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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( gwenaëlle hadn't actually intended to be here, had had perfectly serviceable plans for her evening that would not have involved leaving the pleasant security of her shared quarters in the central tower, but. thranduil had laid out a dress, and she had allowed that maybe she would have a spare moment, and then he'd added the crown and she'd conceded that it would probably please alexandrie if she went, her hair very slightly damp and in its natural curl, a soft gold veil tucked beneath the crown in lieu of a mask.

she's still not completely sure this is going to be worth the hassle of having come—she's not sold on this much of the inquisition en masse sober, nevermind three sheets to the wind and rapidly approaching the orgy event horizon—but there should be company she can tolerate, and liquor that will make tolerating the rest of it easier.

and she looks lovely. a little late in arriving, since she hadn't been readying herself when everyone else was, but a visual match to her husband in miniature and making a beeline for the wine. )

Edited 2018-11-06 05:14 (UTC)

[ She will be gallantly and suddenly steered off her beeline by an armored De La Fontaine with a stage-whispered ] Gigi! [ it's apparently the older twin. ] Do not, I pray you! You shall regret it entirely if you start with the wine. We have so very much of it because it could strip the paint off the face of a sixty year old whore. Here.

[ Here, the appearance of a small waterskin that is absolutely not full of water (in a way that is a damn sight better than the last time Lexie brought Gwen whiskey.) ]

Then you shall not mind as much.

Fucking hell, Lexie— ( is involuntary, and probably most of all to do with the double-take involved in an armored De La Fontaine actually coming towards her, congratulations, it's an excellent impersonation of your sister.

and a gallant rescue, when she recovers from the first part, taking the waterskin and drinking from it with nary even a grimace. maybe she should drink less, if that's how she necks her whiskey.

tilting it: )

Happy Satinalia.

[ A giggle, to have surprised her, and then a satisfied nod to have done her bounden duty by averting the forthcoming crisis. Granted, there's a half-full mug of the aforementioned crime against wine in her free hand. Apparently she'd been in the whiskeyskin earlier. ]

It is! I am surpassingly delighted by the whole of it. It is such—and you know I hardly ever say this in any way that might be mistaken for compliment, but it is—an earnest little celebration.

[ Going to war is a terrible spice, but it is one. ]

You look ravishing, of course. [ a quick gesture; the dress, the crown, the veil, ] Declared allegiance to the sworn enemy of my Queen, have you? How could you. [ she doesn't sound put out in the slightest. ]

Edited 2018-11-07 05:56 (UTC)

Good grief, no, ( immediately, pulling a face. she pats lexie's arm in an absent sort of a way, taking another drink from the waterskin in the hopes of catching her up some, or at least enough to make the wine palatable— )

The only thing that has my allegiance is how ravishing I look, thank you. Whatever nonsense everyone else wants to get up to is entirely your affair, Lexie, I'll be staying out of it. I'm here to justify the expense Thranduil put down for this dress and drink your terrible liquor.

[ as if summoned by the uttering of his name, thranduil suddenly appears, his arm about gwenaelle's waist, his silver rings clashing wretchedly with the gold in both their outfits. ]

It is the first time we are appearing together in public, my love. [ he inclines his head at lexie, lets out a quick, ] Lady De La Fontaine, [ and spares a moment for a fond glance down at gwenaelle. ]

Find me later, won't you? Or at the very least, do not leave without me.

[ he won't be staying long. he has an elf he's trying to crack a smile out of. ]

Lord Provost! [ again, as she's been doing all night, the attempt at a curtsy. It looks a bit ridiculous sans skirt, but it's the thought that counts, right? ] Is it truly your first time out as a pair? Well! You look very fine together, and your taste [ a gesture at all of Gwen, perhaps encompassing both gown and person ] is truly exquisite.

I shall not keep her, then, if she does not wish to be kept [ a look at Gwen: you're absolutely dismissed, go look absolutely s t r i k i n g with your husband cum fiancé and maybe kiss him come on it's Satinalia, ] such time is always more fleeting than we wish.

She's fine, she'll lure him later, ( feigning a stern look for lexie, who is not getting rid of her that quickly, and—she'll probably pay for this later—giving thranduil's hair a short, sharp tug to draw him near enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. there's a casual ease to the two of them together that looks lived in, however discreet it's been; they'd never have been able to pretend, if they'd been inclined to try, that this is a new or strictly business arrangement. )

[ the look of chagrin Lexie adopts in response to Gwen's stern one is equally feigned; it passes like a cloud across the sun on a particularly gusty day, especially at the sight of that affectionate pull of Thranduil's hair, the casual intimacy of the kiss. It is like the day in spring that has become warm enough to move the plants in their pots, protected inside all winter, out into the sunlight.

Ah, l'amour.

It's good that Thranduil has such long lovely hair, though. With a mournful sigh, the tone of which is entirely mitigated by her smile: ]

Tall men are so desperately inconvenient.

Edited 2018-11-08 14:57 (UTC)

Later, [ he agrees, before he is kissed. once she releases him, he tugs her veil back into place, and his hip brushes, well, more her rib area, as he turns to leave. he says: ]

I'll leave you two to commiserate, [ and makes for the dark court. ]

( linking arms with lexie in thranduil's wake, she laughs— )

Tall is the least of his fucking inconveniences, ( very fondly. )

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[ his lovely wife, with her crown of thorns, which prevents him from settling his chin on the top of her head when he embraces her from behind as she peruses the drinks on offer, neatly inserting himself into her presence.

he's lost solas, or solas has gone to lick his wounds in the corner, but what does that matter, when his lovely lady wife is here, and his arm is about her waist and keeping her close as he peers down at the choices on offer. ]

No, [ he says, and reaches for a different bottle, in as much as the have different bottles. ] This one, Gwenaëlle.

[ he might actually have drunk enough to become tipsy. somehow. he's sampled enough to have an opinion on the wines. ]

( he can't see her smiling—he's behind her, she has a veil—but it's there and pleased and she leans back into him, taking the proffered bottle in one hand and resting the other lightly over his arm at her waist. she'd not been looking for him, comfortably certain that he would find her, and here he is, )

Oh, they're all fucking cheap, ( warmly, laughing. ) Are you enjoying yourself?

Moreso than but a moment ago, [ she glows when she's happy, and he takes her hand where it rests on his arm and spins her out, like they're dancing, quickly stepping into place in front of her and covering her hand on the bottle with his. ]

I would not have been allowed to touch you like this six months ago, [ he breathes. and he still can't risk it with iorveth, but he'll take what he can get. ]

( she breathes in like she's inhaling the moment, tipping her head until the veil tangles on the thorns of her crown and lets her smile up at him unhindered— )

I wanted everyone to know.

( terribly: ) To rub my good fortune in all their fucking faces.

( what a creature he married. and how pleased with herself she is, like a cat with a still-twitching canary. )

Charming.

[ as long as she's getting something out of it, he's happy. he bends to kiss her cheek, through the lace, and his hair snags on the thorns and is combed through them as he pulls away, and offers her his arm.

there is a love story here, even for the canary. ]

Shall we sit, or have you made arrangements with another? Have you seen Byerly?

He's hard to miss, isn't he, ( which doesn't mean she's spoken to byerly, just that he does rather draw the eye, presently. she laces her fingers together, hands around his elbow, and there's something comfortable and comforting about the fact that she can, without worrying about who's looking or who might read what into it. that it is in fact, in this place and in this moment, entirely unremarkable to most.

except maybe elves who think he could have done better, but you can't win them all. )

We should sit. Provide for me, husband, find us a chair. ( so cute she might punch them in the face herself. )

[ he is not so far gone as to pick her up and carry her there, but they meander, as two besotted people with no concerns for the future might, arm in arm and eyes only for each other.

byerly, bless his heart, has thoroughly prepared for the orgy portion of the evening with his assortment of 'soft things, but everywhere' and it's hardly difficult to steal a pillow from the periphery and bring it to a corner far away from the painting project and the noise of the light court and away from the bachinallia of the dark.

a little space just their own. on the ground, granted, but who's going to say anything to them? ]

( besides the novelty of attending something like this together, properly, openly - it eases her to see his mood lighter after the rough reunion they'd weathered after her return from the fade. the moment might be little more than an oasis in this war's desert, the calm eye of the storm, but she's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

not tonight, at least.

tonight it's satinalia, and her husband is smiling at her in this cosy space they've eked out for themselves. she sweeps her veil back again - it refuses, of course, to stay long where she puts it - and drapes herself across cushion and thranduil, the very slight dampness in her hair slowly pressing a shadow into his shoulder. )

All right, ( out of seemingly no where, ) this wasn't your worst idea.

[ Sidony is dressed to match the occasion - that is, her desire to fancy herself a member of the Dark Court at some point - but she swans around the Gallows as best she can, looking rather out of place in her blacks and her maskless visage. She doesn't care too much about playing the game - she's here to see people around, to learn more, to make sure she can peek at all the members of the Inquisition.

The better she knows them the better she can trust them, she tells herself. She's mostly here to indulge, since she's now been given the change, her poor handmaiden left to await her in anxiety in her rooms.

She's hovering, looking at all the newcomers, and that's when she spots Gwenaelle, her head tilting as she picks up her own glass of wine - not that she intends to drink much, of course. ]

( next to gwenaëlle she looks anything but out of place, the two of them very nearly dressed to coordinate and gwenaëlle's veil in place of a mask necessarily sheer enough to be seen through and thus doing little to disguise her face. not that, historically, masks have ever been so very useful to her in covering anything up—

her body language is all four letter words.

in a friendly way, presently, raising an eyebrow by way of greeting; by this point in the evening, returning to the wine lexie had earlier warned her away from, she's already had much to drink. she'll be lucky if she manages to undress before she sleeps, later, or if she just falls face-first into bed amidst various elves and animals. )

I don't think we've met, ( but the voice is unmistakable. she'd intended to speak with sidony sooner—she is very interested in those books—but other pressing factors had conspired, and isn't this a more interesting first impression? )

[ Black is familiar to Sidony; it's not out of place in the realm of the Nevarran nobility; it was familiar and traditional to her now, making her feel comfortable and a little more relaxed here in the midst of the Inquisition. She was a runaway still, no matter what she might have told others, and she's comfortable with that secrecy, draped around her like a rather comforting veil.

The wine is there more as a means of hiding her smile as she faux sips, dipping her head as she glances around the room.

It's been long enough since she had any female friends that didn't know her as being Octavian's sister. It's a relief to find someone fashionable and decent enough to start a conversation, even in the middle of a rather charming celebration. ]

No, not yet. [ She offers something of a curtsey, one handed with her wine glass in the other. ] Sidony Venaras of Nevarra City.

Gwenaëlle Baudin. Of no where in particular.

( there's a whimsy in answering that way, but it's a decision, too; orlais made her, but orlais spurned her, too, and she's glad enough to burn the bridge. she's young enough to scarcely know other than empress celene, and it fosters no patriotism, no love. vauquelin lands are not hers to claim, halamshiral and the dales her heart's grave; when she allows herself to think on it she might feel homeless, if not for building a home out of other hearts.

but one doesn't speak of belonging to people the way one speaks of belonging to cities and nations. and maybe one day they'll have both. )

I think we have spoken, actually. The physician?

[ That would make her raise an eyebrow, were she anywhere else, but for now Sidony just offers a wan smile.

There's no point making airs about people not having names or statuses or titles; as far as she's aware there has been no reason to suspect she'd be treated differently for her own. She might be a lady in upbringing and nature - and there is no escaping that, not with how she handles herself - but it's not as if her family were at all important. The only claim they have to any kind of power is the fact that Octavian had joined the Mortalitasi, and even that fills her with a sourness that makes her loathe to mention it.

She'd rather survive on her own merits, thank you. ]

Of course, I do remember. It's a pleasure to meet you in person, my lady. [ A soft smile. ] Are you enjoying yourself?

[Maker help her when she finally manages to outmaneuver her company and reach the wine. She'll find it under assault, the casks on the stairwell behind the table in the process of being looted by a series of sturdy, tar-streaked men and consequently loaded onto their waiting dock cart. A young man from the Inquisition's kitchen is skittering nervously from side to side, plaintively fussing over the loss but otherwise doing nothing to interrupt the raid sanctioned by the raucous spirit of the holiday.

The poured cups on the dressed table have at least been left unmolested, with one notable exception: Flint, dressed in a familiar dark shirt with pale skeletal embroidery about its neck and a deaths head mask fashioned from sail canvas, is overseeing his men from near it with a cup in hand. He's barking an order--]

Dooley, for fuck's sake. Not the one that's already been tapped. [--and takes a drink from the cup in hand, grimacing hard enough at the acidity that his attention turns from the whooping Walrus men to catch sight of her on the far side of the banquet table.

He lifts his cup in acknowledgement: Miss Baudin.]

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Under the Second Moon

gwenaëlle baudin | gallows | open

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