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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[[ feel free to have sightings or minor encounters wherever in other threads. but if you’re gonna fight or catch-release her, one group thread pls. ]]

The webs grow thicker, within the shared quarters of the former Templar tower. Here and there now, strange milky sacs from the corners of hallways.

Really good decorations? Or something else?

Sooner or later the answer makes itself known: A poisonous spider roughly the size of a cart horse is wandering the Gallows. It can be bribed with meat enough to get close (even to pet those fuzzy mandibles), but quickly turns aggressive if it feels threatened.

Sudden noises, moves, and screams all make it feel very threatened.

Byerly Rutyer, self-appointed villain, presides over the Dark Court. This Court is dedicated to all things wicked - or at least all things ostentatiously, parodically wicked. Some of the courtiers have been given implements of torture, such as whips (or, well, bits of yarn attached to sticks), hot brands (rods of metal painted red at the end with phosphorescent paint), chains, so on and so forth. All celebrants are likewise dressed in a dark and wicked fashion - "dark and wicked" meaning, largely, "dress in black and please show as much skin as humanly possible." And wickedness is, inevitably, also an excuse for overt sexuality: early in the evening, this takes the form of kissing and light touching, but the longer the evening goes on (and the more substances are consumed), the more likely it is that you'll stumble across some of the invited townspeople engaged in more...intimate...activities.

If you wander too close to The Dark Court, you may be dragged into the absurdity.

You, along with someone standing nearby, may be forced into the "Iron Maiden," a "torture device" that's actually basically just seven minutes in heaven - a closet you're locked into with another person for long enough to get in a good make-out session.

You may end up a sacrifice or an executioner. The sacrifice will be captured and "chained" by the revelers, who take you to the "place of sacrifice," a gallows-like structure with a gathered crowd. However, the sacrifice is nothing violent; instead, it's completing a series of tasks set to you by the executioner, another recruit from the Satinalia parties. "Executions" consist of things such as chugging an entire goblet of wine without taking a breath, flashing one's smallclothes at the audience, or performing a dozen push-ups.

You might also end up in the contest of champions. This is a sparring ground; all weapons on offer are practice blades (no accidental stabbings here). The twist is that points are not just given for martial skill; they're also given for playacting as a character. The more over-the-top your villainous performance, the better.

You can attend the wicked feast, in which disgusting and taboo foods are on offer - brains, insects, eyeballs. Other food, for the less daring, is simply made to look horrifying.

You may also simply be offered copious wine and, if you go to the right corners, narcotics. Hallucinogens are on offer, as are euphorics of several varieties.

Finally, you may also be drafted into the war upon Jester's Court. This will, again, consist of as much over-the-top villainy as humanly possible. We're the Dark Court, people, get into it!

It is also highly likely that you will be propositioned. Fair warning.

Edited 2018-11-04 16:33 (UTC)

Byerly himself has gone all-out in his costume and is dressed, with jaw-dropping tackiness, as Corypheus himself. Papier-mache additions to his head and body give him Corypheus' unmistakable threatening lumpiness. But, this being Byerly, he's not dressed as regular Corypheus; he's sexy Corypheus, with strategically draped cloth and jewelry and cosmetics making his whole air into something uncomfortably sensual. Red lyrium pasties complete the look. So too does an orb filled with some sort of smoke from which he takes periodic puffs. And behind him, there's a comely young lass hired from one of the brothels for the night, dressed as a sexy undead dragon, making eyes at revelers as they walk past.

He's keeping character, which means that tonight, he's endeavoring to look as severe and humorless as possible. Periodically, he orders that a reveler be brought over to him and demands a kiss. If they have the courage to kiss his hideous face, they're rewarded with a trinket; if they refuse, they're beaten with the "whips" (made out of light yarn) that he's given his followers.

Edited 2018-11-04 16:53 (UTC)

Sidony has never seen Corypheus himself, of course, but she had spoken to dear Lexie about his appearance. In her opinion, Byerly makes a far more handsome Dawkspawn Magister than the reality could ever hope to ever suggest, but she imagines that is something of the point. She's dressed in something a little less fanciful - a black dress that shows off her assets and makes her feel quite at home. It's nice, she thinks, to be at a party again.

She's brought to him to offer a kiss - or, rather, she deliberately makes it so that she's chosen to be lead over, her head tilting for a moment. Her smile curves over her face, more teasing than anything else.

"Does Corypheus often ask such favours from his followers?"

Sidony comes because she's finally allowed the liberty of doing what she would like - there are no mothers and fathers to hover over her shoulder and demand that she do anything, that she dress in a particular way, that she should do whatever they ought to do. It's liberating, in a novel sort of way, everything wrapping around her and making her feel as though she can take care of everything herself - that she is in control for the first time in a long time.

Dressed in a fine black dress, Sidony appears to be almost at home in the midst of it all - or she has the confidence to make it seem as though she is at home. Dark courts are hardly the place she might have been privy to in Nevarra, but she's not in Nevarra anymore. She's in the Inquisition, and that means she can take part in all the fanciful things she could ever hope to enjoy. It's a novelty, so she likes it all the more.

She partakes in the wine, walking around with a full glass that she sips from as she watches everyone else. She hovers around the iron maiden, and it's entirely possible that she might be locked in there with an unsuspecting Inquisition member, her cheeks flushed and her eyes a little wide as she does so. Otherwise, she hovers around the food, more curious about the brains and eyeballs than anything else, a definite morbid curiosity that takes her interest. She seems fanciful enough, more than happy to talk and flirt with her fellow party-goers, her eyes bright and alert as she drinks it all in.

Thranduil, who had smelled the opportunity to dress up like a shark smells blood in the water, drifts over to Byerly shortly after making his entrance in black and gold, Solas not too far behind like a cat being taken for walkies.

It is, perhaps, a faux pas to come over without being invited, but he wishes to pay tribute to the host, and his bedtime is so very early nowadays.

He exchanges his empty glass for another full one when a server passes by, and passes a second to Solas behind him, raising a brief toast in Byerly's honor before he drinks.

"You have outdone yourself," he says, gesturing with the cup to Byerly's whole self. "Hasn't he, Solas?"

Edited 2018-11-04 17:45 (UTC)

I. THE GALLOWS

The Gallows are suitable enough during the rest of the year, but Six finds herself impressed with the changes made for the event. It's livelier, a little brighter than the normal setup of the place. She wanders around and does her best to appear comfortable, but it's obvious that she's a little bit on edge - she avoids anyone with a glass of wine in their hands (most people) and rejects anyone that offers her one of her own.

She looks a little pale at each and every offering, truly.

The music is nicer, and she enjoys that, something like a smile curling over her face as she nods her head in tune with the music. It reminds her a little of home, of the idleness of mercenaries playing songs and laughing together at the end of a long day - but the dancing is a touch different. That's a new experience, and she stands at the sidelines, wondering. She's dressed a little more formally than her usual shirt and breeches, eyes dancing over the people as they spin together.

It's very sweet, she thinks, and there's a pang in her heart. She wants to dance, but... There is no one to dance with.

II. CITY

The city is what draws her attention most. The markets are wonderful, brightly lit and making her warm and curious, trying to make her way through without upsetting any baskets and making a fool of herself. She's tall and bulky enough that people seem to move out of her way, stepping aside as she peers over their shoulders to look at trinkets and tokens. She's looking for gifts for her sister above all else, touching things and turning them in her hands before she sighs.

Her purse is kept tucked away somewhere very safe, not that she fears anyone will touch her. She's not the easiest target.

The night comes and she wanders the streets with equal delight, dragging her eyes over the fires, the moons, the revelries. It's nothing that she's used to, nothing she has done before, and she does her best to embrace it, to accept it, to feel a little more at home than she had before. It's a party, or a celebration of sorts, she thinks, and it means she has to try and take part... Even if she avoids the merrymakers who are a little more ardent than the others, her cheeks a flaming pink.

That she has no interest in.

Gallows

Parties were never his forte. He usually spent them in some secluded corner, hoping to avoid the entire affair all together. Yet here he found himself, unable to escape the noise and the festivities from Kirkwall all the way to the Gallows. He was dressed simply enough, all in black as was his standard, with a mask obscuring his face. He had a drink in hand and was trying his best to keep to himself, save for anyone who might try to approach him. It was hard to be obscure when you're as tall as a tree, after all.

"Uhm, no thanks." Almost on instinct he was turning people down who tried to get him to dance. Some of the more foolish residents who hadn't yet picked up on the fact that he was a Rifter tried to get his attention. 'Tall' and 'broody' were just a few of the words thrown around.

Kirkwall

The fires burned through the darkened streets of Kirkwall, casting an orange glow that created the ethereal shadows that warped to and fro along the streets and the buildings. He found himself watching the shadows more than once between his home and the markets as he made his way about that evening. He stopped to look at the decorations and the masks and the food. Festivals like this weren't uncommon where he was from but they were undoubtedly repressed in the regime of the First Order. It was nice to get a break from constant perill now and again, he's sure. Kirkwall spared none of the details.

Closed - Rey

He knew she was going to be here. She had told him all about this holiday, long before the town had started decorating. She had wanted to go with him, up until everything had gotten so twisted between them. Now, he didn't know where they stood. It wasn't as if he went out of his way to try and speak with her or try and rehash their previous conversation.

He had gotten her a gift for Satinalia, leaving it in her office where she would undoubtedly have found it as he'd found his gift from her. He didn't know how to feel about it, but the words had been clear - she wasn't going to write him off completely. When he does see her, at last, he can't help but feel caught by the sight of her. It was ridiculous, when he knew what he wanted to say for the most part.

"Rey." Her name was a start, at least.

Solas, who is far less inclined to the fancy dress nature of parties, is wearing something that seems to match Thranduil quite deliberately - which he thinks was done on purpose. He certainly doesn't look as comfortable in it as Thranduil himself is in his getup, even if he is following behind him like a dutiful partner.

The sour look on his face is more for the event than the company, at least.

He was not inclined to partake in too much to drink, not when he is concerned with the part itself, but he takes what he is given with a soft sigh and a shake of his head, moving forward to stand at Thranduil's side. He does enjoy a party, he supposes, and he ought to be a little bit more joyful about it. The company is good, the party is a party, and he can at least pretend that he is not thinking a thousand other thoughts.

"It is certainly something," which is as close to a compliment as Solas is capable of giving at the moment.

"Oh, dear maiden, it's hardly a favour," answers Byerly, theatrically lifting his hand to trace his taloned fingers through the air. The long, pointed nails have - a bit incongruously - little hearts painted upon them. "It is a demand. The fires of passion foster the dark rituals that feed his armies. Evil energies are drawn from them into Corypheus, giving him power over the forces of nature itself."

He smiles at her. It's a little out of character, but she really does look lovely like this - the slightly wicked clothing balances out her sweet face ever so charmingly. Even though he had precisely nothing at all to do with her sense of style, he still feels a strange sort of pride for it.

"And besides, it's excellent for morale."

Her eyes follow along the trails of the pointed nails, a small smile settling over her features. It's a very curious and interesting guise, she thinks, a charming one if not for the awkwardness of it being their sworn enemy, and she can see Byerly so wonderfully designed under it all. It makes sense, all the pieces coming together, and she finds herself delighted even as she does her very best to appear coy and soft in the midst of it all, a truly willing victim.

"Who am I to deny the morale to feed my lord's army, then?" Her eyebrow raises, arms crossed behind her back, watching him for a long moment. "It seems very cruel indeed to make them fear for themselves, certainly not if it is a demand."

She steps closer, her dress curling around her legs, tilting herself up just a little. She can reach, then, to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, barely there and hardly anything incriminating.

"I hope that will suffice." She's very deliberately ignoring the dragon behind him. This is her moment.

Ilias doesn't love parties, as a rule, but this one — there is a certain terrible energy to it, a desperation to drink in life to bursting before death or grief scrapes it from your bones, that draws him in surer than moth to flame. It's convenient that most of his wardrobe is already shades of grey, but he finds something suitable in black, and a glass of wine he tells himself is sufficient indulgence for one evening, as if the impending battle weren't already enough to make him want to find a hole dark enough to forget his own name.

If he lurks in dark corners at the start of the evening, it isn't to escape so much as regulate the chaos to an acceptable number of doses — better, too, for a holding a proper conversation. But he does not stay there, lingering at times nearer to the wine and food, eyeing (but resisting) a few of the Dark Court's more potent offerings. Restraint is a tight rope he's had as much practice walking as falling off.

As the night wears on, he might be found watching the contest with a tolerant sort of amusement, or wandering too close to the iron maiden with enough apparent good humor or entertaining reticence to make him an obvious target. Save him, or suffer with him.

They haven't yet met, but Max has ears and a sending crystal, and Byerly certainly has had enough to say in the months since his arrival, that when she is ordered over for a kiss, she sort of tunes out his voice by default. But then, naturally, the rest of everything that he is currently wearing and not wearing strike her.

She narrows her eyes at him, assessing. Inventorying. Considering the offer quite seriously, it seems, until a spark of mischief catches her eye. She approaches the throne, dipping to catch the bottoms of her skirts in her hands and hike them up a scandalous number of inches toward her knees. Stockings are on display, here, along with some shapely calves for the stretch of time it takes her to walk up and drape herself, bundled skirts and all, across Byerly's conveniently placed lap.

All the better to reach around him, to beckon the lovelier dragon at his side down for a kiss. A good one. A coin is slipped into the young woman's glove, for her trouble.

Thanks for the chair, though.

Edited 2018-11-04 20:22 (UTC)

Max is all rolling eyes and patient amusement for the gentleman shooing them in — truly, monsieur — but the sharper edges of her humor soften once the door is shuts, and she finds herself snugly enclosed with a young woman who she has never met before, but who seems a bit— warm. White-eyed in the light that cuts through the slats on the box. Max can read body language well enough in the dark.

"You have nothing to fear from me," she assures her, though fear is not precisely what she suspects is the issue; telling someone not to be nervous seems the swiftest way to ensure they are. "It a handful of minutes only, in a place where no one can see what you choose to do, or not to do."

Also: hello.

"I am not afraid."

It's said sharply, her eyes glancing to look at Max properly. She is a handsome woman, Sidony thinks, and if there's a flush of colour on her cheeks she can blame it on the intimacy rather than the fact that there is a beautiful creature trapped with her in a very enclosed space. Her fingers curl and uncurl at her side and she tilts her head, eyes drinking the other woman in.

She is beautiful, and there is a long moment where Sidony feels as though her voice has been completely stolen from her. She has never been this close to another woman before, at least not one that was not related to her or a handmaiden of some kind.

"What would you choose to do, my lady?"

She's not entirely certain she should be here, which is entirely a sign that she must be. The good and virtuous maidens of Antiva is an almost laughable sort of reputation for anyone who really knows the Antivan nobility. And yet, it is a dance they so often hold to. The appearance of virtue has, she thinks, been used as a weapon by Antivan noblewomen to make them all the more dangerous when the opportunity strikes.

Of course, Marisol would know nothing of that. Her dress, black lace and silk, leaves more to the imagination than many others present might - black corsetry, lace and silk are still in keeping with the theme, though, and still sufficiently— playful, shall we say.

She observes the iron maiden, sipping wine, watching those drawn in, their reactions as they travel hence and their manner when they emerge. Learning, absorbing, always. It is easy to watch at parties - so much can be taken as curiosity and fascination, and there's a point where people become so inebriated that they stop being careful. Those who watch her carefully might notice that she proceeds through her wine slowly, seems to lose a glass that is half full before taking a fresh offering.

The contest of champions certainly gives her a chance to appear more whimsical and relaxed than she is allowing herself to be at this window of opportunity to learn, and she bows very deeply, accepting her blade with a true sense of Drama, and flourishing it absurdly. "I have come to destroy your happiness," she declares, her own accent an exaggerated mockery of itself, before she winks at her opponent.

And she might lurk around those partaking of hallucinogens, is smoking a cigarillo and lounging, but has not taken anything herself, no matter how relaxed she appears. (Which is very.)

( Or just wildcard me, dudes. )

At some point during the height of the evening's festivities, an invasion occurs.

It's preceded by a great whooping and hollering, a clanging and stamping of feet that erupts into the courtyard in the form of a dozen men all in various states of debauched dress. They're streaked in tar, decked in ratty cabling and line, festooned with ribbons of tattered sail cloth and wearing masks cut from canvas or simple cloth bound about the face, chalk teeth drawn in ragged lines against dark fabric, and driven along by some shirtless motherfucker. Small though the host is, they make enough noise for twice their number - howling and banging together blocks, playing some shrieking fiddle and barking at any well-dressed attendee that doesn't move quickly enough. They carve a wild, raucous path through the crowd, the raiding party spearhead by a dockcart painted to resemble a ship with 'WALRUS' written in tilting letters on the side which start massive and rapidly become smaller and more cramped as the artist realized they were running out of space on the cart's side.

Two hardly anonymous men are riding on the handcart as it's driven in wild, zagging lines through the courtyard and finally comes to a crashing halt with a shouted order. "You have your orders!" Their Captain bellows from behind his death's head mask. At once, the ragged assembly of whooping sailors split in every direction to steal bottles of wine from tables, casks from the collection set on the courtyard's stairs, and even full glasses from out of unsuspecting victims' hands.

Not to worry; they're just here for your booze. They'll be busy zealously liberating a few casks, loading them onto the cart, and then making their way nosily from the courtyard back to their own fesitivies. But first--

Dressed all in black, small skeletons embroidered about the neck of his shirt collar, and wearing a mask fashioned after a skull with the skin about his eyes behind it kohled black to emphasize the sockets, the bellxowing pirate captain at the head of the raiding party somehow bears only a passing resemblance to the man named Flint who so frequently cuts his way about the Gallows and Kirkwall docks. The dark coat is the same, the build is exact, but there is an elaborate zeal to all of this that is as much a costume as the mask is as he leads men through their play(-ish) ransacking.

Empty sword scabbard banging against his hip, Flint can be found overseeing the raucous liberation of a number of liquor casks from the party's stock; or fetching full cups out of the hands of laughing party goers and passing them off to the whooping vanguard with every ounce of faux severity that can be mustered; or, finally, standing on a bench and loudly corralling the invaders with barking orders; or--

((whatever man, wildcard me))

Edited 2018-11-05 06:59 (UTC)

Proud, then. Which is by no means a turn-off. Max watches the other woman study her, benevolently inscrutable but not blind. She is young, new to this perhaps, but seems headstrong enough to know her own mind, were the option presented. A good spine. A dress whose panels Max rather appreciates. A certain vulnerability Max would see handled with the appropriate care.

"Hm," she considers, idle, teasing. She reaches a hand to catch one of Sidony's, a thumb finding the pulse point in the palm, and draw it closer to her. "In the spirit of the season, I believe I would make an offer," which takes the form of a calculated lean, a tilt of the head to match. It puts their faces quite near. "And see if you might accept."

Pride is certainly a failing of hers, Sidony might be willing to admit that to a handful of people. She can feel the urge to stare at Max a little longer take over her, attraction making her eyes dance over her, drinking her in. Oh, she is pretty, Sidony thinks, very pretty indeed, and she has no understanding of why she is so desperately interested in her - at least, not an understanding she is willing to entertain in the moment.

Those are concerns for another time, her throat a little dry as the handsome woman begins to speak. Their hands are caught together, and she almost gasps, but manages to smother it. Goodness.

"I might be willing," she admits, tilting her head to match her partner's. She is feeling a sense of longing, she thinks, and suddenly all those silly, foolish love novels make sense. There is certainly a moment where attraction strikes and now she recognises what those foolish, air-headed women had been thinking. "Your offer is not... Unwelcome."

Edited 2018-11-04 22:17 (UTC)

Rey is wearing black, for a change. Not pure black, but the dress she wears is something she'd been planning for some time, now. Knowing that Ben would wear black, she chose to wear something complimentary to him, and his nature, as well as her own. Her mask is in a similar vein as her gown, though it's more white than black. When she'd put the outfit together she'd had plans to ask him to braid her hair, but since they hadn't been on speaking terms, it's simply tied up and back.

Finding his present had made her heart ache, as did seeing him in the hall she'd worked so hard to make look good for the celebration. When he spoke her name she just wanted to go to him, wrap herself up in him and forget that they'd ever been angry at each other. Instead she exhales, grateful for the mask at least partially obscuring her features. She steps towards him, chewing on the inside of her lip.

"I got your present."

I. ( CROWDS )

[ If she didn't know better, she thought she might have awoken on Holi, but the night lights up like Diwali itself, and despite her current state, her current misgivings, that despite her intent to remain removed from it all -

- It's hard not to want to enjoy herself as she winds her way through the crowds milling about. Piling in and around without much care except for their revelry. Jostling, pushing and shoving. That eventually she gives up on much in the way of politeness when she spies there are drinks to be had, especially if she is with someone she might know. ]

Come on, seems we must go into the breach.

[ She hooks her arm through her fellows and with an almighty shove begins to barge them a path through the party goers. It was quite the crush, it seemed. Hard to see why not. ]

II. ( DANCING )

[ But here - now - there is a freedom to it - that allows some break like lancing a wound. A knife pulled from, from where it had struck and stuck. The infamous glory of being one more face in the crowd, of being no more than dark eyes behind a simple black mask. Still her, still obviously her, the choli top and lengha skirts hid nothing, after all. Even the veils were pinned to the top of her head, were sheer and light. Hung loosely not in gold but as many flowers as she could place in her hair, hang around her neck.

Least of all when she's caught, laughing behind her mask, and tugged into the thrall of dancers by her wrist. She pushes back not to leave but to get her space. But it isn't a refusal as she takes the space she wants. She cannot dance like that but what she does instead - it's intricate, each step hops, her heels strike the ground to the rhythm of drums, the call of the music, her hands move in intricate patterns where each one seems to pause on particular meaning that is utterly lost here and now. They spread and curl around like open flowers, interconnect around her body to exaggerate each sway of her dance. Dropping one hip by the jerk of her knee, rocking into the motion that bares all her skin, all her body, curving around itself. Snaking her body up and around in a long extension.

Rani, this is not for others to see - damn them. It hardly mattered anymore, did it? If she wanted too, she could. Rao would forgive her. No other opportunities were going to present themselves with battle looming to do what she liked and simply enjoy herself.

Eventually, she fishes up points of her skirts. Her finger lifts, to pick someone - anyone, out of the ring of people about that have mercifully cleared the space she asks for, and she does not even look to see if it is someone she knows or not, particularly. She just beckons with the expectation of being followed ( as always ). The Rai girls danced like this, coming back in from the desert. She'd watch them, clap along to it, but stay reserved behind the trappings of position.

How they would beckon, curve, wish so kindly with the gesture with the sulks and rises of their bodies. A fond memory, half thought through as she holds up the material in her hands, eying up her new found companion. Gauging the distance she'd need around them. Stepping close, enough, almost enough to touch and then darting back the other way with the material waving back and forth like a great fan between her hands. Once, twice, teasing, laughing, listening to the whistles and - just stand still, it's all she really needs, right then.

Then she begins to turn. Holding the material out to keep out of her way as she moves. Each strike of her foot is practised. A sword man's sure footing. A young girl's lessons kept amongst women. Turning around and around on herself so she does not slip. Until it gets enough speed that she does not need to hold the material up at all as it goes flat out with momentum, her hands shifting high above her head. The movements keep up of before, each hand gesture reaching beginning middle and end with the turn, until eventually, she shifts from her spot.

And oh - do not move, friend, don't move a step out of place. Gauged the placement very carefully. She could never have been this good before the blackwater, half hungry to those dancers she had watched. But she is it now with an erring grace, she doesn't miss a step as around the person she has placed firmly in the middle of the circle she spins, she orbits like earth around sun. Moving as fast as the crowd calls her to, clapping to keep her going, to not let her fall over like all spinning tops eventually must. But just to keep her going faster and faster and faster with a whip-like speed. This was not, Diwali, not, it was its own kind of revelry, but it tasted so achingly like home that it goes easy.

The dance will end of course - as she gets closer - depending on how that person catches her. So all that really remains to be seen is, are they falling over together in a pile or not? ]

III. ( DRINKING )

[ Well and truly after she's exhausted herself dancing, she takes in the rest with an easy abandoned. Until she's falling back into the comfort of strong drinks that, any other time, she'd keep herself from.

Because there is a rather terribly unfortunate truth: Rani Lakshmi Bai is an utter lightweight.

And worse, she's an obnoxiously happy one.

It's not two drinks in that she's already laughing too much at the conversation she is in with the perfect strangers she met by the table she has sat at. It's nothing untoward, of course, she is respectful, hands to herself, but there is a direct openness with it that if it were not here this mess, she would not be partaking of. It will take her a second to sober if she must. But the signs are all there: a flush in her face, the open gesture of her hands, the way she leans in, keen, listening over the loudness of the gathering. that if she sees you, knows you, even in passing - she beckons with a curl of her fingers. Come, sit, drink, stay awhile.

What you do with that information, is of course, up to you. ]

( She shouldn’t be watching her dancing, but she is. Even with the mask, she recognised her, the way she moves, and she is half glad that Marcoulf isn’t here to silently judge her into going elsewhere, and half distressed. The dance goes on and on,
Around a masked man that she doesn’t care to try and recognise, and as is escalated and builds and Rani almost falls—

Magni steps forward, catches her.

Totally a fine decision. )

[ She bursts into sharp laughter - maddeningly dizzy enough that she must shut her eyes against it if she has a single hope of not stumbling away to fall over.

So instead, there is just one hand reaches up to pat at the shoulder of the arm that as caught her, balanced over it to keep herself steady and even footed. ]

Just - just a moment, a little too quick, I think - [ She laughs, breathless, oblivious to whoever it is that has been kind enough to stop her ending up prone on the floor. ]

( Magni has some regrets.

One of her hands is bracing Rani’s elbow and forearm, the other briefly set at her side before Magni withdraws - haste and respect and as though the touch burned, for a moment.

She clears her throat. ) Be careful.

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