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

Richard Dickerson | OTA

[nonvenomous]

[ Gallows Courtyard ]

Between torches, there are swaths shadowy enough to comfortably host a balding, bearded man in a half-skull mask while he nurses a cup of wine. The mask is simple black burnished with gold that catches torchlight along the carved edges of false bone, without feathers or filigree. His coat is black. His cloak is black.

The open air and night sky make it easier to avoid attention while still feeling a part of the festivities. For now.

He turns to depart while the night is still young, and leaves his wine behind, barely-touched.


[ Hightown ]

The party is packed downstairs.

Raucous conversation roars dull beneath the wind up of a band currently featuring the homeowner on fiddle, hoots and cheers and whistles rising after the odd drunken flourish.

Richard is in a massive office on the second floor -- a slender, bearded gentleman in a fine hooded cloak and a half-skull mask setting a prybar aside to draw a lockbox up out of a freshly-cracked desk drawer with gloved hands. The window is open. Both doors are closed -- one of them to the tune of sensual moaning, and the muffled knock of a bedframe on the adjacent wall.

He ignores it in favor of tilting the box up to examine the lock.


[ Afterparty ]

Across the water, a warehouse belches fire and black smoke into the night sky, choking starlight and licking brilliant orange across the wave peaks. Brushes of heat carry with the stench of it on the wind. It’s the kind of fire that smells dangerous at a distance.

But Richard’s view is safe enough from Lowtown, where he’s seated criss-cross on the corner of a rooftop at the water’s edge with his satchel full of ill-gotten goods and a bottle of stolen wine.

He’s had time to trade his disguise for a cap with earflaps.

The mask still rests at his knee while he twists dagger to cork, empty eye sockets gawking at the volcanic haze hanging overhead.

Gallows

[thereneverwas]

Though wearing a mask himself, Barrow's prominent-nosed face is difficult to disguise, and his frame even moreso. His costume is low-effort, slightly nicer clothes than he usually wears.

He comes to rest near Dick after a dance, removing the mask to wipe his brow on his sleeve, and smiles over at him in a tipsy haze, likely not recognizing who he's looking at.

[nonvenomous]

As Barrow draws near, the skull turns silently to keep him in direct view, with pale eyes polished sharp in the shadows of his bony brow. The overall effect is not entirely unlike optical illusions designed to give the viewer the impression that they’re being watched by a statue.

It’s broken when he lifts his cup.

“Comment ça va?” he asks, in simple Orlesian. How are you?

[thereneverwas]

"Oh. Uhh," Barrow gives a self-effacing laugh, lifting his cup in return. "Bon? Sorry mate, my Orlesian's not worth much."

[nonvenomous]

“Mm,” says Richard, sympathetically: “quel dommage.”

The subtle shade in a furrow at his brow is lost behind the mask’s cover -- he steps and reaches with confidence to lend Barrow a sound pat at the back of his shoulder. Reassuring, bracing, helpful, as he looks to the bonfire, and then down to Barrow’s belt, checking for keys, pouch, flask, and knife, in that order.

He asks something else as he gestures with his cup, something something homme géant, in inquiry that seems to indicate a nearby table where more wine is available.

His grammar is imprecise.

[thereneverwas]

Barrow's belt is under the vest he's wearing, which does a decent job of concealing all the things Richard seeks-- he plans to go into Lowtown, after all, and wasn't born yesterday-- but being currently in the Gallows and already somewhat buzzed, his guard is arguably somewhat lowered.

"Have you run out?" he asks amiably, gesturing to Richard's cup, but catches a glimpse of its contents. "Ah, no, looks like you're all right." He's not going to assume anything otherwise-- Orlesians get huffy about things like that.

[nonvenomous]

With nothing to steal, and nothing -- so far as Richard is concerned -- to discuss, there’s nothing to be done but tap Barrow on the chest to suggest that he’s the one who looks like he could use another drink, while he goes on about le chat est sur la chaise and le singe est sur la branche.

He drinks to give himself a break from it, and waits to see.

Hightown

[okayimin]

Sawbones had had similar ideas, although wildly different motivations and end goals. To wit: Richard may notice the door to the room quietly sliding open and a tiny nun in fancy formal robes carrying a likewise fancy plant in a fancy pot slipping through.

Dwarven eyes are significantly more equipped for the dark than human, so hopefully Richard has found a good place to hide.

[nonvenomous]

Under the desk.

Richard has folded himself up under the desk like a cuttlefish inking away from a passing shadow, all arms and pale eyes and the metal lockbox crowded in heavy under his cloak. He's left the prybar topside; the broken drawer stands open. His breathing is slow and quiet, paced and measured to listen to the soft patter of little dwarven feet traversing the office, but there is something distinct about a quiet room with someone else in it somewhere.

Something a little too still.

‘Quiet,’ is, of course, a stretch in this particular instance: the rhythmic thump of wood on wood continues unabated.

[okayimin]

There is most definitely an uncomfortable stillness in the room that sets her on edge. The fact that the window seems have been left wide open and the drawer hangs out doesn't help. But... it may help her purpose.

"I don't see nothin', I don't say nothin'," she whispers to the room, the old Duster mantra pitched just low enough for any particular company to hear, but not so much it might draw the attention of the bed thumpers. And then she begins her work, retrieving a tiny spade and a small, wrapped bundle from the depths of her pockets. She does not put her back to the open window or the desk, but she is focused on her work.

[nonvenomous]

A hiss of cloth on cloth, a heavy shift: a hooded shape leans out around the side of the desk to peer after the source of that whisper. The open sinus cavity of the mask does nothing to disguise Richard Dickerson’s distinctive beak; his eyes glitter pale behind empty sockets, pupils blown out wide in the dark.

"Sara?" he hisses back.

Is that a plant?

[okayimin]

Sawbones dances back away from the desk as a person appears, her own sight giving her an advantage over a possible human threat. Except it's-

"Richard?" she whispers, managing to keep her voice low, "What are you doing here?"

[nonvenomous]

“Burgling,” is the answer, like it should be obvious. A crook at the corner of his mouth betrays this as Oghma's honest truth -- although mostly shielded behind the desk, he still has the lockbox gripped in close against his side. “What are you doing?”

The moaning nextdoor undergoes an increase in volume and intensity, two voices rising up into one, very sexy.

He reaches around to shuck his thieves tools up from the back of his belt.

afterparty

[highborn]

That's quite the blaze, isn't it? It could probably use all hands on deck. But Vanadi is really rather drunk, and there are so very many people already helping out. So when he'd set out at a drunken amble it was pointed in the wrong direction, and soon enough he's enjoying the sights of Lowtown. In particular, a man on a roof. That's usually worth at least a second glance, and it's the second glance that rewards him with recognition.

Vanadi pauses, eyes gleaming in that elven way in the darkness, a smile already slipping into place.

"Would you share drink with a poor elf down on his luck, sir?" he calls up from his post of about 20 feet away, just loud enough for his voice to carry. It's a bit of a joke, you see. His costume tonight is the most opulent suit he could spirit out of the closets of the richest man his size that he could find. It's not much of a departure from the clothing he's used to in his world, but it certainly stands out on an elf in this one.

[nonvenomous]

This is too raucous a night for Richard to jump at being called to. With both hands occupied, he swivels his attention to the sound of Vanadi’s voice and fixes it there. In this way, he is able to quickly determine that A) he is the intended target, B) this inebriate elf is known to him and C) it is probably ill-advised to agree.

“If you can get up here,” he replies, less concerned with carrying, but easy enough to hear all the same.

Maybe Vanadi will fall down and knock himself out and this evening will end without any complications whatsoever. He resumes twisting the dagger.

[highborn]

That's as much an invitation as Vanadi ever needs. And drunk he may be, but never too drunk to parkour himself up onto a roof. A series of quick hops, pulls, and a final swing sees him successfully scrambled up, fine clothing barely mussed, and he smiles cheerfully at Richard as he sinks to a crouch next to him.

"Is this your first Satinalia, or have you done this before?"

[nonvenomous]

Vanadi does not fall down, he does not knock himself out. After pausing to watch him alight easily on the rooftop beside him, Dick Dickerson bites into the cork to work it out the rest of the way, and spits it neatly away into the alley below.

“I’d just arrived before the last one,” he says, deadpan, dry as he lifts the bottle, and drinks. Cheers. “I stayed in my room.”

A long look sidelong, and he turns back to the fire before tilting out the bottleneck in offer.

[highborn]

"I could never blame you. That's just where I'd be, without a few months' time under my belt."

But as it is, he's relaxed just enough to ... enjoy a party for the first time in years. It's a strange feeling, and he's in a very good mood. He accepts the bottle, but adds before he drinks, "My room, that is. Probably."

[nonvenomous]

Another look. The fire’s glow paints this rooftop and all those around it in muted shades of orange and red, shadows darker for the contrast. His hat is lined with fur, and looks expensive. Vanadi isn’t the only one who’s been helping himself to wealthy wardrobes tonight.

It’s a skeptical look, a little reserved.

He doesn’t say anything.

Afterparty

[muckspout]

Edgard's last meeting with Richard went oddly, but Edgard's had a few by now and figures he'll give it another shot. He's having a good night.

A man that may or may not be recognizable as Edgard sits down next to Richard. He flicks his eyes at the fire, but doesn't take much note of it.

"I took your advice." He says.

Re: Afterparty

[nonvenomous]

Richard pauses to look up from the bottle he has heavy in hand, suspicion fleeting through a sidelong glance. Something about Edgar is familiar, and it’s not unheard of for people who should know Richard not to recognize him.

A quick read of Edgard’s posture, tone and dress, and he huffs air through his nose, not quite a scoff. He adjusts the grip he has on the dagger, but keeps it in the cork for now.

“Most people do.” He turns the cork once, slowly. “Are you here for more?”

Should he start billing?

[muckspout]

He laughs at Richard's reaction. The man offended him the first time he met him, but in the holiday haze, he just seems extremely funny. He shakes his head, hands up, he comes in peace!

"Only if you feel the need. Is that all for you or are you willing to share?"

He nods at the bottle.

[nonvenomous]

Remember that time Tony Stark lectured everyone about organisms too small to see with the naked eye, washing one’s filthy hands, etc etc etc? Richard pulls the cork out with a delayed twist and phlop after watching Edgard laugh, and hands the bottle over to him.

“What brings you to Lowtown?” is a vague enough question, to start with.

This isn’t another robbery, is it?

[muckspout]

Edgard takes a long pull from the bottle. He ticks off on his fingers,

"First to steal some masks, I did that. Second, to find someone, I cannot find them. Third, to celebrate."

He starts to offer the bottle back to Richard, becomes a little self conscious halfway through the action, and sets it down between them.

"What about you?"

[nonvenomous]

Seems to be a common problem tonight.

[ Being unable to find someone, he means.

There is no hesitation or skip in his reach for the bottle when Edgard places it down. He picks it up, and takes a pull long enough that he shows his teeth after it. This serves the dual purpose of getting him drunk faster, and giving him more time to think of a suitably stupid answer. ]

I’m here to investigate a series of high-profile mask thefts reported throughout the evening, [ he says, still holding the bottle. ]