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

[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.

[bouchonne]

With many others, Byerly would protest that the kiss had certainly not been enough - too chaste, too polite. For her, though, he simply smiles, wickedly as he can, and gives a long sigh - a noise of pure satisfaction.

"That will feed them quite well," he agrees amiably. "The kiss of a girl as wicked as you is simply perfect. Have you ever considered turning to an evil way of life? You're quite good at it."

[indissection]

There is something between her and Byerly, she thinks to herself, but it's not something to comment on. They're bound by the nature of sharing a secret, which is an intimacy that no one else can claim to. It makes it far easier to play into his game, simply because she can tease him and have it be near meaningless.

"I am glad to hear it," Sidony replies, voice soft and gentle. "Am I wicked? I had thought myself a charming maid ready to be won over, but if you think me so dangerous already..." A wave of her hand. "What would evil do with me?"