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

"...I guess he's my friend now?"

He winces as if preparing for her disapproval.

The skepticism on her face is staggeringly similar to Dick Dickerson caliber doubt for a few long seconds. It transitions into wariness, questioning, mild concern. She doesn't judge Colin for his taste in friends. Just...

"I'd advise not trusting him with your life," she deadpans, turning off the stairs to walk the short ways left to her room. She assumes Colin is coming with her.

He is, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Well, not on a mission, anyway. But finding someone who'll have your back when you can't take care of yourself seems harder, at least in a place like this."

The noise she makes is somewhere between a thoughtful hum and a resigned groan, in the vicinity of I know running keeps you healthy, but at what cost? If that's the bar people have to meet to be considered friends, Colin is going to have a lot of disappointment in his life.

Athessa wrests the broken door to her room open and closes it behind Colin. Almost immediately she hangs up the cloak and starts to shuck out of her dress, finding much more comfortable pants and a shirt and soft shoes to replace the glamour.

"I'll ride the ferry back over to Kirkwall with you, unless you plan to stay in the Gallows tonight."

"No, I'm going home. I need to...not be around people for a while. Except you, you're always welcome."

"I'll probably just find a roof where I can be alone for a bit, myself," she says, pulling a knit jumper over her head. "But if I miss the ferry you'll have company."

Crossing the room, fully dressed, Athessa fetches up a cloth and wets it with water from the pitcher and uses it to dab at her knuckles. The blood there isn't hers, but she knows Colin will ask anyway, if he's seen it.

She glances at him.

He steps toward her to take her hand and peer at it. When it's clear--and it is quickly clear--that it's not hers, he gives her a quizzical look.

So he did see it. She sighs but doesn't resist his examination, then shrugs slightly at his look.

"I'll tell you on the ferry," she says, hoping he'll let her stall until the Gallows are behind them. She doesn't want to rekindle her own ire and have to battle the urge to rush off and punch anybody else.

Colin hesitates, then nods. She doesn't seem afraid, but if she wants to be away from the Gallows first, then it's her call.

"All right." He remembers suddenly to take off the bread mask. It'll make a good snack for some dog they pass on the way. "Come on, then."

"I can't believe you wore bread on your face this whole time..."

--

Idle chit-chat and comfortable bouts of silence last well until the ferry has shoved off, with Athessa telling Colin about her and Bastien's delightful guessing game on the dance floor and the weird encounter with Barrow and Dick when she was trying to track down Vanadi. Once they reach another lull, though, filled with nothing but the sound of the water lapping at the side of the skiff, Athessa looks at her hands and taps her palms against the gunwale idly.

"I punched Leander in the face. Broke his nose, I think."

It's been a while since they've had trouble from Leander, Colin thinks, so he looks a bit surprised.

"What did he say?"

Leaving off everything he said prior:

"He said he's the one that threw me down the stairs last year," She scoffs, her palm-tapping turning into knuckle-tapping as she curls her hand into a loose fist. "Said he did it because someone knocked a friend of his down a flight of stairs, so he returned the favor."

Athessa rolls her eyes. "It's gonna be hard to resist decking Kostos the next time I see him."

"Turn the ferry around," he says quietly, his hand clenching the side of the boat.

"No," she says. It's a definitive no,, not an entreating one. This is another reason she wanted to be on the ferry when she told him.

"He broke my arm, I broke his face, we're even."

Even if she wanted to keep hitting him. Even if she's still angry. Even if—

How the fuck is that man Derrica's friend?

"And if he'd broken your neck instead, would you still be even?" Colin hisses. "Turn the ferry the fuck around."

The ferryman does not turn around.

"He didn't break my neck," she reminds him, though she's clearly not just brushing this off. If Leander had snapped her neck last year, maybe people would have taken it more seriously than when Kostos sent out that message asking for the culprit to step forward.

Are you sure you didn't just trip?

She clenches her fist tighter, and stops tapping it against the gunwale.

"Believe me, I wanted to do more than break his nose but that wouldn't achieve anything."

He turns to her, eyes flashing.

"You're going to let him get away with it?" he asks incredulously. "He could have killed you. For no reason."

"I know!" She snaps, then, more calmly: "I know."

She stares out at the water, the light from the moon and the ferryman's lantern and from Kirkwall looming ahead bouncing off the water and reflecting in her eyes. It looks almost like fire, from the right angle.

"I don't intend to just let him get away with it, but something tells me you aren't just planning on marching up eight flights of stairs to tell Flint what happened. So we're staying on this ferry, we're getting off at the docks, and I'm walking you home. I'll tell the Division Heads myself."

She is correct. That was not his plan. With no other outlet, he seethes in no particular direction, casting about like he could find a wall to put a hole in.

"Fuck," he growls. "Here he'd had me thinking I'd been wrong about him. I'm an idiot."

"Tell me about it. He had me fooled, too."

See, Colin? This is why Athessa punches walls.

"I mean fuck, he called me that one time asking why I'd decided to dislike him. And I actually felt bad."

More than that, she's had to share a room with him since then. Had to trust him as a colleague when the foundation was made of less sturdy stuff than sand.

"I let him in my house," he hisses, ignoring for the moment that it's an apartment and not technically a house. "They have to do something about him. They cannot just give him a slap on the wrist."

"He obviously didn't suffer much for stabbing Byerly," she mutters under her breath.

"I'll inform Yseult, and...fuck, I dunno. Maybe I'll just flat-out ask her why Leander hasn't been brought to heel."

It just doesn't make sense. Maybe it's just that they're desperate enough for competent recruits that they don't think they can afford to cut him loose. Or perhaps they're concerned that cutting him loose will drive him towards the Venatori, and then he'll be encouraged to harm more of their number. Athessa bangs her fist on the gunwale, but not hard enough to hurt.

"Fucking hell. Let's go to the warehouses by the docks. I know a place where we can smash shit and nobody'll care."

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