faderift | MOD EVENT ↠ SATINALIA

MOD EVENT ↠ SATINALIA

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

In the courtyard, there are parapets, and several people have climbed upon them to watch the stars. Those people are not Mhavos, who has found a place to ensconce himself so he won't be trampled or bothered, set up a candle, and settled in to read. He has plans for later, of course, but that's later.

He sees a human mulling about roughly two feet below him, and the urge takes him-- it is the season for pranks. Mhavos doesn't truly have the right spirit for pranking, of course, there's no malicious intent in it. He just takes a bit of cheese from the food he's holed himself away with, rolls it in a ball, and aims it at the stranger's head.

The cheeseball lands, obviously, bouncing off the back of his head harmlessly and rolling away in the grass.

The human in question starts, raising a hand to the back of his head, and looks around and up to find his 'attacker.'

"Someone up there?"

He sounds good-natured, not upset, mostly expecting to find someone pretty drunk.

Mhavos' alcove is shaded enough that he's largely hidden from poor human eyesight, but torchlight bounces brightness back at him, enough for his eyes to reflect in the darkness, not unlike a cat's, if cats had round hominid pupils. Mhavos remembers as he always does that humans' ability to see in the dark is limited severely, and so he tilts his head a bit, trying to reveal it into the circle of torchlight. He's aware the traditionally elven features of his face-- the sharp cheekbones and chin, the large eyes-- make him look ghoulish in the halflight, but if there's a time for that, isn't this the season?

He doesn't, strictly, want to frighten the man. This parlor trickery will likely only be of brief discomfort, until he realizes he's dealing with an elf. Even the fabulously rich, as Riftwatch keeps attracting, are familiar enough with their elven servants to know what an elf in halflight looks like.

"Hail, Satinalia," Mhavos says in a voice lightly accented with Orlesian. "My apologies, serah; I could not resist."

Edited (lol.) 2020-10-25 23:38 (UTC)

Well, he's seen plenty of Belters in low-light conditions, and it's hard not to make the comparison every time he sees an elf, despite the differences. For instance: he's never seen a Belter's eyes shine quite like that; both night vision (not that he connects those dots just yet) and glint-y eyes being on the list of powers radiation did not give him.

He looks down briefly with a short-lived smile, shakes his head and waves a hand (more visible in the darkness, he thinks) dismissively.

"I guess I can't blame you." And then, you know, to be polite: "Happy Satinalia. Enjoying yourself up there?"

Mhavos tilts his reading light enough so that it illuminates more than his page: Holden will be able to see the parapet Mhavos has curled himself into, complete with food, drink, and a hefty book.

"Entirely. It's not a hard climb, if you'd join me."

Sure, he'd like to read, whatever, but he's curious about this man. Particularly, his accent. Tony Stark has that accent. Dwarves have that accent. He's not quite sure why a normal human would, and he wants to see if this man is a normal human.

Truthfully, the entire set-up looks so comfortable that the invitation comes as a surprise, but he nods agreement and only pauses momentarily to assess hand- and footholds before starting to climb. Besides, that was the point of this; if he'd wanted to eschew company, he wouldn't have dropped by the party at all.

There's luckily room enough in the alcove for the both of them, so it isn't too awkward for him to take a seat nearby, even with the foot of height he has on the elf. He's careful not to disturb any of Mhavos's things, content to let his legs dangle.

"You've got a nice view up here."

There's that accent again, distinctly dwarven to Mhavos' ears. He doesn't ask yet, just ruminates, his eyes falling once or twice on the fellow's hand.

"I'm not one much for parties," Mhavos says, voice soft, "but I find it worthwhile to celebrate in my own way. The holiday has an admirable history."

He reaches out to hand Holden a case of mead, honeywine he bought from the Kirkwall alienage (largely to enrich it, he isn't generally big on alcohol) and a small empty tankard.

He wears gloves most days, lately — mostly for his own fucking peace of mind — and today is no exception. There's nothing to see as he reaches out to accept the mead and fill the tankard, but his response is likely to prove answer enough.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar."

It certainly adds to a body of evidence. Mhavos sits up a little bit more, and, after placing a bookmark in, shows his companion the title of his book. A Study of Thedosian Astronomy by Sister Oran Petrarchius.

"Officially, Satinalia is dedicated to Satina, one of the moons." He points to the smaller of the two moons in the sky. "And the constellation Satinalis," he points to the cluster of stars in the sky, and then their illustration in his book.

A bit dryly, "neither traditionally have anything to do with costumes, fetes, or pranks."

He looks from the moons, to the constellation (a meaningless group of stars to him, unfortunately, all alien star positions exactly like Ilus), to the book, briefly studies the illustration before looking back at the sky. It's easier to pick out the constellation this time around, the man(?) with the instrument(?).

He smiles.

"I think that's true of most holidays." Getting some ways away from original intent. "Why celebrate the moon and the constellation?" After a beat, he takes a stab at guessing. "The harvest?"

The old associations behind many Earther holidays and the seasons, the times of year, are millennia old and fading; but since he grew up on a farm reading old literature, more salient to his life than maybe expected.

What the harvest has to do with it, Mhavos isn't sure. Heresy always follows Tevinter, not agricultural programs. Another piece of evidence for this man being a Rifter. Mhavos is beginning to enjoy the unspoken nature of it, ambiguity mounting.

"Zazikel," Mhavos says. "The Tevene god of chaos, or whatever he was. God, dragon, spirit... the Chantry says he's unimportant, and more importantly evil, so the holiday was renamed and dedicated to a moon and a constellation of a man beheading an elf. That was changed as well; now the man holds a lute. And so you are caught up, through nine ages."

His voice is rather dry, but he doesn't sound particularly angry. If anything, he's amused.

Mhavos can observe the face journey Holden goes on over the course of those explanations: briefly baffled at the name Zazikel, a brief eyebrow raise at the Chantry's dismissal, a faint frown at the first reading of the constellation, and by the last reading, his frown's gone lopsided. Nine ages of history, indeed.

"Personally, I think I prefer the costumes, fetes, and pranks."

"A popular opinion," Mhavos says quietly, "Thedas shares it; the theme of chaos remains."

He closes his book once again, looking over at his companion once more. "Thank you for listening to my little lecture. Mhavos Dalat," he says, gesturing to himself, "a pleasure."

"I should be thanking you for the explanation," he counters, then gestures with the cup he's been holding two-handed, and says, "not to mention this. I'm the one interrupting your evening."

Mhavos did start it by throwing something at him, but whatever, it's already forgotten.

"James Holden, and likewise."

"The fact that I have extra tankards suggests I was expecting company at some point."

Never one not to indulge in moments of quiet drama, Mhavos murmurs, "and where are you from, Serah Holden?"

"Fair point."

And he takes a belated drink, though he pauses at the question. Still, they're in the Gallows, and he figures this elf for a member of Riftwatch.

"Please, just Holden." Please. "As far as I can tell, a completely different solar system."

"Solar system." Mhavos chews on that for a moment. "From another sun? What a delicate way of saying one is a Rifter."

Probably the first and last time anyone will suggest he said something delicately.

"As far as I'm concerned, it's the same thing."

Rifts, Ring gates, they're different and alike. (Was that magic? In that moment, what was the difference?)

"I'm from a planet called Earth. We have a different sun, different constellations." He shrugs. "Different problems, but not as different as I'd like."

(People suck everywhere, txt it)

"Earth?" Mhavos says flatly. "Terribly creative. What do you mean, 'not as different as you'd like'? If you can bare my prying."

"Well, I'd never met an elf or a dwarf before coming here," he allows, shrugging, "but humans can be more than good enough at finding things to divide us."

See: the fucking situation on fucking Ilus and every fucking word that came out of fucking Murtry's mouth.

"A rather sheltered life, if that isn't too forward." There are ways for humans to avoid elves and dwarves entirely, but it's rather expensive. "Were they all killed?"

Sorry, he'll worry about your human on human violence later.

Frankly, a better topic of conversation.

He shakes his head. "They never existed. Same goes for mages. It's all the stuff of fairytales."

Mhavos nods, but doesn't say anything to argue. So the elves and dwarves and mages were all rounded up for death long ago enough for it to seem like a myth. There's nothing to be done about that.

"So they fight amongst themselves based on... nationality?" It seems the most logical thing. Nobody likes anyone from Tevinter, or Ferelden, and Orlais is a special case...

He makes a soft, affirming sound, paired with a wry lift of his eyebrows.

"In our case, spread out across the solar system."

Until the Ring gates, the rush to colonize; Ilus was just the first of its kind. But across our system is explanation enough, for these purposes.

Mhavos frowns, considering this explanation, but he can't conceptualize it. A frown; he can't. It doesn't make sense.

Looking up to Holden, his expression is impassive; everyone is always happy to correct an elf. "Could you... clarify that?"

c-ish.

c for....cheese?

a missed pun opportunity, rip.

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