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

But Mister Ellis will be included.

[He steps onto the ferry right behind her, with force and relish. It causes a little movement--a slight extra dip of the craft, nothing more--and Val is right on her heels, following her to whatever seat she will choose.]

Or at least invited. This would only be accommodating, as he might have other plans. Is he very social?

[They are hardly the only denizens of the Gallows making their way toward Kirkwall. Nonetheless, seats are found; the moment they're settled, Wysteria reaches up to begin picking the knot from the slim dark ribbon securing the mask to her face.]

I believe he has any number of friends in Riftwatch, but I am hardly the master of his social calendar. Tell me, de Foncé. Would you not invite along Mademoiselle Durfort-Lacapalette if you were of a similar mind to go traipsing about for an evening?

[Val throws his cloak behind him when he sits down, without a care for who it strikes, if anyone. He sets to undoing the clasp on the brooch that keeps it in place--but in an utterly careless way, as if he is hardly aware of what he is doing.]

Oh, he is a baroness? I was not aware. I will remember it in case we are introduced.

[If Wysteria rolls her eyes, it is lost in the shifting shadows of her mask or the rise and fall of her forearm as the mask's tie comes loose.]

Your friend the Chantry Brother, then, if the matter of rank is of such concern to you.

[Pleasantly,] That was a joke, mademoiselle.

I know what it is that you mean, of course. You are intending to say that Mister Ellis is such a dear friend and so close to your heart and an invaluable companion and such excellent estimable company, wise and clever beyond all others, and that you cannot imagine your expedition without him.

[He tucks the brooch away in a pocket and lets the cloak fall from his shoulders.]

That is what you mean, yes?

[The mask is drawn away with an unconscious wrinkling of her nose and is then deposited into her lap.]

In a manner of speaking. [She absently smooths her hair back from her hairline, tucks a series of little strands come loose from the elaborate twist of braids back behind her ears—] If you would like an invitation as well then you need only ask, Monsieur.

[He blithely waves off the offer, not at all a man who is worried or wanting.]

I may not respect traditions and order, but please! Invitations to such things must be given, not begged for, or sought after. I would never presume to invite myself.

What part did I get wrong? 'In a manner of speaking'. This suggests there is more--or less--to it. So?

What I mean, Monsieur, is that yes I quite value Mr. Ellis' friendship. But also that I hardly see why that fact is of such specific importance to you or why it should make any difference whatsoever whether he will or will not be in attendance on this little expedition. I am taking your cloak now.

[She is, for the ferryman is kicking the boat away from the slip and she would like to be well protected against the cut of the wind over the harbor by the time they clear the end of the dock.]

Please!

[He sweeps the cloak--again without thought or care for anyone occupying the seats behind them--and drapes it over her shoulders for her. It is heavier than it looks, a thick double wool, finely made but smelling faintly of woodsmoke and pickling juice and something like the shavings one would scatter at the bottom of a rabbit hutch to keep in warmth and absorb piss. Fresh shavings, not the piss shavings.

Perfectly cheerful without it, Val crosses his legs at the ankle and stretches them out in front of their seat, so they are pushed beneath the bench before them. He folds his arms over his chest, hands tucked in against his body.]

You may borrow the brooch if you find it too difficult to keep on. As for Mr. Ellis, I suppose I am merely curious. And also interested to know if my assumption will prove to be correct, which I am certain that it will--so certain that I nearly did not ask at all, but then thought it would be satisfying to know the truth.

[Someone behind them is absolutely inconvenienced by these cloak related shenanigans and is presently fixing their own companion with a long suffering look as in front of them, Wysteria gathers the edges of the heavy cloak closer about her. No, she will be quite all right without the pin, thank you very much Monsieur--]

In the case, I will happy report the details to you once they have been decided. I would hate for your interest to go unanswered.

[SpEaKinG oF:]

Was there not something else you wished to discuss? Beyond the subject of my little expedition and who is or isn't invited to it.

[A cutting wind sweeps across the water. Thoughtfully, Val tips his head back to consider the night sky. As he is blessed by the Maker, the wind catches at his hair and blows it back for him, freeing his vision and letting starlight bathe his face.]

Was there? I cannot remember. I wonder what it was. Not Sauveterre, I think, though I could say more on him, always.

[Her entire body pivots by the series of degrees necessary to study him and his starlit face and his fashionably shaggy hair. It is an exceptionally flat assessment. And then she turns back to face forward toward Kirkwall's encroaching shore.]

Very well.

[But instead of Sauveterre--]

I am thinking of making an expedition to Par Vollen again.

[Her considered of the Kirkwall side of the harbor intensifies. Lightly, throwaway, as breezy as the cold cut of the night air:]

Oh? I'm not sure I was aware you had ever been a first time.

In fact hardly anyone is aware. It was very brief. An expedition to study the ancient pyramids. Have you read any of Rojas? She has a very good summation of the theories of Par Vollen's earliest peoples. It is thought that the birthplace of humanity is the rainforests of that island.

[And even without her attention--or perhaps in spite of her lack of attention--Val's words pick up in both speed and eagerness.]

Imagine what might be unearthed if a scholarly expedition was made. And the wildlife of that region--nearly unseen! A hoard to catalog and identify--and without the diversification and co-mingling of breeding and cross-breeding, the development of these creatures would be narrowed and contained, and give a light to what our own creatures might have once resembled. Think of it.

[She has not read Rojas. Under the weight of the warm cloak, she considers at length the distance to the shore as it inches slowly closer and the crooked sense of sullen irritation which grows in proportion to that distance's shortening. It is a very bright evening, moons and starlight all in full. She can make out every little pole and docking post and barrel and indiscriminate knots of people roving quay as they roam from one public house to the next, and she decides resolutely that she doesn't care about Hightown or Lowtown parties, or about Gerard or Rojas or pyramids. It is meant to make her feel less foolish, to chase the hot prickle of illogical frustration threatening the backs of her eyes to wherever it had come from to begin with. For a short time, it does the job quite satisfactorily.]

How fine an image you paint, de Foncé. [She says, missing no beat whatsoever.] You will have to tell me every detail when you return. When do you suppose you will make this second attempt? Indeed, it is a shame Mademoiselle Fazon is not still with us for I imagine she would have been a useful asset to the planning of your expedition. Yet perhaps while you are there you might still make some diplomatic overtures on behalf of Riftwatch; it could hardly do us harm to have connections among Tevinter's great enemy. You ought to discuss it with the Ambassador before you go.

Not too fine an image, I hope. Poetry, mademoiselle. Remember: it is my bane.

[Only half a joke. The bane part is very real. He looks up at the sky again, tracing out the shapes of familiar constellations.

Quite airily,] Of course I would tell you each detail, but why will I need to? You have eyes of your own, yes?

I believe you can see them even now in my—

['—face,' is how that sentence is meant to end.

Wysteria turns very slightly where she is sitting, forgetting the Kirkwall side of the harbor altogether.]

Well. The question of timing yet stands in any case.

[Val is looking in the other direction now, only because Toth is in that direction at this time of the year and this part of the world, and he must see it. If he is at all aware that the mademoiselle has turned just slightly, or that her attention has changed at all--well, he shows no sign of it.]

Timing is everything! On that we are agreed. Your star-gazing, there is that--and the project--and the five or six things that I am working on, to say nothing of the finding of a suitable husband for my dear Veronique--but in the early part of the year, I think. After the worst of the storms, so as to make any sea voyage a sure thing.

Certainly. I suppose that should be vital for any passage by ship. In fact, if we are very selective with respect to the prototype's manufacture in these coming months, that might very well be the perfect opportunity to give it a proper field test. You must tell me how you mean to approach it. You said that your first attempt to explore the continent was cut rather short. I do think there would be some value in consulting the Ambassador. It is very possible that--

[She is attempting to follow his eyeline, and then stops.]

I'm sorry, who?

Hm?

[He looks around at last, as he casts backward to find what it is she might mean.]

Cut short, yes. Well, it was not entirely sanctioned. One is not easily granted access to its borders, and so we found it best to improvise and beg pardons later. And we were forced to do so rather swiftly, and with much hasty retreat--I left a very good shirt there that day. Of course I had others. I hope Par Vollen's native peoples are quite enjoying it still. I cannot imagine this Ambassador or any other would have contacts within. An angle worth pursuing, certainly, if only to be sure, but not with much hope in the heart.

I-- No. I mean, that I am very to sorry to hear about your shirt, and no I rather doubt we have contacts presently but it may be worth exploring the possibility as a sort of dual goal of the expedition if only as it might allow us to make use of Riftwatch's resources to--

[With visible effort, Wysteria firmly forces the leap back to the other rail of conversation.]

I was not aware you were in the matchmaking business, de Foncé. Who is Veronique? A cousin? The daughter of some business associate to who you owe a favor?

Edited 2020-11-23 03:39 (UTC)

I did acquire a new shirt.

[Interesting point about the dual goal, and he would say as much--what a compliment!--except that he then jumps to the other rail with her, and bursts out laughing.]

I hate my cousins! We do not speak. They would not trust for me to arrange marriages for them anyways. No, no-- Ah, 'husband' would not be correct. I forget that the word has that, hm, nuance, which makes it so human, and makes the word sound so silly. 'Mate'. Veronique should have a mate. Did I not tell you of her? I thought that I had.

[How does one choose what to unpack first? There are, after all, only so many hours in the day. Or rather, only so many minutes before the ferry will arrive in Kirkwall. Best to make the most of them.

She decides to discard cousins, as they seem most irrevelent.]

I see. So Veronique is one of your animals.

[Val makes a noise of guttural disgust.]

As if I keep a personal menagerie! I would not. And you would not speak of her so if you had met her, so you have, without meaning to, answered my question. Veronique is a very large ant that returned with me from our wandering in the jungles this year. You recall that expedition, I can assume. She now lives in my workroom, at least for the present. I think that she likes it very well. She has certainly grown, which is an excellent sign when one is raising a creature. It is when they are underdeveloped that you must question the quarters that you keep for them.

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