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

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?"

[luxating]

"I never lie," Lux lies, dragging up a hand to cross her heart. "You are like, super — actress — trophy wife — painting — gorgeous. Because it's not just,"

Her eyes drift again, and shut.

"Because real beauty is like, inside you, too. And I can tell you're kind. And you have to never forget that, okay?"

A pinky offered to Marisol. Shake on it.

[champions]

Maker, she's a mess, isn't she? Marisol leans forward, conspiratorial and close, and links her pinkies with Lux's.

"I promise, I will never forget who I am," she swears, and she is entirely sincere, even if she is leaning just a shade too close to the stranger, to see how she reacts, if she reacts. Call it absurdity and whimsy.

"But I hope you know that you have beauty inside you, too?"

[luxating]

Dejectedly:

"No, just organs."

She's leaning too close, back. Is this the part where they kiss. Probably not — her eyes flutter a bit wider, startle open —

"Oh! That one," Another shadow in the grass. "Did you see that one?"

[champions]

Marisol is watching her intently. She is too young and too foolish and too drugged to be of any interest to her, too much a rifter and too lacking in use, so far as she can tell— and so she looks away, towards the shadow, and the Moment is lost. Alas. Woe. Etc.

"Are you afraid of them?"

[luxating]

"How can you be afraid of something you can't properly see?"

Maybe by answering your own question.