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

Perhaps not.

[Orphaned elves aren't the only ones who grow up lonely; some never grow up at all, he thinks. Watching a distant lamp light materialize in the gloom.]

I've heard it said, when someone habitually falls in love with unattainable people, there's some part of them that does it on purpose. Because it feels safer.

[ Another pom-toss. ]

You've heard it said. Are you saying that you believe it, too?

[ It's a little harder to keep her tone mild with this one, not least of all because she knows he's Derrica's friend and has to assume that it means he's heard something about the mess Athessa's made of their friendship. But also: since when is it a habit?! ]

There could be some truth to it; I think it depends on the person. I'm also willing to bet she isn't the only one who's disappointed you. These things move in patterns, you see.

[ She catches the pomegranate and feels the slight crunch of seeds shifting when her grip tightens on it. ]

She didn't disappoint me.

[ This feels like being dissected, almost. Layers of defense mechanisms peeled back to reveal what's underneath. But what he's going to find there...isn't sadness. ]

Did someone disappoint you, before Ilias?

[Liar, lying to protect herself—a thought cut short. His gaze slides sideways, in her direction, indirect.

This smile is slow. It lingers.]

See? You can't help yourself.

[ Is it really a lie if she believes it to be true? Athessa laughs, but there isn't any humor behind it. Her smirk might as well be a snarl. ]

Congratulations, you've called the kettle black.

It wasn't an insult.

[The pipe stem returns to his teeth. The evening breeze snatches the smoke from his mouth.]

And I'm well aware of my own inclinations, thank you.

[ Maybe it wasn't, but accusations of meddling and Byerly calling her self-centered are still a bit too fresh for her to brush off even an echo of the sentiment. ]

Inclinations like going through Isaac's mail?

[As far as sighs go, this one is fairly neutral. He begins to tap out his pipe on the stone wall.]

That man may be the smallest, pettiest person I've ever met.

[Tap, tap.]

When I turn to leave, I'd rather not see you there, please and thank you.

[ She steps up to the parapet next to him and sets the pomegranate down, hard. Hard enough that where it meets the stone, the thick skin splits and red starts to pool under it.

Then she crosses to the opposite side of the walkway and leans against the short stone wall there, crossing her arms. If he doesn't want to see her there, he can walk away with his eyes shut. ]

[This tiny tantrum is received patiently. Once she's settled, he continues to clean out his pipe, pokes his littlest finger into the bowl to dislodge some ash, not minding that it stains him.]

He's using you to get under my skin. That's why he told you these things that aren't any of your business: because he knows of your propensity to rush off and clumsily insert yourself in other people's affairs.

[Another tap, a quick puff of breath into the bowl. There: clean.]

He may even expect that I'll harm you in response—I won't, of course.

[ If there's one thing she's learned about nearly everyone — every man — in Riftwatch, it's that none of them are able to accept that someone might offer kindness for kindness' sake.

Offer a fruit, it must be part of some scheme, some retaliation for a previous slight. It could never simply be that Athessa wanted to be nice in the face of Leander's capricious disregard.

She says nothing, simply watches the back of his head as he talks. ]

[Silence, then, as he considers.

The fruit itself is irrelevant. It became the vehicle by chance—she simply can't help herself. Told something so intriguing, who could resist? (Leander could; he knows many things that he's never spoken aloud, secrets that will die along with him.)

But she did manage to gift it to him, in a way, this ruined thing, rind cracked, seeds bulging red inside. Once he's put his pipe away, he covers the split fruit with his hand.]

I threw you down the stairs.

[ That... is not what she expected to hear. She had, at the time, been so certain that he wasn't among the list of potential culprits, because he had no discernable reason to do it. Nobody did, beyond her being an annoying elf. ]

Why?

Someone knocked a friend of mine down a flight of stairs, so I returned the favour.

[He's set his pipe down; both his hands are still. He is altogether very still.

She cannot know the rarity of this next admission:]

It was a mistake. I'm sorry.

[ She barely hears the apology over the ringing in her ears, jaw clenched and an angry heat rising to her cheeks.

He pushed her — threw her to use his words — down the stairs to get back at Kostos for tripping Ilias? He broke her arm, made her suspicious of the people in their company, for petty revenge against someone who wasn't even aware of it.

Athessa steps away from the parapet at her back and approaches Leander again, this time to turn him around with a hand at his shoulder so she can throw her fist at his face.

It's a pity Eshal isn't here to see it. It's the best punch she's ever thrown. ]

[He's been in training, could avoid it, or at least make some attempt—but he allows himself to be halfway spun, even removes his hands from the wall and stands straighter as her little steps come rushing up behind him.

It's a good punch. Leander receives it without a sound beyond his breath, a sharp exhale on the recoil. His nose bursts red.

After that taut snap of a moment, while seconds relax again to their full and proper length and his barely disturbed pulse considers evening out, he remains just there, half-leaning against the wall. Opens his mouth once just to work his jaw while blots of bright colour streak down the front of his shirt.]

[ She's punched enough walls in recent months to be able to tell when her hand has taken more damage than the target, and this is not one of those moments.

Though she would love to punch him again, she restrains herself, lets her hands fall to rest at her sides while she gets a handle on her breathing. Then she steps past him to walk away in a flutter of dress and sparkly cloak. ]

You're forgiven.

[You're forgiven, she says, and leaves him there—at last. All some journeys require to proceed is a little melodrama. A little violence.

Sedately, gently, like shooing a reluctant bird from its perch, Leander rolls the pomegranate off the edge of the wall so it will burst on the rocks below and all its pieces fall into the sea.]

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MOD EVENT ↠ SATINALIA

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