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

At least Marcoulf seems to know what she is doing. Six feels a little as though she might have been taking advantage of the kindnesses she has been shown by him and she wants to see if she can find some means of repaying it - the kind of means that he would accept. A small voice in her mind tells her that it is a road she will have to tread most carefully.

"Of a certain age." She shakes her head, wry. She thinks that must be the kind of things that a girl with a mother might have done, rather than a girl with a Haylon. "The Burning Blades is for anyone who worships Sarenrae. I have not attended as many as might be expected, but I am still learning."

Her eyes dance around, looking at the people gathered for a moment.

"Ah. So it is that kind of party."

"Not necessarily. But a lot like this - you could put them in Chantry whites and they'd find a way to make it that way." Sword cut, birds sing, large groups of unattached men and women between sixteen and forty will find of debauching anything. It's not a judgement; it just is. "And besides, they are all going to real fighting soon. It's a good reason to make a fool of yourself."

He's steering her through the dancers now, cutting in from the perimeter of the floor so they can join the rotation properly. It's not a dance meant for trading partners, so there's no harm in wading into the midst of it.

"It's good that you're here," he says abruptly. Not unkindly just-- not warm either. But when has he ever been that? Even now with his hand at her waist and his rough fingers about her hand, he's more steady than he is any kind of heat. "It doesn't do to sit up in your room sharpening a sword or whatever you like when there's better things to do."

It's not something that Six understands, really. She had never felt that maidenly desire to be attractive to anyone, not even when she had tumbled around and found herself travelling with a handsome Paladin. With him - with Adrian - she had wanted to show her worth, her sword arm, her strength, her talent. Beauty and femininity had never come into it and he had liked her enough for it. She cannot picture herself in Chantry whites, making a fool of herself and dancing with the finesse of someone born into it.

Perhaps it's for the best; she doesn't want to give people who might look upon her and Marcoulf the wrong impression. It would be unjust to him, with all the help he had given her over the last few weeks.

His words draw her back to the present and she blinks, pausing for a moment.

"Is that what you imagine me to do in my spare time?" She's not offended, at least; it's something she could picture herself doing if she wasn't here. Shaking her head, some loose hair tumbling and curling around her face, Six hums thoughtfully. "I did not think this was an event I could miss. Thedas is my home now and I wish to embrace that."

No, that's not really what he imagines, but really - how should he know?, is probably what he means to say. He thinks it, briefly, only for it to be promptly eclipsed by something else entirely: What does a spirit do when it's alone in a place it doesn't belong? and a sudden nauseating discomfort. His hand shifts a faintly at her waist, going briefly feather light.

Then he puts it out of his head. He's been doing a fine job of not thinking about the Fade, about walking there, about how much the spirits there had seemed as flesh and bone, about rifters and what they are, and there's no reason to start now. But by the time he manages it thohgh, the moment in which he should have responded has passed.

"Let's switch directions. On three," he says. Three beats and he releases her, swaps which hand is where, and then off they go counter to the other dancers on the floor.

It will draw the eye, he thinks. Someone will notice her all pretty with her hair coming down and care to cut in. Better if he could make her laugh as well. Then he'll have secured his escape route toward a stiff drink.

"Your horse has been playing tricks in the stable. He keeps untying his leads and going wandering in the yard."

Edited 2018-11-18 15:09 (UTC)

It's not too far from the truth, which is why it amused her so much. She spends her time training, praying and with her sister and animals; there is not much in the way of excitement for someone who has found herself a soldier in a war she had never imagined to be fighting. Perhaps one day she will figure a better place for herself in this world, but until she gets to that point she has a routine she can stick to.

It doesn't even bother her that this is what people imagine of her. If it is the truth why should she take offence to it? She is a strong woman who keeps care of her equipment, who does not allow herself to feel as though she is faltering or losing her grip on her talents. It is more than can be said for some.

The direction has her suddenly focussed on her feet again, but she does not stumble. Marcoulf is an easy person to follow, she finds - it was the same with the horses, with the training. If only he was easier to understand.

Of course, Six has no understanding of just how handsome she might appear to the rest of Thedas, head tilted and gaze set on the man in front of her. In her mind she is a fumbling giant rather than a pretty young woman dancing with a main, hair curling and framing her face. A few people are looking, but she appears almost painfully ignorant of it.

"Has he?" That does make her smile, fondness settling on her features. "Perhaps I should exercise him more. A wandering spirit is no bad thing, however."

Close enough. If he can keep her smiling like that, someone will be at hand to take his place the moment this song winds down. If not before.

"I don't know that it's a wandering spirit so much as your gelding like to pull and chew on rope," he says, wry enough that it has to be a joke. Good humor, at the very least.

(Maker, he thinks he'd like to be away from this place now.)

She is, of course, entirely oblivious. Her focus is on Marcoulf and nothing else, because he is comfortable and familiar in the wake of the overwhelming nature of the gathering itself.

"I will speak with the stablemaster and see what can be done." It's said fondly, at least, and there's warmth to her. She still feels a touch ungainly, but at least there's this.

Perhaps once the dance is over she can escape.

"Just have him tied with two lines. Someone will notice he's undone one before he has time to pull the second loose. Or," he says, as they round through the swirl of dancers about them. "He'll learn to untie them faster, I suppose."

It's the driest brand of humor, aided only slightly by a quirked eyebrow and sly sidelong glance as they go cavorting through the swirl of dancers. And there, as they come around to the far side of the dance floor, Marcoulf spots some likely interloper across the line of his leading arm. Some tall, slim man with a head of dark curls - a steel colored doublet all slashed with red with a crimson mask to match. Marcoulf doesn't recognize him. Not someone in the guard, then. Maybe some Inquisition scout not long for Kirkwall. Visiting minor nobility. Some trader looking for an Inquisition favor.

Whoever he is, he's looking this way. Thank the Maker. Give them once more about the floor and he'll be able to turn who over to someone with a bit of a intent. Good. It's not unlike the horses in the Kirkwall market; she could do with a better partner.

Under the Second Moon

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