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

The first dance is such a dreary, half time thing that even if there are mistakes in the footwork (and she certainly makes them somewhere under her sapphire skirts, having been rather flippant with the matter of practicing) it is difficult to go too wrong. It's the sort of thing meant for parading about and the showing off of gowns—for being seen—more than it is particularly entertaining.

Which is to say that it is very good conceptually for the sake miming a pastiche of elegance, and that Wysteria is bored within five bars of the music beginning.

"Good gods," she hisses to him though the teeth of her smile. "It is quite slow isn't it?"

"It is," Ellis agrees, though he doesn't sound anywhere near as aggrieved as Wysteria. He hasn't tripped, nor has he trod on her feet or the hem of her dress, so it's counted as a victory so far. "It was generous of you to choose it. I had an easier time learning it."

Because surely that had factored in, right? (Ha.)

His eyes flick to her face, then away. The specter of cleavage in his peripheral vision is maybe the surest element of sabotage in this entire venture.

"Are you enjoying yourself, your Majesty?" he asks as they execute another light, tripping turn. There's a crinkle of amusement in his face as he poses the question. She seems pleased enough with the circumstances, so Ellis feels it's safe to tease her.

The look Wysteria shoots him out of the corner of her eye is equal parts sly and genuinely pleased. Beneath the edge of her half mask, her mouth twitches toward a grin.

"As a matter of fact, Ser, I am. And you should know that your cooperation is much appreciated. You have been admirably tolerant of me."

As they make their sedate, plodding way around the floor, she flicks a glance toward where the musicians are working their way through the dreadful quarter time dirge.

"Remind me that I must repay Monsieur Bastien when this is all finished. People will be under the impression that he has poor taste."

The kneejerk Well, he's Orlesian is disregarded, in both a nod to the festivities and Bastien's many hours of dance lessons.

"I'll chip in for whatever you decide," Ellis says instead, falling momentarily silent over a piece of light footwork. The hops are constrictingly precise in these dances, nothing much like the looser dances Ellis remembers from childhood. "He did me as much a favor as you."

Is there any reason to keep Bastien's contributions to himself? Ellis has considered it, and if he's to tell anyone Bastien was helpful, it might as well be Wysteria. This had all been here design, after all.

Beside him, Wysteria is nowhere near as selective with her hops though she neither lands on her skirts or trods too closely to his feet so there really cannot be too much trouble done by it.

"Surely not," she scoffs in return, failing entirely to make the connection. "For if he'd been immune to bribery you wouldn't be stuck where you are presently. Much as I am grateful for your good sportsmanship, I'm the one who insisted in the first place."

As they go through another series of slow motion hops, Wysteria turns her attention fully to Ellis and gives him a comically tortured look (though surely from a distance her smile-turned-faux-grimace must seem pleasant still).

"Next year, you may pick what we dance to and our theme. I clearly cannot be trusted for the former."

She will not however disparage their costumes. They are exactly as clever as she could have liked.

Through the hopping, Ellis is making a very intense study of Bastien and his assembled musicians.

But when he looks back, holds Wysteria's gaze through her grimacing, his expression is just. So fond.

"Are you hoping to impersonate another monarch?" he asks, as they come together again, walk a slow circle. "You could consider Queen Anora."

And scandalize a different section of Riftwatch, perhaps. His hand tightens on hers slightly, almost involuntary, as he considers the type of dance he'd like to be doing instead. (Or would show her, if he doesn't change his mind.)

Her faux grimace is replaced swiftly enough with a broad, bright smile in the face of all that warmth. She squeezes his hand for emphasis; it is not involuntary.

"And risk the accusation of a limited imagination? Certainly not! No, Mr. Ellis, I will endeavor to have no opinion on the subject whatsoever and leave it entirely to your discretion."

For a moment there's only a chuckle in response. Ellis sincerely doubts there is any circumstance where Wysteria would have no opinion.

"But you'll still arrange the costumes?"

An easier question to field than to consider what he's actually agreeing to. Is this becoming some kind of tradition? Is it wise to allow her to rely upon it, all things considered?

"I've a year to think on it, but I don't think I have your eye."

There is, of course, Bastien. But how many times can Ellis feasibly ask for his help without Bastien keeping it a secret?

"Naturally. You'll forgive me for saying it, but a man can hardly be trusted to know what a young lady would like to wear or be most flattered by. You have a great many talents, but I can hardly expect that to be among them. You are required only to supply the idea. I will happily see to all the rest. Oh, here we are at last."

This final thing she says to announce a closing series of slow motion hops which ends with the music warbling to a close. It's a very brief pause, perhaps on account of how boring the piece had been, for Wysteria hardly has time to give Ellis an anticipatory sidelong look and rearrange the set of her feet before the music is off again at a comparatively spirited tempo.

Of the two, this dance is immediately the superior selection. More broadly sweeping, it is fast enough to be a proper dance rather than a sedate parade. And while it shares some choreographed hops with its cousin prior, these are a little more likely to send certain costume skirts fluttering.

The urge to put a cloak over her: high.

But conversation lapses for a few moments while Ellis reminds himself how this dance goes. Wysteria's existing as a built-in distraction, but Bastien's patience had seen Ellis to the point where the steps are mostly second nature.

"Is the Ambassador going to chase you off the floor?" Ellis questions, maybe trying to consider his present options. He'd noted the Ambassador at a few points in the evening, clearly having taken his night of royalty in a different direction than Wysteria. "Or do you have a free pass now that you're a queen?"

Behind her mask, her eyebrows rise. It's a self satisfied, toothy sort of smugness.

"Something in between. I have told the Ambassador I am leaving early, and we have agreed I will give him a signal so we may have me dethroned and remanded to the dungeons for having threatened a diplomatic incident."

—is punctuated by a particularly enthusiastic flash of stocking ribbons which Ellis is not looking at but someone somewhere must be. She tries to withhold her laugh and snorts instead.

Everything happening in his peripheral vision is a problem.

"Are you truly leaving?" Ellis asks rather than remark on diplomatic incidents, stockings or cleavage.

There is some easy enjoyment of how pleased Wysteria is at this whole business having come off to her expectation. In some ways, that offsets everything else, even the prickle of discomfort he has yet to successfully shake, knowing he's adjacent to some kind of scrutiny.

"Not immediately, of course. But you know what these things become," she explains as they wind their way through one of the dance's more complicated patterns. Her attention is clearly on the talking more than it is on the precision of the thing, but it isn't as if Ellis hasn't proven himself to be perfectly capable of leading her through it.

"Once the dancing begins to wind down, it is all card playing and drinking and conversation and I have decided I would like to do more with my evening and so must be deposed in order to make my timely escape."

He hasn't trod on her hem and she hasn't kicked his ankles, so Ellis is deeming a success. (He's extremely concerned about the what may or may not be revealed if he treads on her hem, so there's a great deal of motivation to avoid it.) For a few moments it seems he's content with the answer or at least too focused on what they're doing to follow through, before they come out the other side of more taxing pieces of steps and he can devote attention to something other than where their bodies should be moving so as not to collide.

"Far be it for me to prevail on royalty, even deposed royalty, but I'd hoped you'd have patience for one more dance."

Ideally not as the center of attention, but.

Surely there isn't much a caught hem might reveal that isn't already being flashed by the more enthusiastic of the dance's steps. She does, after all, possess only so much leg. But that is neither here nor there, and has no bearing on the immediacy of her response:

"Oh, I mean to stay for the entirety of the dancing - or as much of it as I can find partners for. There is very little point in parties if there is no dancing, and even less point of attending a one with it if one doesn't care to participate. It is all the rest of the evening I have decided I will avoid--" Her attention pivots abruptly back to him as the full point of his meaning catches up to her. Behind the mottled grey of her mask, she brightens like the sun.

"Mr. Ellis! Have I misheard you? It sounded very like as if you might prefer to continue to subject yourself to this very arduous task past the requirements of our bargain."

At times, Ellis feels nearly blind-sided by how easy it is to please Wysteria. His expression softens in turn, a small smile catching at his face as he observes her.

It's another two beats of the song before he speaks, inclining his head.

"I had something I wanted to share with you," he says, by way of explanation. "A dance that Bastien has agreed to provide me the music for."

And then, added almost as if to temper her expectation—

"It's not the sort of thing that will draw the eye."

At this stage it must make little difference, for his word of caution knocks no shine whatsoever from her enthusiasm. Instead, she laughs - smile flashing wide below the edge of the mask - and briefly tightens her grip on him.

"Poor Monsieur Bastien! Under siege from both sides!"

It takes nearly a full bar of music for Wysteria to rein in her good humor so she might playfully concede, "I suppose I won't protest if you choose to beat off the two dozen eager suitors who I trust are lying in wait for this song to end."

Bastien, out here making Wysteria and Ellis' Satinalia plans possible. Is there anyone working harder than him?

"We'll dance before you go," Ellis promises. "I can't keep you all night."

In spite of momentary consideration of backtracking, Ellis has apparently committed to the last gift he has for her. And if he hopes to deliver it as privately as possible, it seems wise to let the initial spectacle fade before he begs the appropriate music from Bastien.

There is clearly a moment in which she wars with pressing the point, the concept of patience being something of a challenge on an evening such a this one. But she manages to restrain herself, agreeing with, "I suppose, after all consideration you've given me this evening, that I can hardly resent being held in suspense. If you must."

Besides, there are only a few more rotations of this dance left to them. It would hardly do to disregard giving what's left of it the full measure of her attention.

"A humble chevalier can't keep a queen to himself all evening," Ellis answers her, a little teasing.

But he'd have waited regardless. He might have avoided the party entirely, and danced with her in her garden if he could have divined a way to arrange the music. (There are limits to what he was willing to ask of Bastien.) When the dance is finished, he twirls her one last time with his eyes politely averted from the effect.

"Now, go greet your subjects and scandalize the Ambassador."

And truly, he could have left it all at that. But he does linger through the party, present to the point where the dancing is beginning to wind down and he senses the point Wysteria had complained of approaching— foolishness and chatter. The point where he must reclaim Wysteria from whatever she has gotten up to.

What she has gotten into is dancing with a dozen different partners, men and women both, taking only intermittent breaks at the sidelines to issue various little decrees or playing at evading the Ambassador's by ordering other people act as shields between them while she escapes to the other side of the room. But at the moment Ellis comes to collect her, she is perched amidst one of those knots of idle chatter and looking for all the world to be a perfectly willing participant in the aforementioned foolishness.

They are four young ladies in masks all together, laughing about something one of the girls has said about the condition of the stockings she ordered from a particular Kirkwall merchant, and were it not for the interruption they seem for all the world as if they might be content to giggle about silks for the next hour.

But at his approach, Wysteria's attention rises and something in her face must be visible despite the mask for her little cadre of would-be maids in waiting take notice, draw up accordingly, catch sight of Ellis, and immediately proceed to make unsubtle eyes at one another.

'Have you come to collect me, Ser Chevalier?' is what a witty, refined lady might ask.

"Now, Mr. Ellis?"

For a moment, the familiarity is painful. (Another girl, a different party, but smiling nearly the same as she was drawn from her friends.) Ellis feels it catch like a knife between plates of armor, shakes it off as he extends a hand to Wysteria.

"Now," he answers her. "Follow me?"

Not to the center of the room. It's a silly notion, but Ellis would give this to Wysteria alone, with as small an audience as possible.

The music is heard in the courtyard, if they slip out no farther than the small patio. It's enough.

"I'm going to teach you," Ellis explains. "Like the first time we danced."

Her trajectory, bound for the room's center, is checked easily enough though for that brief moment before he explains himself the confusion must be written clearly on her face for it's obvious even through the mask—

"Ah, keeping my intevitable mishaps hidden from the audience I've just thoroughly charmed. How considerate of you," is a bright, good humored joke. She glances back over her shoulder just once to wave a goodbye to her self elected ladies in waiting, and then they have passed out beyond the bounds of the room.

The night air is impressively chill in comparison. The greater courtyard is largely dark, lit at infrequent intervals, but here just beyond the door there is a brazier illuminated circle of light left to them.

"No," Ellis contradicts quietly. "It's simple enough to learn, and not so far off from some of the steps in the dances you'd picked out for earlier."

He's taken both her hands in his own for the moment, brow knit a little more seriously than a dance might require. Like the conversation he'd had with Tony, Ellis is aware that he need only say so much. Wysteria has never pried, though Ellis knows very well that "extremely curious" is her natural state.

"This is for you," he explains. "A gift."

And it feels more than a little ridiculous, now that he's said it aloud.

Her hands are easy in his, and for a whole moonlit moment Wysteria is a perfectly solemn mirror of him.

Then she snorts, a bitten back laugh which requires real force to be reined in.

"—I apologize. It's not funny." She squeezes his hands. "Only you just looked so dreadfully severe."

4 ellis

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clunkily timeskips

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