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

Gallows

There she stands, the top layers of her bright copper curls pulled simply back from her face, the ribbons securing the half-mask of the De La Fontaine family—crested with a Chevalier's feather—threaded cleverly back through them, shining in full-plated storybook glory, the chill evening breeze rippling her split tunic and light cape of sky blue silk, the which her lips and eyelids painted to match. Her hand rests easily on the pommel of her sword, shield settled snugly on her right arm, her eyes watchful on the distance.

Definitely Geneviève.

Of course, upon closer look, the 'armor' is gold-chased silver rather than steel, the feather that bobs proudly above the mask is white with a gold-gilded shaft rather than the Chevalier's yellow, judging from the way the scabbard moves it's just a pommel affixed to the top, and if you wait a few moments that's absolutely the socialite's giggle.

Definitely Alexandrie.

Well, whichever it is, judging by the blue and gold-painted toiled seat she's wearing in lieu of a gorget and the flowers tucked into her hair and winding around her scabbard (and her trailing tufted lion's tail), she's pledged herself to the Light Court and can be found at any given activity throughout the night, with an especial emphasis on flexing her wit and theatricality at its contest of good guy champions.

Otherwise, every time the dancing strikes up she finds herself someone who looks like they'd like to dance but are unsure of it to extend a gauntleted hand to and pull into the moving and shifting merriment.

[ all over the island being super honorable and Even More Eminently mistakable for her twin sister, hmu! ]

Kirkwall

Deep in the night, she's traded her armor for one of the rather revealing gowns of black and lace with patterns in enchanted thread that shift and change as the lights of the city streets flicker over them. She cuts a silhouette far more fashionable by Tevinter's standards than those of the Marches. One which would be chilly without the matching cloak and gloves. Her family's mask has been replaced by a half-veil of the same lace as her dress, and the spiced wine of the Gallows festivities replaced with a small glass of something much harder.

She's a swift dagger to stave off any miscreants she can't sweet talk into walking her to whatever tavern she's headed next when she's alone, and when she's not, well. Her escort is far more dangerous than near anything this city has on offer.

Definitely Alexandrie.

[ tour of Kirkwall's inadvisable parties 9:44D, feel free to find her with the footpads, drunkards, whores, and gamblers! May or may not be suddenly attended by her fella. ]

"D'you know this one?"

Because Darras doesn't, but he can fake it, at least. What's the point of organized dancing at Satinalia festivities, when half the crowd will be stinking drunk before the bards strike that first note?

Despite what might be read as a protest, he takes her hand agreeably enough. His other hand is holding a cup of wine. Darras takes a final swig and then sets it aside, on a nearby available surface, ready to go along with this.

He's not wearing a toilet seat. At some point, he's been draped in flower chains, which he's left on agreeably, to mingle with the gold chains he's donned for the occasion. All his trinkets and trimmings are gold, down to the buttons and trim on his fine red coat and the rings on his fingers. And his mask is gold and red, too, to match. And, because it's Satinalia: there's skin, of course, his shirt half undone. Because it's Satinalia, right.

"If I give in to this, will I be regretting it later, is the real question here."

"To my knowledge, I have never caused anyone to regret their time in my arms," is the Chevalier's reply, her eyes sparkling behind her mask with the special kind of mischief that comes from ready wine, breathless dancing, and open bonfires roaring under night skies. "Although I have heard it deemed regrettable that I eventually let go.

"In the handful of seconds I have known you, however, it hardly seems to me that you are a man overmuch concerned with the possibility of regret." The shimmering blue of her lips curve in a smile as she tilts her head, takes a step back towards the whirl of the dancers such that if he doesn't keep hold and follow her she'll be drawn away like so much seafoam on the tide.

He keeps hold. Not to any discomfort, but firm, to keep her from being pulled from him. It's not a complicated dance, and it's not as if anyone's watching to correct those that do it badly. This is for fun, all of it, and it's easy to fall into.

"It's Satinalia," he says, as they start off together. "Regret doesn't enter into it, no matter what's done during the hours of this day. So even if I were concerned with regrets, I'd have set 'em aside already. Is that how it's done, in Orlais?"

Not a tough guess with her, even though she's observed rightly: they've know each other mere seconds.

"Indeed so!" Her feet are used to dances with steps, but she'd had her share of wild and raucous evenings with more rhythm than rule. Byerly had seen to that, and she had continued the habit even after he'd gone. It's a strange feeling in armor, to be sure, but a turn is a turn be it in a jig, or reel, or whatever drinking song their 'bards' started playing in the middle of another. Even if it clanks a bit.

"There are no regrets in Orlais. They must be imported, in the rare case we desire to have them."

"Is that right. I'd find that very hard to believe, except I know Orlesians, I've seen Orlesians, and--"

Quick, he sidesteps, taking her with him. The maneuver means that they narrowly avoid being crashed into, as a less skilled pair of revelers stumbles, laughing. Well in their cups, those two, but no harm done. Reminded of Llomerryn, Satinalias past, Darras grins a little.

"You'd have to live without regret, to be Orlesian. I'd not be caught dead in those masks, let alone half of what passes for fashion."

“Ah, but at court, the masks are largely what allow you to not be caught dead!” The reply is as light as her feet as she follows his sidestep with ease, “A corpse hardly needs to disguise its feelings.” Alexandrie’s smile widens slightly. “Well,” she amends, “outside of Nevarra, I suppose.

“As to the other, I burn with curiosity. Do you prefer the top or bottom half of Orlesian fashion?”

Under the Second Moon

Alexandrie, Probably? | OTA

dancing!!! so my every character can dance with yours ig

\o/

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject