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

Mademoiselle!

[Positively shouted across this bit of corridor or courtyard or hall, the herald to Val de Foncé materializing into sight. He has committed to a dragon theme, in blue and silver, as a patriot. There is a glitter to the scale motif in mask and cloak both. Some artful stitching with silver thread, or some undertone to the fabric and soft leather and whatever other materials would be used to construct such a garment.

Of course Wysteria will know him for himself, mostly because he had found occasion to address her at the very party that she is now escaping from. Mostly to argue or agree with her arguments, when he overheard them, and then seen in glimpses throughout, but now--]

The density of Eades notwithstanding, [now carrying on a conversation they had been had earlier,] and I agree with you, to be sure, that the writing itself must elevate the topic, or what indeed is the point of the writing at all?--where is the art and the, no, I hate to say it, but I must, the poetry of it, the part in the core that sings, and why are you walking away? Where are you going? [--all delivered in nearly the same breath and tone.]

[His shout slows but doesn't fully draw her up. It isn't until I agree with you that Wysteria's trajectory subtly alters, pivoting automatically to meet him. Her skirts however remain gathered, hitched an inch or two from the ground so she might at any moment resume her escape attempt.]

Ah, Monsieur. [She straightens, a little breathless from the amusement of untangling herself from the party.] The dancing looks to be all but finished and I've no patience this evening for cards.

I detest cards.

[As usual, his opinion is all or nothing. The distance is closing between them, but he is doing nothing to keep his voice down.]

There is a charming game that you play with stones and you push them around a board, and I much prefer that game. To bet upon and to play. Cards require little skill beyond lying. A child can lie. The thrill in the risk does have its reward but I prefer to find that elsewhere. This is why I am not staying here to play cards. There is a ferry departing imminently, and more dancing. Not on the ferry. It is not that sort of ferry.

Nonsense. Card playing is also mathematics. It is far more possible that you simply haven't played a game or alongside the right players with which to challenge you properly. [is declared directly back at him in a matching elevated tone.

And then the distance has closed completely and she can hardly legitimize shouting in his face, so is rather more moderate with—]

There is a Kalvadan game of pairs that I think you might enjoy. Are you off to Hightown or Low?

One must always begin in Hightown, and then move Low. Then the appreciation has time to form.

[Obviously, is his tone.]

If cards are but mathematics, why not simply perform mathematics? Is the Kalvadan [such good pronunciation] game also one of such mathematics?

You must play with a partner, and trust that without saying anything they will be as clever as you while you play against the opposing team. So yes, it's partly math in the sense that you're playing odds. But it's also strategy and learning how to best compliment your partner. —Similar to dancing, I suppose. Seeing as you're so fond of poetry this evening.

[The mask obscures the arch quirk of her eyebrows, but it's obvious enough just by the tilt of her mouth and something in the angle of her chin.]

Where in Hightown?

[Val's mask is cut in such a way that leaves plain the lower part of his face, so the twisting of his mouth in disgust is very obvious. And even if it weren't--]

Bleck. [Poetry.] I do not even like dancing very much, and then, when it is coupled with poetry, it is like-- [A very illustrative gesture.] Vomit.

Which, to speak of--an acquaintance of an acquaintance furnished me with an invitation to her mansion, so that is where I intend to begin. Imagine it! Decoration of even middling taste. I will admit with no small qualm that I do not like this person very much, but the library is said to house an excellent collection of Gerard's early work. Very rare to find. Have you read him yet? And the wine will be exceptional, and the cook is of Orlais. The little roses here were very charming, but there is a pudding that must be had every Satinalia and it was not made here and now I must seek it out.

No dancing, no poetry, no cards! My gods, Monsieur! What a monk you are. I don't know how you stand it.

[Briskly now, so as to give him as little opportunity as is possible to denigrate at least two of those selections (for she cannot understand how anyone can read most Thedosian poetry for pleasure)—] I have not read Gerard, his early works or otherwise. But I wish you all the best with it, and in finding your pudding quickly so you might sooner escape unpleasant company.

Careful, mademoiselle, my dearest Jeannot is a man of such a stripe. I will hear no slander said against him. Though he is fonder of poetry than I, perhaps because he sees the very deep good in all things, you see? For he has a higher mind.

[As usual, he ignores the cue of dismissal, and continues as if they are having a very pleasant midday conversation.]

After that unpleasant party, I intend to attend a second that will be perhaps a bit more pleasant, and then a third that will be better still. Did you mean to dress to match Mr. Ellis?

[There is an urge to gather her skirts slightly higher or perhaps to glance past him, for if nothing else it's slightly brisk at the edge of the courtyard and she is in some places underdressed for the weather. But he cannot have waylaid her simply to complain about some stranger she doesn't even know and likely will not be acquainted with in Hightown, and her curiosity having somewhat gotten the better of her she resists the impulse.

And is irked with the results of her patience.]

It was by design, yes. He agreed to be in on the joke. [More or less.] Is that all?

[Blithely,] No!

[Of course it is not all.]

What was the joke? Was it that the costumes were very well made?

[Under the edge of her half mask, her mouth perceptibly thins.]

A dear friend suggested they might be more recognizable in combination so as to avoid being mistaken for any blonde woman in a blue dress. But I'm delighted to hear that you approve, Monsieur.

Oh, mademoiselle, I would not mistake you.

[Despite its warmth, and his laugh, and that normally such a thing might be a compliment, it sounds an insult. But is it? So hard to say.]

Come with me.

[It is by merit of her skirts being still in hand that she doesn't give into the temptation of crossing her arms outright. She has managed to spend a great majority of the evening without being overly critical about the state of her wardrobe, and refuses to think on it now solely on account of the man's skill with sounding dismissive.

Mostly.]

I will not walk you to the ferry simply so you might speak more on Gerard before you go, de Foncé.

You do not like Gerard? Very well, we will speak on Sauveterre. Botrel, as it is a holiday. There is a lyricism to her that often results in her dismissal, if one is so small-minded and does not take into consideration that to be so lyrical--we will not say poetic--while maintaining such strict and well-researched scholarship is a feat unto itself. But to read her is like to eat a rich food. One must be sparing or one feels, [as he turns half away, and inclines his head toward the direction of the ferry dock, inviting, come along,] ill. Or at least this is my experience. Sauveterre, meanwhile, makes such succinct points. I have a very fine edition of his second collection of essays. Or it was very fine. I carried it everywhere with me when I was about seventeen. That is a time that Sauveterre spoke very directly to me.

You are not tired, mademoiselle.

[She does not have an opinion on Gerard and is unlikely to ever form one if his work is indeed as rare as has been purported is the point, and it is in the spirit of eventually making it that she allows - with a great sense of being dragged against the set of her heels - herself to be baited into falling in alongside him.]

I am not tired, no. As a matter of fact, my plan for this evening has been to go up to the ramparts and take a few astronomical observations for I've decided I find the subject fascinating and the weather tonight is very clear. I am arranging an overnight trip out of Kirkwall to do the thing properly, you see, and would like to have had some practice before.

Do you find he is still relevant? Sauveterre. Now that you are not seventeen.

Oh, astronomy! I had a passing interest in it. I find it still to be very useful as a distraction, certainly, when on a long journey with very little occupation to be had before retiring to sleep. You must bid Satina a festive greeting for me, when you see her. For what would one observe if not for her upon this day!

[Obviously. Val unties his mask so that his face might be made free of it, with a happy little sigh. Not very Orlesian of him, but, all the same.]

But for Sauveterre, I will always make a space in my heart, much like one does for a first lover. He was very important to me and his work is still useful. It is simply not my style any longer. Yet should that render him to a certain scholarly peripherality? It should not. I am, at my core, a sentimentalist, you see.

[Her laugh is a bright, sudden thing—a loud 'ha' that might be cutting if it weren't so obviously surprised free of her.]

A sentimentalist? Surely not.

[Unbothered, Val makes a gesture down at himself. Just so.]

I do not believe in the acquisition of too many personal objects. My apartments in Val Royeaux have things in them. But they are not things that I miss very much, which is why they are in Val Royeaux. The things that I carry with me, that I brought with me--first to the Inquisition--and now, here, to Riftwatch--they are the most important things. One of those is my copy of Sauveterre. My second copy. The first was quite ruined with use and age and burnings and fluids from, oh, various things, and stains more generalized.

Edited 2020-11-10 20:40 (UTC)

How fine to have the pleasure.

[Consider her skeptical still - or at least wholly unable to imagine what else might warrant being included in Val's alleged collection of keepsakes. Books? Fine. A favorite knife? Some strange little reminder of an odd animal? He'd had rather strong opinions on skulls, after all.]

Tell me then, as I am unfamiliar. What in his essays spoke so very clearly to you?

Oh--

[Practically a sigh. Val sweeps his hat from his head and shoves it under his arm so he can scratch his fingers through his hair. He remains finely dressed, but less costumed.]

It was the style that spoke to me first. I came from a place of excess. And so my heart found such delight in the poignantly simple points of Sauveterre. It is entirely one thing to write a sentence stuffed with flourishes and flairs. It takes a certain skill, to write an essay that sings, where you are conducted smoothly from one point to the next like a gondola upon a canal in Antiva City. But Sauveterre is the sort of writer who comes into your home, plunges his hand into your chest, and seizes hold of your very heart: that is how direct he is. And with such spare words. I was enthralled. If it were not a blasphemy to say so, then I would say that for nearly five years of my life, Sauveterre's L' Aiguilles was as the Chant to me--but that would of course be a blasphemy, and I would never say it.

Certainly not, least of all for the fact that I'm sure your good friend the Chantry Brother would be terribly bereaved on your behalf were you to make such a claim. Nonetheless, I understand the meaning of your sentiment completely.

[By degrees as they make their way in the direction of the ferry slip, the impatient quality of her hitch of her skirts begins to relax itself. Eventually, if she gives it up entirely in favor of smoothing them down and instead thrusting her hands into her pockets (all good skirts possess them), it is because they are heavy enough to make the alternative something like work and for no other reason whatsoever.]

But you must know that only answers half my question, Monsieur. I don't believe you've said what it is that Sauveterre writes so assertively about.

[He laughs. It is, of course, a very nice laugh.]

That is what I like about you, mademoiselle. You are as tenacious as a little dog with a locked jaw. L' Aiguilles in particular is a series of essays about battle tactics and the innovations made in siege weaponry and battle machinery in the Steel and Storm Ages, respectively. And yet so neatly does Sauveterre explore the cost of war as much as the illustrious growth that came of it, in these Ages--and comes of it with each war that followed.

[The way to the ferry narrows a little here, a small notched archway between courtyards. Val very gallantly stands aside, so Wysteria might walk first.]

A subtle thing, too often overlooked by those that dismiss Sauveterre as simplistic. Fools, all.

[She will take tenacious little dog only because it is preferable to a great many possible alternatives, and because she has gotten her way which is pleasant even when it involves being compared to an animal. With some similar sensibility, Wysteria accepts the invitation to breeze through the archway ahead of him.]

Do you suppose your writing resemble his at all? The work you have organized properly, I mean. I have seen your notes.

[On the backs of fantasy cocktail napkins, mostly.]

What a compliment that would be, if it were true. It is not. We are two different souls. Yes, I tried for some time to imitate him, but it was all wrong, and I quickly gave it up. I think there is at least one published essay, the work of an amateur, that did survive, but I suggest you not read it. I may admire the piercing brevity, yet it will never be mine. I think it is because I enjoy words too well. I like their sound. I like the shape that they make upon the page. I like the meanings that they have--some with so many--and the statements that you can make and unmake by a simple arrangement, or disarrangement. I could never bring myself to use the less of them.

[Well.]

And I hate to be edited. I only allow it if I am convinced it a necessity, and even then, I take care to select personally the editor whose hand will touch my work.

later, ii

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject