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.

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"Scars," she pronounces, with that overtaxed tone of a young lady who would like nothing more than to throw herself dramatically onto a couch somewhere but who is steadfastly remaining upright by sheer force of will (and because she is in the middle of being guided led through the turn). "Do not make a person interesting. —It's terrible, isn't it? I put powder on it, but it all came away almost immediately. Don't answer that. If its hideous, I would rather not know. And if it seems mysterious and interesting, I can't know that either because then I will want a whole new collection of shirts and chemise and bodices. I can hardly believe how difficult it is to dress a single person on Riftwatch's stipend."

Being poor is the worst, you heard it here from Wysteria Poppell first.

"But you're right. I would have found you very dull. The young lady in question must be very clever to have seen through to you despite it all."

It's not the first time he's heard her profess the sentiment, but it is the first time he's heard the whole mess of it at a clip, the force of which draws enough of his attention to slow the pace of the dance so he can keep track. At the end of it, Ellis has more or less lifted Wysteria's hand in his own above his head as they take the customary three turns, smile still lingering on his face.

"Aye, she was clever."

She was so many things, and she's been gone now for a very long time, but that's not what he wants Wysteria to take away from this.

"Can I tell you one thing about your scar, and then you can go back to assessing how dull I was as a boy?"

The sharp look she shoots him as they take their turns is sidelong, the very definition of suspicion.

"I suppose it's only fair. But know that depending on how I feel about it, I will be compelled to either be very kind or to say something extremely cruel, and so you must choose your wording carefully according to how you wish to be treated Mr. Ellis."

"I'll have to gamble."

The tagline of his entire friendship with science club, in some ways.

He does wait until they've broken from the close turns, to give himself some minor distance as he informs her, "But you should know, it's not hideous."

There's some further admission he could make, but stops there with a simple sentiment. No, it is not a hideous mark. There is no part of her that could be.

She weighs it like something in her palm, the line of her mouth going crooked and thin first in one direction and then the other. For a moment as they turn about their little pool of light just outside the hall, it seems as if she might have nothing at all to say in response. But of course that can't be true—

"Well you can't say only that. That could be anything at all, Mr. Ellis!" She cries. "How am I meant to formulate a response to so vague a statement? 'It is not hideous.' Honestly. Pretend for a moment to be less serious. I promise I will ignore it ever happened and tell no one of the indiscretion of your personality."

The song is winding it's way to an end. He considers her, then smiles a little more broadly as their momentum passes into less of a structured dance and more a general rotation.

"I will say," he begins, voice thoughtful. "That I think it is impossible for any part of you to be hideous."

That could be the end of it: a simple, blunt summation of his opinion. But then, with a little squeeze and a tip of his head, he continues—

"And unfortunately, I'm one of the type who finds a scar dashing."

Her groan of agony is quite genuine, threatening imminent collapse from out of his arms. It is only through great effort that she manages not to slough fully and dramatically to the floor. Or it is because she is otherwise occupied with the slow progress of their not-quite dance, or because the cobblestones would be cold. Who can say?

"I'm afraid it simply isn't to be, Mr. Ellis. You will have to be satisfied with the secret knowledge of its presence and swear that you will picture me as a very romantic figure regardless of its visibility. Dashing," she mutters, resentful and delighted. "How dare you."

This is not the first time Wysteria has nearly dramatically launched herself out of his grasp. (They are thankfully a far way from the their conversation in the library, Wysteria's tearful face going stiff with confused mortification.) Ellis holds on to her, amusement softening his expression as she suffers through his opinions.

"Cross my heart, I'll say nothing of it."

Something else to carry with him, unspoken and largely unconsulted.

"I'm going to have to release you back to your admirers," he tells her, as the dismay clears from her face. "I've kept hold of you too long."

The music has shifted further still now into some last vivacious hurrah. It is fully ill-suited to their idle and vaguely circular meandering, and so after a few more turns and with a great sigh Wysteria stalls. She slips a hand from his, touching her fingers to the mask pushed up into her hair.

"Then before we go you must do me the favor of being my eyes, Mr. Ellis, and tell me if I've done irreparable damage to anything," is no doubt in reference to the state of her up-do as she gingerly resets the mask to its rightful place on her face.

She looks at him from behind it, through her fingers.

"What is your assessment?"

There is a moment of study. Ellis looks at her and takes in the entirety of the picture, dress, mask, hair, the expectant expression, and draws a deep breath.

"Just one thing," he says quietly, before he steps forward to carefully adjust the set of her mask, tuck a few loose locks of hair back into place. He likes her better without the mask, but it is for one night, and there is no need to say as much.

He clears his throat, before pronouncing, "There. It's perfect."

Behind the mask, her expression bends faintly. It is not a question of smiling or not smiling - she has been in good cheer all evening and that has hardly changed in these minutes they've spent here on the fringe of the party - but there is, by some brief half degree, something which softens in the curve of her mouth.

--And then broadens again, flashing bright as if Wysteria is on principle committed to a certain luminosity.

"You have my enduring thanks, Mr. Ellis. And you must remind me of this next year. There are a great many Kalvadan dances which I might show you. Agreed?"

Edited 2020-11-28 10:22 (UTC)

"I'd like that" Ellis answers her, without hesitation. What a strange luxury, planning for the future and thinking of preparing for something as sweet as a dance next year. It's such a simple thing to make her happy. He's fallen into a habit of it, he realizes.

"Now, go ahead. Rejoin your adoring public, and we'll talk about dances tomorrow."

"Oh, very well. Though it must be said that I find matters of duty to be such dreadful bores, Mr. Ellis."

The grin she gives him as she fetches up her skirts by that half inch necessary to sweeping away is very pleased, in equal parts satisfied with her own wit and--

"Tomorrow," she affirms.

And then with a swirl of slightly cheap blue skirts and flash of red stocking ribbons, she's off in the direction of warmer light and music and whatever last dregs of entertainment which might be successfully eked out of the evening.

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MOD EVENT ↠ SATINALIA

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ties a little bow on this perfect thread

ties a smaller bow on this bow