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

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?"

"Sorry," he apologizes quickly, shaking his head. "I keep forgetting how different things are in this place."

As far as he's concerned, it's on him for not being clearer in the first place; he's the interloper to this world. It's been a long time since he was a child in school, learning about the system for the first time, but a part of him falls back on what he remembers of it.

"Can I borrow that?" he asks, gesturing towards Mhavos's plate of food. "I don't need much, I promise."

He means, he's not going to be putting his grubby hands all over all the snacks Mhavos'd grabbed to eat.

"Be my guest," Mhavos says, handing the plate up. "Just know you're expected to eat whatever you touch; Satinalia tradition."

It isn't, and he's lying straight-faced, intending to tell the poor fellow eventually, but not yet. He never gets to prank anyone; this is strangely nice.

"I'll be careful, then," he says, taking the plate and trusting Mhavos like a chump.

True to his word, he's careful; he takes a square of cheese and sets it a little away from the rest of the food.

"This is the sun. And this," he picks up a small grape, mimics an orbit around the cheese, "is the Earth. Mine, or yours. Are you with me so far?"

It's not quite the diorama he'd made for class, but hopefully it's going to be comprehensible.

Whatever astronomy is happening in Thedas, Mhavos only knows the history. He envisions two islands swirling in a whirlpool. That makes about as much sense as anything.

"I think so."

He picks up another grape, setting it a little beyond the first.

"This is another planet."

This time, he has both circle the piece of cheese.

"I've... heard of those," Mhavos says, studying the grapes as they circle the cheese. "Stars that shine more brightly in the night. From the Nevarran for wanderer."

He looks up. Was that right?

He can't speak to Nevarran words of course, but he smiles in answer.

"Exactly." Point made, he puts down those grapes. "I was born on Earth, but humanity's moved out into space. Our moon, other planets, and," he pushes some bread crumbs closer to the grapes, "rocks smaller than planets. There are even some permanent settlements in..."

How to conceptualize a space station?

"...something like manmade islands. Big structures out in space."

It crosses his mind that Naomi would be much better at explaining this.

Mhavos nods, slowly. Perhaps the ocean's waters, when one goes truly far from Thedas' shores, begin to swirl in such a fashion, enough so that islands and rocks large enough to inhabit move with their current.

"You must be quite the sailor."

There's an amused little breath he exhales, at that.

"It only sounds that way because you haven't met anyone else from my system."

And he pops one of those grapes in his mouth since apparently it's tradition????

Mhavos shrugs. "In the land of Tranquils, the unharrowed mage is king."
He eats another grape himself, staring off into the wine-dark sky.

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. He doesn't like the saying now much more than he did then, though the circumstances are better.

"Can I ask you how long you've been with Riftwatch?"

"A year, or five months," Mhavos says with a shrug. "I had to leave on assignment for a significant period of time. I was still working for the organization, but significantly far from it."

At least I now have my back-pay, but he doesn't say it. Mhavos knows better than to joke about money with a human.

He'll eat that last one cheese and grape if Mhavos doesn't stop him, but just those; snacking to be POLITE, not steal his food.

"That happen often? Long-term assignments like that?"

Mhavos doesn't say anything, wondering how long the prank will last. He's not truly a dedicated prankster-- he never would have thought of something like the itch powdered masks-- but little things like this, tiny lies, he finds highly enjoyable and amusing. Then again, he could just be easily amused.

"Serah, I am a clerk," he says, "though I've also served briefly as an archivist, and hope to do so again. Suffice it to say my services are more likely to be loaned out as a commodity. I do not mind it."

"I'm just trying to understand more about Riftwatch," he admits, "and what it's like to work with them." Maybe he catches the them, because he adds, "What we're all doing here."

What, really, outside of what feels like a lot of generalities and reassurances.

Mhavos waves his hand. "Please, ask away. I think they're a worthy institution, though I admit I am biased."

"Biased how?"

A careless shrug. "I was an indentured servant in Orlais. My former master gambled away my contract, and luck would have it, a member of Riftwatch won it, and immediately tore it to pieces."

There are some facial gymnastics here, where his eyebrows go up at indentured servant, and he cycles through some emotions including disgust, a spark of anger, and finally tamps that down, maybe. More successfully, anyway, than he would've been able to a handful of years ago.

"That's," admitted, "a good reason to be biased."

Mhavos notices each rearrangement of features, and quietly appreciates how they settle on calm. He grows exceedingly tired of human's penchant for performative anger.

"What bias were you expecting?"

Any answer he could give after that would sound stupid, really; so he leans into it.

"You really like the food in the canteen?"

MOD EVENT ↠ SATINALIA

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