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

"Terribly," is her instant reply, smile widening as her attention swings to meet him. That grin is echoed in the bright cast of her pale eyes behind the gray mask and the enthusiasm with which she pats the space alongside her in invitation.

"It's a marked improvement over last year's." Her candlestick for knighting is set aside. "And yourself, Mr. Holden - how is your evening progressing? I see you've found yourself a thimble full of festive spirit."

Wysteria wiggles her finger toward his unadnored mask.

His smile grows in response to her energy, and he takes the offered seat.

"Are you saying there's a" mock "war every year?"

Well, if so, it'd certainly keep things interesting. He lifts his mask maybe halfway to his face, then drops it into his lap.

"A little's better than none, right?" Self-deprecatingly. But, more seriously: "It's nice to enjoy a little festivity. I hadn't realized you were all preparing for a holiday."

"I think you'll find that Satinalia is the best of Thedas' holidays. That has been my impression during my time here in any case," she says, turning slightly further in his direction so she might hook her elbow at the table's edge behind them. "I arrived here around a similar time of year as yourself, and it was the first moment where it felt very natural to be in the company here. I believe the masks have something to do with it. Everyone is very free with conversation, and far less short than they can sometimes be otherwise."

The liquor might have something to do with it as well, but who's counting.

"I advise you take advantage of it while you can. Make a friend or two this evening and then call on them again in the morning to solidify it without the pretense of a party."

(She should clarify - 'No, not a play war every year. Last we literally fought hoards of darkspawn and reanimated corpses in Nevarra City for Satinalia.' But that is clearly the least important part of this conversation.)

"The party probably doesn't hurt," he says, which as close as he'll get to pointing out that, yeah, the alcohol probably has something to do with all the high spirits.

"Is that what you did your first Satinalia?"

It's not bad advice, but also much more socially conscious than he tends to be.

"More or less, yes."

Is easy to say, she understands. And one should not over themselves, even to a practical stranger who knows no better. So kindly, so as to seem very reasonablw and thoughtful, she adds:

"Though I confess that such things - talking at parties and so on - come fairly naturally to me, and so I hesitate to call it intentional. It was of course only afterward that I recognized the advantages of the thing."

"You've never seen how awkward I can be at a party, or you'd know better than to suggest I'd make friends at one," he laughs, leaning back against the seat.

When was the last time he's even been to one? Maybe when he was still with the Navy, Christ. A couple of lifetimes ago.

"I hope you don't mind if I have to ask you about your costume."

He can pick up who she's going for, a little, with context clues. But, you know, new here etc.

From the flash of her smile as she turns to regard the mock battle occurring before them, no—she doesn't mind. There is in fact something perfectly pleasing about playing this role. Not the costumed one or even the silly elected one; the one where, in a conversation of two, she is not just the one who knows things but is being asked honestly for them.

How charming.

"I'm dressed as Empress Celene. She is the ruler in Orlais. They had a civil war some time ago where her claim to the throne was contested, but it's all been put to right since. I have heard that the Duke was beheaded, although it was all done before I ever arrived. Do you see that man there? The dark haired fellow with the full mustache setting down his cello."

She leans over, gesturing toward Bastien in whatever state he might presently be in.

"He is the one to ask if you care to discuss Orlais conversationally. All the others, and I say this despite having a great deal of fondness for the Lady Asgard and a few others, can be dreadfully difficult. And then, if you are a reader of books, there are one or two titles I might recommend as well."

He's heard of Orlais more than once by now, but the name Celene is fairly new; maybe one he's heard in passing, without knowing her for their empress. He nods when she points out Bastien, says,

"I'll keep that in mind. And I'd be happy to hear your recommendations." He is, as a point of fact, a book reader; and the notion of titles reminds him of a conversation in a bookshop not too long after his arrival. "Orlais is...occupied, is that right? Is that Celene, or someone else?"

She laughs. It's a bright, sparkling thing—clear like a bell.

"No, no. The Empress is the rightful ruler of Orlais and has been for many years despite the civil war which took place there. The occupation is an invasion from the Tevinter Imperium, whose capitol is Minrathous which Corypheus calls home in call but name. They do not formallt recognize him as any ruler, you see, but the Venatori are his to command and are a prominent force there, and the Archon—the emperor of the Imperium—is almost assuredly the same."

This having been laughed out in one great breath, she takes a sharp inhale (which prompts a threatening rise of bosoms in her very deliberately cut bodice) before beginning again:

"As for the books, I shall write you a list and send it to your rooms tomorrow afternoon. I owe Monsieur Dalat something similar, and so it is no trouble at all to break out a portion for your benefit."

"Ah."

Corypheus again, the major instigator of this war Riftwatch fights. He can hardly forget about the dire warnings of the psychopath trying to conquer everything and become a god, but that threat has so far been less salient than others.

(Like, right now, keeping his eyes very safely on her face, because that dress is mildly terrifying. Is that how Celene dresses?? Probably not; there's clearly a joke at play here, but.)

"I appreciate that." He decides, then, to just outright ask: "How long have you been here? More than a year."

Not just because of her reference to the last Satinalia, but how much she knows of this place. She's a long way from his fumbling uncertainty.

"Somewhat over two years now. With the exception of the Provost and Madame de Cedoux"—a pause, in which she rapidly scans the room so she might point either of them out, but fails to catch sight of either one of them—"I believe I am the oldest Rifter in the Gallows. Well. Not the oldest. The longest tenured, let us say."

Lest someone assume anything demoralizing about her age.

"All the others who were here when I first arrived have gone away."

It doesn't entirely come as a surprise, but he still breathes out when she answers. Two years is a long damn time, but she says it calmly enough.

"Gone away where? I know it's not as simple as just picking up and going home."

"Ah, is that not the great question."

It is said in that arch, philosophical way that one might use to speak of the afterlife. One, for the record, who is not Wysteria as she has fairly concrete opinions on that subject which warrant no such sense of mystique; but that is the general coloring of the thing all the same.

Her attention returns from the dance floor to him. It is difficult to say exactly what her expression is doing behind her mask, but there is a keen light in her blue eyes that at least indicates the strength of her interest in the subject they have stumbled onto.

"I imagine it depends on your opinion of what exactly we are."

He sparks to her attention; there's a sense that his spine straightens, focus sharpens, in the light of her interest.

"Okay." What exactly we are. "I've heard a couple of theories. Not everyone believes we've actually come from other systems."

"Which is nonsense. We are, as a number of people have worked very hard to determine and so gain the Chantry's approval so as to avoid our execution or imprisonment, clearly from elsewhere and merely were pulled through the Fade rather than being a product of it. Obviously."

From the sweet tone of her voice, she would say the same to anyone who might ask - particularly anyone outside the Gallows -, and she might encourage him to do the same.

But enough of the accepted party line.

"Though I have seen little evidence to disprove the possibility that we are not conjured by the Fade, be it directly - in the sense that our systems are entirely fictionalized -, or indirectly, as imagined versions our real selves conjured. What is the last thing you call doing before arriving here in Thedas?"

He's reminded of his first conversation with John Silver, not long after he was allowed to leave the Gallows. I believe the question of people in your position was discussed at length.

"Obviously."

There's some sarcasm in his voice, but barbless, more like he can't help himself than actual disagreement. Accepted party line, huh.

"Taking a nap," he says blandly, but that is being deliberately difficult, more than he really means to be, so he concedes, "I was aboard my ship. We'd just set course for harbor to resupply."

"Ah ha!" she cries, quite pleased. "And I had just gone to bed in my compartment."

Apparently he'd gotten it right the first time.

"And when Jenny Lou and Madame de Cedoux have spoken of remembering things about themselves which never occurred, it has always been while they were resting. I would risk to guess that indeed all of us - or certainly a great majority - passed through to Thedas while we slept. Which is reasonable, as the Fade is a place where the mind touches when it is dreaming."

His brows draw together, and he leans in slightly as she explains. He'll have to remember to ask Amos about this later, see if that lines up.

"While we slept?" It probably makes as much sense as anything, would explain Naomi's and Alex's absence more cleanly than any alternative he's thought of, but there's still bemusement. "So you think it's possible to go to sleep anywhere and, what, just fall through the Fade to Thedas?"

Well, says the tip of her head and something in the tilt of her mouth or her eyebrows working behind the mask. Not quite.

"That is certainly one possibility. Another might be that we are our dreams somehow made manifest. It would explain how Madame de Cedoux now recalls events which never happened to her as if her life had continued on without her. And it seems to me more likely, given how Rifter's disappear without the dramatics of falling back through rifts, that we are in some respect intangible. Prone to dissipation, in a sense."

There's a moment where he takes that in, straightens and looks at her. He likes this hypothesis even less than the last, as it turns out, and now it's clear why she'd emphasized official opinion before speculating.

"Okay. You're saying that we're — that this is — " he sweeps an arm out towards the room at large " — a shared dream? Our lives are still happening, but we only think we're here."

A part of him knows that this is still a shade off from her theory, but he likes what she's actually saying even less.

Edited 2020-11-08 20:55 (UTC)

"No, not at all. Thedas is quite real, as are we while we are in it."

It would be ridiculous to suggest that she shared anything with Mr. Stark, for example, save perhaps certain inclinations and turns of character. Earth is nothing at all like Kalvad for one, and for two they are so clearly physically present—thinking and feeling and doing in this place.

"I'm suggesting that our true selves dreamed, and that our dreams touched the Fade. The concept of an immaterial realm is evidently quite common across a great many 'systems,' you see, and so perhaps it is like the Crossroads. A place between many places. And perhaps while our minds walked there, we simply strayed too close to a weakness in the Veil here and fell through it. And so you and I are not a shared dream, but rather like dreamed copies of ourselves made real only by passing through the Rift. We are still here. But we didn't arrive as if by walking through a doorway. Rather, we are informed by the passage through to it. Take Mister Loxley, for example. His appearance allegedly changed when he came here. If we were truly ourselves, how could that be?"

Isn't existential dread interesting?

No!!! No it's not.

Wysteria expounds on her theory, and what happens is this: he filters it through the terms of his own world, his own reality, and the things he understands.

She says: A place between many places. He thinks: of the Sol gate, the slow zone, 1,300 portals.

She says: dreamed copies of ourselves made real. He thinks: of the ghost, the recreation of a dead man, living in his head for around a year. You got more synapses than stars in the universe. I push a few trillion of them buttons in exactly the right way and, ta-da. You're talking to Miller.

He says: "Changed how?"

He hasn't met Loxley.

"I cannot recall all the details, I'm afraid." She has been drinking just a little, you see, and it has been some months since she and Mr. Fitz conducted their survey. However—

"But changed as in changed. As in his appearance is different here than it was there."

"How often does that happen?"

Though, honestly, he looks different seems a dissatisfying answer.

"Here we tread toward the limit of my expertise I'm afraid, Mister Holden."

She shrugs gently, a small thing, and tips her attention back to the mock battle before them.

"But what seems apparent is that we must in some respect adhere to the rules of this place as we pass into it. And that when we withdraw from it, we leave only what we have done behind."

MOD EVENT ↠ SATINALIA

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