faderift | Under the Second Moon

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.

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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.

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I.
"This is nothing like the Spring Equinox."

This Wysteria announces over a full cup of wine, pale eyes bright and cheeks just a little flush from previous drinks behind the narrow strip of the simple emerald colored mask she's wearing.

She's attached herself to the edge of a group or at the end of a bench, and has cheerfully elbowed her way into conversation with her immediate neighbor without any warning or pretense. "Is it always like this? With the, ah, painting walls and," --kissing strangers-- "Ridiculous costumes? I thought it was strange to do this sort of thing right at the beginning of winter, you know. But I'm beginning to see the appeal of it. It's a very nice thing to do right before the weather turns properly grim. And I suppose it's especially true this year, isn't it? Given the, ah, upcoming work."

--For the love of god, interrupt her before she really gets going.

II.
The dancing may not be particularly structured, but Wysteria has very quickly figured out that she needn't wait for anyone to fill her card if she wants to dance.

Which she absolutely does, and has been - right up until, laughing, she's spun out of the circle and crashes into some onlooker or nearby unsuspecting celebrant.

"--Oh, I'm so sorry!" She's here to enthusiastically take her victim by the arm, making an effort to enthusiastically pull them back to the dancing with her. "Let me make it up to you."

III.
Throughout the night, Wysteria can be found party to a half dozen conversations or ambushing poor wallflowers. Trying to stay near the fringe of the festivities? Sorry, friend; you now have company. Or she's getting herself stuck in a giant spider web. Or, very late into the evening indeed, she's popped up on one of the stacked haybales all but curled up for a cat nap and desperately trying to keep her eyes open.

"Oh, no. It's fine. Really, I'm—," and then, quiet and somewhat defeated, "Dancing. I guess."

Kenna's protests aren't overly frantic and she doesn't exactly put up a fight, and as soon as they're in the middle of it she gives the surrounding mob a curious once-over, trying to catch up. There isn't much to catch up with. Some of them seem to be actually dancing, others seem to be hanging off of each other and slowly stepping side to side.

Kenna looks back up at her kidnapper, half-obscured by an emerald mask. Hers is gold and only half a mask, and she actually picked it up off the ground when some drunk dropped it, so. Maybe a little dirty.

"You don't have to. Make anything up to me, I mean. Really."

"Don't be absurd. This holiday is all about-- actually, I have no idea. Being ridiculous, apparently. But it seems like trampling all over someone warrants giving something back. Besides," she says, taking her abused partner by the hand and shoulder. "I'm rather tired of following."

And off they go at Wysteria's behest. The music isn't quite fast enough for a proper spring, but she makes do mostly with leading her partner in some romping step about the slower moving dancers. Dancing, she thinks, is much more fun when done with spirit. Nevermind the steps, so long as they're not on one another's feet.

"So being absurd is in the spirit, then—" And they're moving. Kenna takes her hand and keeps pace, but it takes enough focus that she's quiet for a few nearly-missed steps. No stepping on feet, though. So far.

Knowing what to do with your hands is always the way more challenging bit, in her opinion, though her options here are limited. Shoulder's awkwardly high, so he puts her free hand on the woman's waist. It's louder here, closer to the music, so she pushes up onto her toes a little — without tripping things up — and raises her voice.

"I'm Kenna."

The introduction isn't awkward, like she's falling back on more traditional introductions because she can't keep up; she's smiling, clearly fine with the development. Beats standing around.

The hand at gger waist seems to be perfectly fine, as is the introduction. Wysteria's smile flashes wide under the band of her green mask - a broad hat ribbon reinforced with some other cloth backing with holes carefully cut and hemmed for her eyes, by the looks of it and the large bow with is winnowing tails where it's tied at the back of her head.

"I think this is the very best way we should meet, Kenna. I'm Wysteria." None of this Miss Poppell nonsense. She's had maybe just slightly too much wine for that much formality. Shouting cheerfully back over the music, her gloved right hand firmly guiding the shorter woman through the rollicking step she's set: "Have you been with the Inquisition long?"

"Only a few weeks!" That was too loud, in retrospect. She's also been drinking, but she'll pretend it's the music's fault. Another beat of silence as she keeps up with the brisk pace, resisting the urge to look down at her feet.

"What about you?" And shortly after, this one with timing to imply it's not entirely smooth. It's just important that it's said, thank you. "I like your mask."

She's all ready to answer, but forgets the question entirely in favor of-- "Do you really?!" That might be too loud as well, but Kenna will have to forgive her enthusiasm. "Then the terrible sacrifice was worth it! I stripped the ribbon from my favorite hat for it. My only hat now, technically. But I've always been rather keen on it."

Here, the music begins to shift - elongating and slowing by just enough that there can be no pretending at keeping up the trotting pace. Ah well; it was a delight as it lasted. And this way at least they can carry on a conversation without shouting over their own tromping footfalls.

"I'm a fortnight plus, I think. So not much longer, really. I'll spin you now in three, two, and--" She guides Kenna about by the hand, then back, swapping directions and squawking as she narrowly misses trampling one of Kenna's feet. "Ha! Sorry. No harm done."

"Can you still wear your hat without the ribbon?" Is that a dumb question? Maybe. She's sure the hat is still technically wearable, but maybe it's completely pointless without the decoration. Kenna's grateful for the slowed pace, though Wysteria manages to keep it unpredictable with the sudden offer of a spin.

"Oh, I don't—" The weak protest doesn't translate to her not spinning, though she stumbles a little on the landing, inspired in part by the squawking. And, once she's regained her rhythm again, "Do you do a lot of dancing?"

Honest question, no shade.

"Here and there. It depends on the season, and I've been out of parties for the last year. Ralston-- ah, my educator, wasn't very found of them and wrangling an invitation to any society with him in tow was something of a trial but nothing compared to the utter impossibility of going attending without. I'm afraid I'm out of practice." Not that it matters much.The steps to these dances are all different. "Though really, I can't say I've ever been a particularly good dancer. I only hope to make up for it with enthusiasm and a good temper."

Now there's a motto to live by.

"Yourself? --Oh and yes, the hat's just fine. I'll have to find something to tie it with if I want to keep it on my head in any kind of weather, but I've been partial to the green and I'm not sure a replacement will be easy to come by."

She is met with warm laughter. Warm like summer rain, freshly baked croissants, and a third simile that is evocative but considerably less pleasant. He'll edit that in later.

Etienne takes her hand in his, stepping into the dance readily, and offers her a smile. "Mademoiselle, you are too kind."

"Not in the slightest, Messere. Let's first see if I can avoid trampling your feet before you give me that kind of credit." She's laughing, smile all broad and beaming, and her eyes are bright enough behind the ribbon of her narrow mask that it's clear she's had a drink or two.

But her feet are quick enough, and while she isn't a refined dancer or particularly well versed in the steps, she's certainly quick on the uptake and cheerful about following his lead.

"I promise at least not to permanently maim you. But I'm afraid I really can't make any guarantees past that."

"I fear your promise may come too late, if you are so intent on stealing my heart."

Dramatic, in the spirit of the silliness that is the evening, as he—

laughs, actually, when for all her quick uptake, her heel finds his toe. "Thankfully, my medical prowess assures me that no harm has been done."

"Oh--!" Wysteria stumbles with the effort of redirecting her weight, relying on the sturdy line of his shoulder and hand to keep from tripping entirely. "Forgive me. It won't happen again, doctor. Is that right? Or have you some particular title that I should be aware of?"

She is half joking and half serious, not certain if he's being any more straight with her and not especially bothered. It's very easy to be all kinds of silly. Either of them might say anything, couldn't they?

“I am Doctor Beaumanoir,” he says with a slight flourish, settling a hand at her lower back to steady her. “But please, I welcome my dance partners to call me Étienne.”

A moment, and he raised his hand to spin her— “Surely you’ll not deceive me, good lady?”

"Good lady," She repeats back, the lilt of her voice shifting the shape of the words to make them funnier then they actually are as she's spun about and caught back again. "My dear Doctor, a moment ago I was very prepared to release us both from any pretense of formality for the evening, but I'm afraid you've gone and made that pretense sound so charming that I'd hate to make do with just my name. No, I'm afraid you'll have to make do with the mystery now."

As if the strip of ribbon functioning as her mask is so broad as to successfully mask her identity (it most certainly isn't). But really, what's the point in a holiday where your face is even halfway hidden if not for the excuse to play ridiculous games with strangers and friends?

That hand that was not spinning her is clapped dramatically over his heart, before he sets it to her waist again and continues the dance.

"I am beside myself. How can I ever hope to find you once more, when this madness is done?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to memorize me some other way, doctor. I've been told I have a very particular voice that's difficult to forget." Which fundamentally was not a compliment when she heard it said, but she will be damned if she hasn't turned it into one. "If you keep your ears sharp, I imagine you'll have no trouble tracking me down."

She flashes him a broad grin, her hand all light at his shoulder as they sweep about the dance floor.

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Under the Second Moon

wysteria | ota

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ii you did this

:^)

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