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.

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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

[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.

[bouchonne]

"How kind you are, dear fellows," Byerly says, dropping a bit of the villainous hauteur to speak with Thranduil. Thranduil, and his miserable companion. Byerly has no idea who the fellow is - honestly, elves often blend together in his mind, making it nigh-impossible to keep them apart - but he's pleased to see anyone who looks so altogether ill-tempered.

"So," he says, waving his fingers, "are you going to offer me a kiss, or not? That is the nature of this particular game."

[rowancrowned]

"So it is," Thranduil says readily, and holds his glass out for Solas to take. It's clear Solas isn't the participation sort, so it's Thranduil who will suffer this for the both of them, kneeling neatly in his robes to make it down to Byerly's level and leaning in. He presses his lips to the corner of Byerly's mouth, closer to an Orlesian greeting than anything with true passion, but it is done without complaint and with some measure of tenderness. He even closes his eyes when he leans in.

The draw back is just as elegant as the leaning in, still composed, unfolding himself back to his full height.

"Merry Satinalia," he bids, and then. "If I may request my favor?"

He points one long finger at the smoking orb.

[dirth]

Solas takes the glass, but the look he gives the two of them is nothing short of sour.

The fact that Thranduil had brought him here, to parade in front of the farce of Corypheus, knowing what he does... It makes his stomach turn, but at least he can appreciate the fanfare of it all. He enjoys a party, at times, especially when there are Games to play, and seeing what Thranduil does... All he can do is bite back his sigh.

This is one game he will not partake in, refusing to look at Thranduil kisses another man.

The offer of a gift, and the one his friend wants, however, has Solas' frown deepening, and he thinks he might throw his drink at him, just to see if that might distract them both enough to forget about the silliness of this particular favour.

[bouchonne]

"But of course," Byerly responds, passing it over at once. (It is a pleasing kiss; Thranduil's lips are softer than many men's, his manner pleasingly androgynous.) The smoke inside the orb is sweet and mildly intoxicating - only mildly, as By does have an entire evening in which he needs to preside over the court, and it wouldn't do to pass out halfway through.

After he hands the orb over, his gaze falls upon Solas. An eyebrow ticks up, and his grin turns vaguely predatory. "And what of your friend, dear Thranduil? The poor fellow looks utterly miserable. Shall we have him beaten until his gloom passes?"

[rowancrowned]

Mildness is just perfect for Thranduil, who will need another bottle of wine at least before he starts feeling the effects, but he passes the orb to Solas, a sleight of hand in exchanging his wine class for the thing.

"I'm afraid it is a chronic case," he says, with all due solemnity. "And one I have been trying to alleviate for nigh on a year now."

And this absurdity only the latest attempt at winning a laugh, though one of the better ones.

"Still, with any luck, the orb will give him some cheer. Won't it, Solas?"

Thranduil's gaze will remain firmly fixed on him until he partakes.

[dirth]

Solas' dour features don't soften at the commentary about how very put out he seems to be - there's a very good reason for it, he thinks, even if no one else might understand it other than the man he is matching. Thranduil is attempting to make a good occasion out of this, but the last few months have not been particularly kind.

Being handed a faux replica of his own orb is doing nothing to brighten his temperament. He gives Thranduil a very intense, very sour look, but he accepts it all the same.

He knows better than to reject it, fingers curling around it with a sigh.

"I am sure it cannot make my mood worse."