MOD EVENT ↠ SATINALIA

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

[exsecutus]

Nikos wrinkles his nose--not, actually, at that grin.

"Sounds like a shit," he says, baldly. "Masters who fuck their students--exploiting power. There is no art to living life besides. So a fucking liar and charlatan besides. Very good choice you made."

[lumelume]

Mado's grin fades. There's a part of him that wants to argue, to insist that Emiglio is misunderstood and not so bad as all that, but there's another part of him that grows a little bolder, feels validated by Nikos' condemnation of behavior by which he has been hurt and confused for most of his life.

"You have experience with this?" he asks softly.

[exsecutus]

"I haven't had a master," a word he says with scorn, "since I was eighteen. And even then, none of them were trying to fuck me. But I had eyes. Ears. I have them still, obviously, then I had then and I heard all sorts of shit. I know how it works. And everyone who has power fucking--exploits it. Uses it. That is how it works. I hate it."

[lumelume]

"Everyone?"

This is troubling news, especially for one who tries his very best not to pay attention to such things, to make the best of every situation.

"Even here? In Riftwatch?"

[exsecutus]

"Don't see why Riftwatch would be the exception to the--fucking rule of humanity--"

Nikos tightens his arms around himself, because angry gesturing seems like a bad idea. Any sharp movements and he's likely to fall forward and hit his fucking face on the floor.

"It's better than some places. Maybe. There are people here who have--some idea. Some good thought. But plenty that're--soulless shits too. Exploiters. World's full've it. Worse when they hide behind saying they're there to do some good."

[lumelume]

Mado's brow knits as he contemplates what Nikos is telling him.

"And you're trying to stop them?" he asks uncertainly. As someone with a Lot Of Feelings, it doesn't alarm or upset him that Nikos does too, though he is a bit surprised by the extent to which they're being shared, after the few discussions they've had.

[exsecutus]

It's a simple question. It's hard to answer. Nikos darkens--mood, face, aura, all of it. He slumps down against the wall.

"Exploit the exploiters," he says. His voice is thicker now--the wine, the way he's sitting, the fact that he wishes this conversation were over. He's thinking of Caspar, picturing him so clearly it's like here's here. The sharp stab of sadness that Nikos feels--he seizes hold of it, turns it around. He won't get hurt by it. "Find something that's doing even half fucking good, and--use it. Wait. That's why I'm here."

[lumelume]

Drawing his knees up to rest his chin atop them, Mado watches Nikos with a pleasant, thoughtful expression.

"You're brave," he observes sincerely, "and you care deeply. That's wonderful."