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

jone of denerim | ota.

[poleaxed]

a. GALLOWS.

1. Jone is dressed in her best outfit, recently cleaned, her hair for once tamed and braided, and on her head sits a wicker crown. If anyone asks what she's dressed as, she'll pull the crown down over her eyes and reply in surprisingly passable Orlesian, "Je suis Orlésien, mon ami." Yes, if a lady asks, she'll still say mon ami. Passable is nowhere near fluent.

2. When the dancing begins, she will, though the slower dances clearly bore her, and she'll hang back unless someone asks her.

3. But for the faster numbers, she'll grab anyone who isn't otherwise occupied and, with a wide open face of mostly sober happiness, exclaim, "Oh! This one's grand!" before galloping out to dance, hands clasped around her newest victim as she drags them to the floor.

LOWTOWN.

Eventually, the formal festivities wear on Jone, and she quietly leaves for more raucous celebration. Lowtown provides with a sort of unofficial parade, waves of people and waves of stunts. Jone looks up at the man swallowing fire with wide eyes, cheering him on. The man on stilts is a revelation. She's plainly enjoying herself.

1. She will at one point stop to present a familiar stranger-- anyone from Riftwatch, really-- with a large box. Opening it, several pigeons will fly out. She'll crack up with laughter.

2. Later, she'll be found in one of the less reputable pubs, drinking and laughing. Buy her a round, or invite her to a dance, or just have a chat.

c. IT'S A FIRE SALE.

Jone gets back in time to see the fire, and is just sober enough to put her back into helping. Jone's doing a fair amount of moving and lifting, taking a significant amount of water to the blaze with significant strength. "Oi! Out of the way!"

Help her out, here.

d. WILDCARD.

[lets goooooo]

Lowtown 2

[thereneverwas]

Handing Jone a round without even asking if she wants one, Barrow clinks his mug with hers and begins to down his own. Once he comes up for breath, he raises it and grins.

"Satinalia!" he announces.

[poleaxed]

At some point during this, she's lost her crown and a fair amount of her dignity. Luckily, she had the forethought to wear a shirt under her shirt, because that's open in the breeze, and her clean clothes are a bit dirtier than they were at the Gallows.

Who fucking knows how that happened, though.

She grins and raises her glass, "Satinalia!" A deep drink, and she'll lean on Barrow's shoulder like they're the oldest of friends. "To fools and kings, whichever of those we are."

The green glow is faint through her shirtsleeve, but you can catch it if you already know it's there. Jone keeps staring at it, for one thing.

[thereneverwas]

"Mostly the first one," Barrow decides, and follows her gaze. "Wha's matter? Is it hurting?"

[poleaxed]

"Yeah, Cailan were my uncle," she says with a roll of her eyes. "Oh, what's that? You worried? Aw." She pats his head, and eventually pinches his cheek.

[thereneverwas]

"I need you at your best, Jone," Barrow replies, "ow." She's got a strong grip, and he has a lot of cheek.

"We've got the whole night before us, I can't have you losing your hand or your mind."

[poleaxed]

"The fact that you think I've a mind to preserve," she says, going for the 'drunken scholar' approach, "speaks something to yours, I think. We'll call it right chivalrous, tonight."

[thereneverwas]

"To chivalry!" He raises his mug again. Who cares.

[poleaxed]

Jone grimaces as soon as he's said it, but there's a way to recover this (to what little she has left of her pride): "But not chevaliers!"

Gallows 3

[altusimperius]

Still recovering from Jenny Lou, Benedict being yanked back out onto the dance floor yields a bit of a gasp, especially since the woman doing so manages to be taller than him-- and oh, it's her.

He's clearly a little bit afraid, but not so much that he isn't trying to keep up, perhaps in an effort to prove himself; he may not be a fighter, but he can certainly do some things as well as anyone else.

[poleaxed]

You don't get buy, killing for money, without knowing when somebody's scared of you. She sees that in Benedict's eyes, and it hurts, but fuck if she'll show it.

"S'just a dance, lad. You know how, yeah?"

[altusimperius]

"I know how," he confirms, his confidence bolstered slightly by not being either manhandled or thrown off the dance floor.
He's quite good at it, actually, in the one bit of athleticism he's able to demonstrate-- he was clearly taught by someone, and knows how to lead, and to make the lady (taller than him though she may be) feel as beautiful and important as she pleases.

[poleaxed]

Jone never really feels beautiful, and it's strange to feel important, but she gets what he's going for. He clearly knows his shit. Jone is someone who appreciates skill above all, and as she keeps pace with him along the dancefloor, she can't not notice it.

"You're dead coordinated, lad."

[altusimperius]

At that, he smiles, his confidence rather in contrast to what most are used to seeing in him from day to day.
He could be smug about it, make some comment about how she should've known, but instead it's simply a "thank you," that leaves him.

[poleaxed]

"And humble, too," she says, a bit droll. "You know, you could use this."

[altusimperius]

"What, dancing?" he asks, extending his arm to give her a turn.

[poleaxed]

She bends a bit to make the turn, but this isn't, in fact, the first time she's danced with a man shorter than her and let him bloody lead. "You're nimble. You've finesse. Makes a good dancer, and a better fighter."

LOCKED TO LUCIEN.

[poleaxed]

It occurs to her later, like smack in the face, that she regrets it.

Not what she's done, never what she's done, but what she didn't do. Some stupid, sniveling part of her wanted to dance with Lucien. That part is easily quashed, destroyed and sublimated. It becomes less a desire and more a lump in her throat, when she sees Lucien in the courtyard.

She was getting a breath of fresh air. Now she'd rather die than go back in. The terror of going soft prevails-- if something is going to hurt, you may as well run face first into it. She walks toward Lucien.

"Happy Satinalia," she says, grinning with teeth.

[coeurdulyon]

He would love to be able to ignore her. Ignore what he saw, at the very least, because he knows her, knows how she can’t help but see a crack in the foundation and worry at it until she brings the whole house down.

But this is different. This isn’t like her teasing him over acting like an old man despite his age, or teasing him for being jealous. Has she been so hell-bent on making her hate him before?

So what she gets in return for her forced smile is a rigid bow and a passionless “Joyeux Satinalia, chérie.”

I RETURN.

[poleaxed]

The nice thing about Lucien is she can be herself around him. The less nice thing is, well, she's horrible. She knows it, and wishes he'd get with the picture, so she can get on with her miserable life.

"Luc," she says, "you dodge it more, you're gonna strain something."

[coeurdulyon]

He crosses his arms to keep from gesturing overmuch.

"Dodge what, Jone?"

[poleaxed]

"Me," she answers. "The real me. Not who you remember."

She crosses her arms, but it's a gesture of confidence. Spreads her feet out to even her stance. Unconsciously, she prepares to fight.

[coeurdulyon]

"They are different?"

Perhaps they are. Has he not changed, after being stripped of everything and bound in chains?

[poleaxed]

The fight goes out of her. She exhales, uncrosses her arms, and goes to lean on the nearest bit of wall. It's not high enough to block her view of the rotting sea.

"Yeah," she says, "that's how memories work."

[coeurdulyon]

Lucien frowns, as if seriously considering this breaking discovery.

"I see. So you are not intentionally trying to elicit a response from me by kissing other men when you know I will happen to witness it?" Having his arms crossed hasn't much curbed his tendency to gesture, but merely restricted it to one handed gestures. Scratching his chin, indicating her with an opening hand when presenting the idea.

"Or perhaps when you said you needed time, what you meant was...what? That you needed time to determine how best to wound me? I'm disappointed, chérie, you used to be much quicker at that. But, as you say, memories can be fickle things."