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.

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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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

i

Anyone looking for Evie this evening may make a mistake and seek out her sister instead. Certainly the two of them are dressed quite like one-another. Rather they're dressed like they'd be were they in fact the other twin.

Tonight, Evie is an uncommon vision in white, a delicate and expensive-looking butterfly mask completing the look. Her red curls are expertly braided and twisted elegantly up around her head, and pinned into place with pearl-tipped pins. She's not unaccustomed to wearing extravagant gowns, but even the most flashy of her own are not as involved as the ensemble she wears tonight. She can be found with a drink in her hand most of the time, wine of a mysteriously better vintage than whatever swill is being served up by everyone else. (The dress is quite large, easy to obscure a hip flask among the skirts, as well as a dagger or two in case something happens she isn't happy with) She poises herself as her sister whenever she can, inserting herself into conversations she usually wouldn't, and moving from one place to the next with a smile.

ii

At some point Evie disappears from the party to one of the less populated rooms so she can be herself for five minutes. Anyone who happens upon her will find her with one of the practice swords she's stolen from the Dark Court, swinging it idly in practice archs as she nurses a glass of wine in her other hand. Her mask is pushed up atop her crown of red curls and braids.

If she notices she's got company she'll look up and smile, arching her eyebrows.

"Oh, Hello. Are you lost?"

Following in this bright butterfly's wake is a more dour if no less dashing figure in black and silver, dressed in the Orlesian style. Honestly, if anyone had ever figured out it was James under all this frippery, he might have won for 'costume most unlikely'.

As it was, the flask was often slipped away by this black knight, filled and returned to the depths of the white dress, and Evie was never without a menacing figure for anyone who might mistake her for her sister and get more fresh than she intended.

After the third or fourth time, James sighs behind his mask. "I have a great deal more sympathy for your father than I previously have, my darling."

Not that Evie needs an escort, but she does appreciate not having to fend off all the extra attention on her own. She's never been quite as popular as her sister, although she had her own draw.

She lets out a soft laugh at James's comment, tilting her head to look at him before reaching out and threading her arm through his.

"You'd have to meet my father to know how ridiculous that notion is. He's never been one to chase off suitors, he figures if we want them chased off we'll do it ourselves." This is probably part of why all of his children but Alexandrie and herself are married off with families of their own.

He covers her hand with his own, squeezing it gently before letting go. No need to be a completely possessive arse. Behind his mask one corner lifts, and he drawls out dryly. "Well at least your father knows his children well. Although I would have preferred your costume with a sword. At least it would have kept the handsy ones at bay."

Under the Second Moon

Geneviève De La Fontaine

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