best to appear coy and soft in the midst of it all, a truly willing victim.

"Who am I to deny the morale to feed my lord's army, then?" Her eyebrow raises, arms crossed behind her back, watching him for a long moment. "It seems very cruel indeed to make them fear for themselves, certainly not if it is a demand."

She steps closer, her dress curling around her legs, tilting herself up just a little. She can reach, then, to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, barely there and hardly anything incriminating.

"I hope that will suffice." She's very deliberately ignoring the dragon behind him. This is her moment.

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil, who had smelled the opportunity to dress up like a shark smells blood in the water, drifts over to Byerly shortly after making his entrance in black and gold, Solas not too far behind like a cat being taken for walkies.

It is, perhaps, a faux pas to come over without being invited, but he wishes to pay tribute to the host, and his bedtime is so very early nowadays.

He exchanges his empty glass for another full one when a server passes by, and passes a second to Solas behind him, raising a brief toast in Byerly's honor before he drinks.

"You have outdone yourself," he says, gesturing with the cup to Byerly's whole self. "Hasn't he, Solas?"

[dirth]

Solas, who is far less inclined to the fancy dress nature of parties, is wearing something that seems to match Thranduil quite deliberately - which he thinks was done on purpose. He certainly doesn't look as comfortable in it as Thranduil himself is in his getup, even if he is following behind him like a dutiful partner.

The sour look on his face is more for the event than the company, at least.

He was not inclined to partake in too much to drink, not when he is concerned with the part itself, but he takes what he is given with a soft sigh and a shake of his head, moving forward to stand at Thranduil's side. He does enjoy a party, he supposes, and he ought to be a little bit more joyful about it. The company is good, the party is a party, and he can at least pretend that he is not thinking a thousand other thoughts.

"It is certainly something," which is as close to a compliment as Solas is capable of giving at the moment.

[ebeje]

They haven't yet met, but Max has ears and a sending crystal, and Byerly certainly has had enough to say in the months since his arrival, that when she is ordered over for a kiss, she sort of tunes out his voice by default. But then, naturally, the rest of everything that he is currently wearing and not wearing strike her.

She narrows her eyes at him, assessing. Inventorying. Considering the offer quite seriously, it seems, until a spark of mischief catches her eye. She approaches the throne, dipping to catch the bottoms of her skirts in her hands and hike them up a scandalous number of inches toward her knees. Stockings are on display, here, along with some shapely calves for the stretch of time it takes her to walk up and drape herself, bundled skirts and all, across Byerly's conveniently placed lap.

All the better to reach around him, to beckon the lovelier dragon at his side down for a kiss. A good one. A coin is slipped into the young woman's glove, for her trouble.

Thanks for the chair, though.

[bouchonne]

It's pleasant to anticipate lips that lovely and full, to be sure. He would have been very pleased indeed to feel them upon his. But more pleasant by far is the cheeky prank she pulls. He can't help but burst out laughing in sheer delight as she and the dragon lock lips - indeed, lock tongues; he'd be clapping his hands if the long talons affixed to them wouldn't come flying off if he tried. Instead, he uses his hand to support her, ensuring she doesn't overbalance until the dragon-girl is well and truly kissed. And then, grinning, he says to her -

"How saucy. You come into my court and ignore my fine offers of patronage. Why, I ought to take offense."

[the_cleric]

"King Bad!"

Late in the evening--perhaps when Byerly is being served another helping of wine, or when he's just finished with his latest kiss, or perhaps when he is trying to re-affix one of his pasties--a voice rings out in challenge.

A figure in a red cloak steps forward. Beneath its cowl, her eyes flash, dark and dangerous. By all appearances, she is a stranger. Maybe she looks a little like Knight-Enchanter and Inquisition ambassador Herian Amsel, but like, Herian's super-sexy younger sister, with a lot of smokey eyeshadow. Or what can be seen of her eyeshadow, that is, because, again: the cowl.

The woman raises her scepter. It is a wand, with ribbons wrapped around it. A strand of silver bells hang from its end, and they jingle, faintly, as they shift.

"I am here to beat you!" Ringing tones, but she still has some of Jester's accent.

[bouchonne]

King Bad shows no signs of distress or fear. Instead, he sets down his goblet of wine, not even looking in the Good Champion's direction - murmuring something, instead, to one of his attendants - and then slowly rises to his feet. And he rises quite a long way (because Byerly has elected to wear platform shoes, so take it easy so he doesn't fall and break an ankle).

"The night has come," he intones. "The darkness is here. And yet, absurdly, a champion of the light thinks to challenge me. Does she not realize, my Agents of Evil, that her cause is doomed? Does she not realize that wickedness has utterly eradicated all hope, all possibility of good returning to this accursed world?"

[sincerelyours]

One such kiss is received from beneath a dark hood, with the reveler's face obscured; they are enormous and hulking, swathed entirely in a black cloak, walking hunched and lumbering with all the grace of a boulder on a beach of pebbles.

The kiss is wet and disquietingly cold, but blessedly brief, and then the stranger is on their way again.

[bouchonne]

What the fuck just happened.

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.

iron maiden :>

[ebeje]

Max is all rolling eyes and patient amusement for the gentleman shooing them in — truly, monsieur — but the sharper edges of her humor soften once the door is shuts, and she finds herself snugly enclosed with a young woman who she has never met before, but who seems a bit— warm. White-eyed in the light that cuts through the slats on the box. Max can read body language well enough in the dark.

"You have nothing to fear from me," she assures her, though fear is not precisely what she suspects is the issue; telling someone not to be nervous seems the swiftest way to ensure they are. "It a handful of minutes only, in a place where no one can see what you choose to do, or not to do."

Also: hello.

YEAH!!!!

[indissection]

"I am not afraid."

It's said sharply, her eyes glancing to look at Max properly. She is a handsome woman, Sidony thinks, and if there's a flush of colour on her cheeks she can blame it on the intimacy rather than the fact that there is a beautiful creature trapped with her in a very enclosed space. Her fingers curl and uncurl at her side and she tilts her head, eyes drinking the other woman in.

She is beautiful, and there is a long moment where Sidony feels as though her voice has been completely stolen from her. She has never been this close to another woman before, at least not one that was not related to her or a handmaiden of some kind.

"What would you choose to do, my lady?"

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.

iron maiden!

[exequy]

Suffering.

Definitely suffering.

When he realizes what's happening—or who it's happening with, more specifically—Kostos makes an attempt at getting a foot through the door before it's closed on them, but no luck. And that's the extent of the indignity he's willing to demonstrate for the sake of avoiding seven minutes in close quarters with Ilias. No pounding. No pleading. Fine. Whatever.

He turns his back on the door and pulls a wisp into being, for the sake of the faint light it gives off, with a gesture made fluid by alcohol. He's had enough for his shoulders and jaw to be looser than usual, and through the holes in his mask (black, evocative of a bird's skull) his glaring eyes are a little glassy. Despite the nippy air, he lost his shirt a while ago.

"Fuck," he says—quietly, but with the emphatic weight of a pronouncement.

[libratus]

Ilias-- has not lost his shirt. Let the top few buttons go lopsidedly undone for sake of easing the flush of wine from his neck, yes, which for him is practically risque, but when Kostos illuminates the frankly insufficient number of inches suddenly between them, his first thought is, at least one of them has still got his fucking shirt on, Kostos, Andraste's mercy.

Fuck is right.

"Oh, because of course you are the one with reason to be offended right now."

Which of them has been a petty dick lately. (Let's not talk about currently, or in anyone's Satinalia gifts, or how much wine must have preceded that just sliding out of Ilias's mouth.)

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. )

wildcard-ish

[luxating]

"You are just,"

A slightly dreamy sigh, from the floor Lux has pooled onto, cross-legged and draped in what was an hour or two ago, a sheet with two holes cut in it. She seems to be addressing Marisol, for all the apparent preoccupation with her patting her own face. The best thing about partying in someone else's world is discovering someone else's drugs.

"So pretty. You know that, right? You've got to know." Another partygoer passes in a whirl of black chiffon and her head pulls sharply aside to follow them, before drifting back to Marisol. "Did you see that?"

[champions]

"I know," she replies, quite lightly. And she does know, because how could she weaponise it if she did not?

That and she has been told she was beautiful from a young age, because that is what noblewomen are expected to be. To be an ugly noblewoman? Well. At least you were rich, one could suppose.

Of course, playing coy could be fun. "But, you know, sometimes I worry people say it only to make me feel better."

A sigh, bereft. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

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!]

I

[indissection]

Sidony hovers at the side, quite content to play a game of executioner - it's also an excuse to look at people as they come in and out of the party, and she spots Benedict as soon as he moves closer to her orbit. She moves to hover at his side, an untouched goblet of wine in her hand, and tilts her head.

"Are you looking forward to your part in the game, ser?"

[altusimperius]

"Of course," Benedict replies with an easy smile, "and I suppose you're to be the arbiter of my torment?" His eyebrows give a suggestive waggle. She's attractive enough, being seen with her wouldn't do any harm to his reputation.