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

[elegiaque]

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.

[rowancrowned]

[ 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. ]

[coquettish_trees]

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.

[elegiaque]

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. )

[coquettish_trees]

[ 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.

[rowancrowned]

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. ]

[elegiaque]

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

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

[coquettish_trees]

It does sometimes make for fucking inconveniences, however. [ the corners of her smile twitch.

A lean, to briefly set her head against Gwen’s. ]

He makes you shine. It looks well on you.

[elegiaque]

( her laugh is still slowly tailing off when she says— )

When we first met, ( and it's a strange start to realise she doesn't think she's ever told anyone about this, not purposefully beyond the secrecy they crept around behind, just—there was so much of that, and now that it isn't all a secret it doesn't much come up, either, ) I had my hands in a muff and I didn't give him one when we exchanged our introductions. I always remembered, after, he—I didn't like it at the time, he waited 'til I was touching my hair and took my hand regardless.

( a fondness lingers in the words, the story. the memory. what nuisances they were to one another, from the start. )

And his hair brushed it, and then I never got to touch it again until, Maker. Ages. Kirkwall. I want to annoy him for the rest of my life.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Gwen with the shine of love polished to softness in her every line makes Lexie want to try to capture it with paint, but it is the type of loveliness that moves, and one well-received portrait does not a portraitist make. So, she will fold it up into memory and keep it instead. ]

And so you shall! Really, it is your sacred duty.

[ She pats the other woman's hand, although it's probably a slight less comfortable gesture to receive at the moment, given the gauntlets she's wearing, and sighs gustily. Ah, such sacrifices. ]

Difficult men need difficult women, after all.

[ She's going to cry at the wedding. ]