MOD EVENT ↠ SATINALIA

[faderifting]

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: It's Satinalia and no one dies.*
WHEN: Forward-dated to Firstfall 1
WHERE: The Gallows and Kirkwall
NOTES: *If you kill your character or an NPC please let us know so we can adjust the log description. Fire cw, use other cws for your tags as needed please! And participate in the gift meme if you want to be cool.

Named for Satina, the smaller of Thedas' two moons, Satinalia is a celebration of freedom, marked by wild celebration, pranks, the donning of costumes and masks—not the fine, delicate masks of Orlais, but animals and caricatures and playful horrors—and the exchange of gifts both sincere and satirical.

I. THE GALLOWS

In Riftwatch's fortress home, the dining hall—not the one recently wrecked by an abomination, the other one—and an adjoining garden courtyard have been decorated (by Benedict, thanks Benedict) in green, gold, and black, with enough torchlight to keep the room glowing once the sun goes down and a fire pit in the garden.

Dinner starts early, to leave ample time for festivities afterwards. Also to make sure everyone has time to eat, because there's a lot of food. Under Colin's direction, the banquet table hosts a spread representing many of the home countries of Riftwatch's members: coq au vin and tiny Orlesian cakes; Fereldan fish-and-egg pie with saffron and some potent cheeses on toasted bread; seafood with white wine sauce on noodles and fresh oranges from Antiva; spicy (very spicy) Rivaini curry and spiced rum cakes; a sampling of Nevarran soft cheeses, fruit, and dry-cured, thinly-sliced ham; and slightly spicy shrimp soup and chocolate-filled pastries from Tevinter. The centerpiece is an enormous and completely edible depiction of the Celebrant (aka the constellation Satinalis). It’s made of various breads—the man himself made of a lightly sweet bread rolled with cinnamon and chopped dates, his lyre golden with an egg wash, his clothes of rye, the stone he sits on of buckwheat. The constellation over him is drawn into the dough, the stars represented by clear rock sugar.

Every table is decorated with a ‘bouquet’ of delicate, edible marzipan roses, and in addition to the table wine and mead from Riftwatch's stores, there's a whole case of semi-decent Nevarran wine provided by Derrica and Athessa.

There's also a table set up to the side with plain, basic masks and a collection of paints and feathers to decorate them with, courtesy of Isaac, for anyone who doesn't have a costume or just enjoys arts and crafts. Some of the masks' interiors are subtly coated with invisible ink, slow-acting glue, fine glitter, or itching powder. Hahahahahaha.

Not long after most people have filtered in and found seats, the mostly-annual tradition of choosing the organization's own Satinalia Fool—usually arranged in advance, sorry, but there is a war on—is upheld, with little warning, by an apologetic Bastien. Volunteers (or those volunteered by their tablemates who don't do a good enough job demurring) are subjected to a few rounds of voting by applause. Some people applaud for their favorites, some for their least favorites, some for their crushes and some for comedy, and in the end Byerly Rutyer and Wysteria Poppell emerge as co-victors. That makes them co-rulers for the remainder of the evening. Or possibly the remainder of the week, by Antiva Rules.

Once the wining and dining are in their dying stages, the music starts. It's informal, at first, with Riftwatch's amenable musicians filtering over to their instruments as they finish their food (or bring it along with them), but once there's a critical mass, they coalesce into a tune that can be danced to. The next hour or so passes with a mixture of peasant reels and formal court dances—the latter mostly by request.

Eventually, after a break for a white druffalo gift exchange, the party disassembles into unstructured mingling. For anyone who wants to stick around, there's more alcohol, smoking in the garden, card and conversation games at the cleared tables, and a game of musical chairs with the rules altered so anyone left seatless has to take a drink and keep playing.

II. KIRKWALL

But across the harbor, the city is rowdy and reveling and will be all night, so making a break for the ferry instead won't be considered rude. The excitement in Lowtown spills out of the taverns and into the streets, with masked celebrants on their worst (but mostly harmless) behavior while street performers of all stripes provide entertainment for tips. The alienage has its own party—not because the gates are locked, but because the elves who aren't working generally don't consider throngs of drunk humans to be a good time—with a bonfire and shadowplays, and friendly outsiders might be allowed, especially if accompanied by an elf.

Hightown is quieter, but mainly because there's enough room in the mansions there for various parties—ranging from dignified, religion-tinged feasts that absolutely require an invitation to a word-of-mouth orgy at a particular mansion that only requires looking sexy and disease-free at the door—to be tucked away inside.

III. AFTER PARTY

Late in the evening, there's an outcry at the docks after an over-excited amateur fire-juggler lights fire to a partially-wooden warehouse full of wooden crates. By the time there's an organized effort to put out the blaze, it's roaring, threatening to leap to neighboring structures—including the warehouse and stables Riftwatch maintains on the docks—and visible from the Gallows. Any assistance from Riftwatch members in containing the fire will be noticed and appreciated by the locals, and just in case, it might also be wise for people to move the various horses, harts, nuggalopes, dogs, and any particularly stupid cats further away from the fire until it's under control. Which it will be, eventually, leaving a blackened ruin of the warehouse where it started but only singing one of the walls of Riftwatch's property.

However, for better or worse, someone took pity on the ferryman and sent him home at midnight rather than making him wait around all night, so everyone who'd intended to go back to the Gallows can either draw straws for who has to play ferryman to get people back to the island and then get the boat back to the docks, or else just pile into the stables and warehouse for an impromptu slumber party.

Comments

Sol Noon | ota

[noonrodeon]

a. Gallows
[ Noon is a large, congenial presence that hangs around for a bit. He eats and drinks heartily and is not even a little bit shy about leaning over to tablemates (or tablemates at adjacent tables) and offering a cheerful: ]

A happy Satinalia to you, friends! Can't remember the last time an outfit fed us this good.

b. Kirkwall | Lowtown

[ He goes to Kirkwall, of course. He knows too many there and has missed the holiday more than once. He laughs and drinks and is there to be the big burly son of a bitch when mischief starts to turn into something less harmless, wading into the thick of the crowd to pick up trouble makers or trouble getters and deposit them separate from the crowd.

One particularly raucous man gets tossed onto the low roof of a tavern. ] And that's enough outta you, lad!

c. After Party Slumber Party

[ And so of course he's there for the blaze. Fire fighting isn't an unfamiliar job, but it's always a little more thrilling than one would like to cap off a night with. Not quite as sober as he would like, Noon elects to crash out in the Riftwatch barn.

Someone may walk in the next day to discover a large lump of a man sleeping peacefully on the floor of their mount's stall. ]

d. WILDCARD.
down for prose or action spam, i'll follow ur lead.

a

[cozen]

Me, either, [ Bastien confides, leaning across the table a little in answer, ] and I have been here for two years. So do not let it raise your expectations too high.

[noonrodeon]

[ Noon's laugh is a deep, rolling chuckle. He mirrors Bastien's posture. ]

Ain't that the way of things. Well then, friend, let's eat and make merry tonight and forget we might never see a spread like this again.

[cozen]

I like your attitude.

[ He offers a hand. ]

I am Bastien. And you are the fellow who has been in the library so often lately, ouais?

[noonrodeon]

[ He takes the offered hand and gives it a hearty shake. ]

Aye. Sol Noon. Mean to make an archivist of me'self, but seein' as I don't have much to recommend me to it, I'm at your service and the gentle-elf Dalat's mercy.

c.

[deceivingly]

It is very early, the kind of early you see only when you stay up very very late and do not go to sleep, so that the early should actually probably be called late. Dark sky with a pink kiss. This peaceful man-lump wouldn't know about any of that. He is asleep. The pleasant horse-sounds of a stable and a night of hard partying probably did that.

Yevdokiya an Waslyna O Bearhold is crouched down just out of arm's reach of the peaceful lump of man on the stable floor. She wraps her arms around her knees and she watches, cat-quiet. Her preserved bear headpiece is long gone. Now she is sweaty and sooty and sticky and so, so quiet as she completes her long observation of the man-lump.

She decides to move--almost soundless as she does it, barely a scuff of a boot, a born hunter-turned-petty-thief, her--and leans in to try to size up his belt and purse situation. Has this mark already been hit? Did someone beat her to the prize? Is he worth it?

Carefully, she reaches forward.

[noonrodeon]

The soft creak of wood incongruous to the movement of animals is what wakes him. He dozes idly while the little shadow in the corner watches him, not bothering to try and get a good look at them. They'll leave or they won't. Seems like today is a Won't Day. Well, at least his new little shadow hasn't begun their acquaintance by trying to slit his throat.

"Must be a lotta damn fools sleeping in barns if they wear their coin purse on their belts," he observes idly.

[deceivingly]

Doki freezes in place, tipped forward. Her fingers curl into themselves and make a little fist.

"Lots," she says after a pause, "and lots. And usually they are very very drunk, which helps." She cocks her head, eyes narrowed to glittering little slits. "Where do you wear yours?"

[noonrodeon]

"Well now," Noon says, a slow drawl backed up with a slow stretch. He doesn't reach towards her, spares her only a considering glance. No sense making anybody nervous, since they're having a friendly conversation and all.

He does grin, though. "That would be telling."

[deceivingly]

"And you prefer instead for it to be groped around until found? Serrah, you want your cock touched, you should not have slept in a stable. There were piles of cock-touching in the city. You were missing it all along."

She sits back again but does not wrap her arms around her legs again. All very relaxed. That might change at any moment, depending on what happens next.

"It is okay," she announces. "This was only for fun."

[noonrodeon]

What happens next is Noon laughs, a softer sound then his normal full belly laugh, and sits up. He puts his back against the wall and regards his new acquaintance full on.

"If somebody's gonna put their hands places without asking first, I might as well have fun while they do," he says, "But I'm afraid I don't have the coin to begin with to entertain this mornin'. Sorry, shadow."

[deceivingly]

Doki leaves her heels pressed to the floor but leans back enough that her ass bumps down too. This is so she can look at him better. He is taller now that he is not a floor lump.

A little smile picks up the corners of her mouth. "Spent it all?"

[noonrodeon]

"Aye. Hard not to when spirits're high and the ale's flowin' free." He scratches his beard, considering, "Reckon I got a few coppers still if you're hungry."

She might not be, but the asking doesn't hurt.

[deceivingly]

Doki sticks her hand out quite promptly.

Some people are too proud to beg. Some people also hate free money. And this isn't begging, besides. It is stealing, wearing a costume of begging. If someone is fool enough to have a soft heart and give away some coppers, someone else should be there to take those coppers, and why should that someone not be Doki? Wear a sad face and wait to get paid for it.

"I am always hungry." --Well, and there's that.

[noonrodeon]

And Noon is exactly that soft hearted fool, never long with his coin purse and never much fussed by it since money was mostly just for things he couldn't make or barter anyhow. He digs the small reserve purse out of his boot and tosses it to her.

"Here ya are then, shadow," he says, genially, "Say a prayer for m' soul."

[deceivingly]

Doki catches the purse in mid-air. There's a quiet clink and jingle of coins upon impact with her palm. She isn't so gauche--or, really, so stupid--as to count it here. Instead she tucks it away before any minds can be changed, before any demands can be made.

"To my favorite god," she promises. "And he will give you strength, which you will need tomorrow when you wake up."

[noonrodeon]

He chuckles, a low rumbling sound, "Much obliged."

And he's not so much of a fool that he's inclined to go back to sleep with her right there. He doesn't have much on him, but everyone knows a dead body always has useful things on it. He's not of a mind to become a dead body tonight. So he watches her with a pleasant smile and says, "You watch yourself out there, shadow. Ain't everybody got the spirit of Satinalia in 'em."

[deceivingly]

If she was hoping that he would fall right back asleep, and she is now disappointed, Doki does not let it show on her face. She wraps her arms around her knees again and hugs them to herself, then stands up all at once. It isn't very impressive. She is not very tall.

"I don't know Satinalia, so people without spirits do not bother me. And I am always very careful, until I am not. I will use your words as a blessing. Goodbye. Sleep."

She turns on her heel and starts back out. And sneaks a look over her shoulder, to check if he is watching.

[noonrodeon]

"Goodbye, little shadow." And he lets her go without much fuss. Her kind will find their own way and it's not like Noon can criticize her choice of profession.

He is watching her though when she turns to look. Not intently, but with the general air of a tired old guard dog, idly watching a cat walk through the stable.