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

[shri]

[ The voice breaks her from it, the sharp clear noise nearby over all the others.

Which makes her very aware of what she had almost just done, and if not it's stupidity, it's utter unfairness considering she was the one that had ended this. Left Magni standing alone in her own rooms with barely an answer as to why.

Magni shakes her head - and Lakshmi swallows down, harsh and quick. Teeth clenching, the hard line in her jaw standing out. Working something there in the back of her throat before - cool air between them, as close as they are, and as much as she ( desperately ) wants to... ]

Thank you, Ricart.

[ That cup of wine isn't hers, she knows that - but it is the excuse she is firmly going to take. Fishing for the cup out of his hand by the path of stepping out of Magni's hold. Not even bothering to stop and speak the rest.

It's much, much easier to not look at either of them and knock that glass of wine back and drain it by a matter of a few seconds. ]

[esquive]

Of course.

[That's fine. At least there's a scrap of sense left between them. Besides, while Lakshmi's drinking the contents of the cup down, he's afforded the opportunity to give Magni a direct, exceptionally flat look. What on the Maker's blighted earth do you think you're doing? it probably says.

It's not late enough in the evening for this kind of nonsense.]

[villieldr]

( The absence where Rani once stood feels—

She doesn't have words for what it feels like, save that the loss of contact is worse than not having it to begin with. Magni stays very still. Her shoulders neither slump forward, or turn rigid. Her gaze does not immediately turn to Marcoulf; when it does, there is something burning in it, before she looks to Rani. )

Stop lying - you insult both of us.

( Blunt, sharply delivered to Rani. Royal liars are inevitable, it's their job, and some opinions are probably what Marcoulf intends to deliver as a follow up. She takes a long breath before she takes a step closer to Marcoulf, so that she is standing immediately in front of him, looking down at him with his mask and his flowers. Doesn't say anything, just looks down at him and shakes her head very slightly, before walking on, knocking him backwards if she has to. )

[shri]

[ She stiffens - she might react better to being hit than that, those words said that just that way. Something stuck there, just between the ribs, hitting on the backswing that drives all the air out of her lungs at once.

But for once she knows better than biting back. Even if that is easier, it's always, always easier. She watches Magni go, silent, blinking from behind her cup that even as she's well and truly finished it, she doesn't pull it away. If she lets her hands drop, if she lets herself do anything else, she will only do one particular thing.

Which leaves her with - Marcoulf. Probably the last person that should be left with her, given everything that has passed as it should. The cup lowers, meeting his gaze, setting her jaw against itself.

The only sort of admission, the only time she might let that stick harsh in the back of her throat and none of it fitting for here and now. ] Go with her, please.

[esquive]

[It's hard to tell behind the shadow of the mask and the tangle of the wildflowers exact what his face is doing, but for a split second he meets her eye directly and that much is strange enough. He looks at her, all her bare skin and the garlands of flowers dripping like loops of fine jewelry about her, and the dull quality of his attention is in that moment distinctly-- unimpressed.

His mouth stays shut though. Instead Marcoulf simply raises his glass by a half degree, tips his head in acknowledgment, and then is gone. You're both welcome.]