faderift | Under the Second Moon

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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--

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))

Edited 2018-11-05 06:59 (UTC)

The bottle is taken right out of her hand.

She expects it to be one of his men. They are dreadfully full of themselves, with all that drink pumping through them. How could she blame them, really? It was the night where such a thing was obviously permitted. Or maybe she expects Vane, he could steal a cup from the Gods themselves and probably get away with it.

But Flint? She barks out laughter as he takes it, too quick and clever. Her brows lift and - why not make a show of it, that was the point, wasn't it?

The practise weapons are easily procured. ( Why were the pair of them left on a table? Hardly mattered. ) And where he is proudly crowing orders to his men on the bench. Hoisting her skirt up in one hand the swords in the other, she gets up on the other end the cheer of whistles. A sword is slammed down, slid across to him with a brightly lit gusto.

"Captain Flint! Thieving Wretch! I challenge you for the wine of the good people here!"

Her voice is booming loud, the great use of learning to pitch it over battlefields. All dramatic and quick as she lifts her own weapon up to a mocking pose of a duellists guard. But she tosses her great mane of hair, heroic and determined.

It's been a while since (what's left of) the crew's had something fun to do, so the holiday comes at a good time. Most of them spend the day drinking themselves stupid, and putting together their miniature Walrus (which is probably why it looks so ratchet, but whatever), their masts broom sticks and their sails cut from ratty canvas, already damaged past usefulness, now splotched with wine or ale stains.

The face and mask painting went about the same, but the artist seems to have been slightly more sober than the rest of them, Vane with tar and white paint that's taken to cracking after drying, has the most of his face painted, and the bottom covered in a mask, the same tar and white paint streaked over his chest and back with a skeletal look. There's nothing really fancy to his get up, just the normal pants he wears, some scraps of canvas and netting that maybe makes him look like some kind of creepy sea ghost. Festivities involving decoration aren't usually Vane's thing, but it's been fun.

"You heard the man!", Vane shouts from where he's hopped up on a lip at the back of the Walrus dock cart, "Over the rails, gentlemen!"

And away they go, scampering and shouting and yoinking bottles and glasses and kegs away from unsuspecting party-goers, and Vane leans his forearms against the rail of the cart, chuckling while he tugs his mask down for the moment, watching the men loot the party. "Might need you to sit atop the cargo on the way back, Captain." Because they're getting pretty greedy with those kegs.

It's been a while since (what's left of) the crew's had something fun to do, so the holiday comes at a good time. Most of them spend the day drinking themselves stupid, and putting together their miniature Walrus (which is probably why it looks so ratchet, but whatever), their masts broom sticks and their sails cut from ratty canvas, already damaged past usefulness, now splotched with wine or ale stains.

The face and mask painting went about the same, but the artist seems to have been slightly more sober than the rest of them, Vane with tar and white paint that's taken to cracking after drying, has the most of his face painted, and the bottom covered in a mask, the same tar and white paint streaked over his chest and back with a skeletal look. There's nothing really fancy to his get up, just the normal pants he wears, some scraps of canvas and netting that maybe makes him look like some kind of creepy sea ghost. Festivities involving decoration aren't usually Vane's thing, but it's been fun.

Flint shouts his command for the crew to raid, and Vane jogs off to the center of the courtyard, taking a vaulting leap to stand on top of a table of refreshments, standing tall as he shouts to the crowd of party-goers.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Inquisition! We come for your cargo, not your lives. So long as you all keep to yourselves, none of you move for your weapons, and no one starts shrieking like a fucking wight," Basically, he means 'don't bitch or be a spoilsport', "We'll all part ways in civility!"

Under the Second Moon

Satinalia Raiders

Flint | ota

no subject

no subject

Charles Vane | OTA (i'm stealing part of my other tag shhhh)