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

Byerly Rutyer | OTA

[bouchonne]

i. The Gallows
[ For Satinalia, Byerly is dressed as - well - himself. Sort of. He only decided on his gimmick a few hours before, yet somehow managed to secure a serious suit of the sort a rich man would wear to the opera, a cape, a bunch of medals and a sash going across his chest, and a mask that actually looks kind of like Byerly but with a face carved into a scowl. He spends the evening stalking around self-importantly and berating people for being excessively merry. ]

This is a grave occasion. How dare you give a gift that's so obscene?

[ At one point, he even arrests Wysteria - after her mock-war causes chaos - and has her dragged off to the dungeons. (Apparently. Not really. It's a pre-arranged signal for when she's tired of participating.) Afterwards, he spends a while longer stalking around ominously and berating people... ]

ii. Kirkwall
[ The serious no-fun-haver costume is dropped once the party moves out of the Gallows, though, because By has no desire to play the fool and get kicked in the arse repeatedly over the course of the night by drunken louts who want to lash out at any authority figure, even a fake one.

So, apparently inspired by Alexandrie, he steals away to his room for a while before everyone leaves. He swaggers down a bit later in full drag - wearing a corset with padded hips and breasts, a full skirt, a dark wig of tumbling curls falling past his back, his beautiful eyes emphasized by smoky make-up. (The mustache and beard, however, are still in place, making an odd contrast with his pouty red lips.) He looks quite beautiful.

Lowtown is the place for him. He can likely be found, at various points of the night, sprawled in a stranger's lap, or flirting outrageously over cards, or dancing gracefully, or giggling, the drag bringing out something decidedly coquettish and bubbly out of his usual droll sardonicism. ]

iii. After party
[ Byerly is among those who spend the night in the stable. He can be found bedding down, makeup smeared, hip- and bust-padding used for a pillow, cheerfully drunk and high, in a very good mood, amongst all the others. ]

ii, before he gets on the ferry

[altusimperius]

[As Byerly is making his costumed escape from the Gallows, he's intercepted entirely by accident by a fairly tipsy Benedict, who bumps into him, mutters an apology, and then stops mid-word to stare.

For the record, though no longer wearing a mask himself, Bene's eyes are ringed with ink where it clearly was. If he's aware of this, he's being remarkably confident about it.]

[bouchonne]

[ It's not the first stare By has gotten this evening, but it's probably the most hilarious - those eyes are just too much. Is it intentional? Accidental? Whichever it is, he's certainly not going to say a word. ]

Don't you look handsome.

[ He's not putting on a woman's voice, but his tones are a little softer and more seductive. ]

[altusimperius]

[If he was taken aback before, Benedict is doubly so now, and doesn't manage to turn away in time to conceal the blush that spreads over his (un-inked) face.]

Um. Thanks, [he stammers, already looking disgruntled-- no, no, this is not a good time to be awkward, how does he always manage to do this?]

[bouchonne]

Headed out to town?

[ By puts a hand saucily on a cocked hip, fluttering his long lashes at the boy. ]

It promises to be a delicious night.

[altusimperius]

I... could.

[He glances back at the party in the Gallows, which he hadn't intended to leave-- but with someone else it's allowed, isn't it?

He smiles a little.]

Is that an invitation?

iii.

[indissection]

[ After a great deal of personal frustration - when it comes to sleeping in a stable Sidony is clearly not particularly enthused - she realises she has no desire to trust any of the drunken members of their little watch with ferrying her back, so she is somewhat stuck. Rather than letting herself fall into some kind of maidenly despair about it she decides to do the best she can with the situation, moving forward and wandering here and there to find who she might.

The notion of Byerly soothes her, at least, when she catches sight of him - the mess that he is. He's clearly beyond just a little tipsy - and she knows it has been a little time since she had claimed his company as her own. Business is an excuse, but her own nerves are another; the fear of, even now, putting too much on his shoulders is one she struggles to swallow.

Coming to kneel at his side, she reaches to cover his eyes with her hands. ]

Guess who.

[bouchonne]

[ The voice is certainly unmistakeable. He smiles, warm and fond, as he says: ]

Hm...Is it a wife?

[indissection]

It is certainly someone's wife.

[ It's said fondly, and she laughs as she moves down to hover beside him. ]

How are you feeling, darling?

[bouchonne]

Absolutely marvelous.

[ He tugs at her hands, urging her to lay down beside him. ]

This is the best night of the year. Don't you think? You must love it - I'm sure there's more corpses available the day after Satinalia than the day before it.

[indissection]

I can tell. You're positively glowing.

[ It's very easy to follow the tugging, letting herself settle down beside him. She feels overwhelmingly safe here, wrapped up in his arms, warm and comfortable. She can even tolerate the barn. ]

If only I could get my hand on them all. Alas, I am but one woman.

ii

[cozen]

[ When one graceful dance around the floor has ended and another has yet to begin, Bastien slips between tables and next to him. Next to him, but not too close. It's the friendly distance of a stranger who wants something. Through the mask, his eyes are warmer. But, to be fair, they're also warm when he wants something from an actual stranger. ]

Mademoiselle. There are some very drunk men over there— [ with a head tip in their direction that makes the tatty-chic mane on his mask shift ] —who are willing to wager ten silvers between them that your facial hair is false.

I would not subject you to a demonstration if you are not amenable, but if you would like ten silvers, I only want the satisfaction of being right.

[bouchonne]

We could split them. Use them to gamble. Maybe win something big.

[ By flutters his lashes coquettishly, then presents his chin to Bastien for a full demonstration. ]

[cozen]

That would be very generous of you.

[ He tugs on By's beard with his thumb and forefinger, gentle and businesslike—though behind them, out of their drunk observers' sight, his middle finger gives a more familiar caress beneath his chin.

Then, ] Pay up, mes amis, [ he announces more loudly, turning back toward the table. ] I told you I was an expert.

[ There are protests and whines, and while he hands over his coins, the babyfaced younger of the two loudly slurs now ask her to marry me. And Bastien is quickly back before Byerly, fist full of coins to offer. ]

Willard would like to know if you would marry him.

[bouchonne]

Hm.

[ By opens the fan dangling from his wrist, flutters it lightly before his face. ]

On the one hand, Willard did pay quite promptly. On the other hand, the betting was only in silvers.

[ He looks at Bastien, eyes dancing with delight even as his face remains pensive. ]

What do you think? Will I get a better offer elsewhere?

ii

[coquettish_trees]

[ The evening wears on and the constriction of her binding gets a bit tiresome, and so Alexandrie is looking for that tall bemedal'd scowl of a Lord Ambassador to let him know she is escaping back to Hightown to free herself. He seems, however, to have disappeared; no luck.

Or, at least, no luck until she catches sight of a tall becurve'd simper of a Lady Ambassador making his sweeping way down from the towers and laughs delightedly, plotting a path so that she can intercept him with a grand formal bow. ]

Surely I impose upon you, Lady, but... even from afar, the beauty of your glance across the crowd has pierced me; I must beg of you your name, or else this night I die.

[bouchonne]

[ He has a fan dangling from his wrist, because of course he has a fan dangling from his wrist. He snaps it open, and uses it to hide his face, peering flirtatiously over its edge. ]

I see no blood, good sir. Where have you been struck?

[coquettish_trees]

You look for red; it is my spirit, lady, [ she presses a hand to the center of her chest, voice low and strained, ] which wounded bleeds in words, in looks, in sighs.

[bouchonne]

How warsome I am, all unknowing.

[ The fan flutters just a bit. ]

It would be a kindness, then, to provide you healing. And yet, I find myself...reluctant.

ii

[forwardmomentum]

[ the festivities at the gallows leave miles feeling restless, so he finds himself wandering around lowtown later in the evening. there is something comfortingly familiar about streets full of drunken revelers. that, at least, seems to be a multiuniversal constant.

he's got the tolerance of a a particularly waifish teenager, so he intended not to get too drunk, but that first drink was a little stronger than he'd expected. when he hears a bout of giggling from somewhere behind him, he turns to look automatically and chokes on something part laugh, part surprise.

this is somehow more familiar to him than the cool and collected byerly he's been sniping at all this time. okay, so he's never seen byerly in drag, but this scene, that behavior, reminds him much, much more of barrayaran byerly. it puts him a little more at ease, even if the outrageous drag is a little off-putting.

it's largely this hilariously false sense of comfort and a couple of drinks that compels miles to wander over and offer helpfully: ]

Your wig is slipping.

[bouchonne]

Is it?

[ By doesn't trust dear little Miles not to snipe at him, or give some lordly little comment about By's dissolution. But, well, it's Satinalia. And so, instead of getting snippy, he leans down. ]

Fix it for me, will you?

after party!

[highborn]

[ Vanadi comes wandering in quite late, smelling like three bottles of spilled spirits, but at least dressed well. The costume is 'rich elf' and consists of exquisite finery stolen out of a nobleman's closet, which is really only a costume to anyone from this world. Fortunately, that's just his audience.

He blankly considers his stable-bedding options for a few long seconds, spots what he eventually decides is Byerly (he saw the look earlier, he seems to recall, when the tits were in the right spot), and makes his way over. ]

Care for a nightcap? [ As he sits down next to him. He wiggles a half-empty bottle of something strong and flavorful, which he probably shouldn't finish on his own. ]

[bouchonne]

And they say romance is dead.

[ By reaches out at once for the bottle and takes a swig directly from it - it is, perhaps, a bit troubling that he doesn't even stop to sniff it, and nor does he flinch afterwards, but, y'know, Byerly. ]

Not bad.

[ And then he lounges out even further. ]

Have a good night, mon cher?

[highborn]

[ What a powerful man. Vanadi crosses his legs under him and leans his elbow on a knee, chin in the palm, and sighs. ]

It has been a journey. [ That seems like a good way to put it. ] I've heard there was a dragon last time, though, so this is probably an improvement.

[bouchonne]

What, you don't enjoy a good dragon?