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

Oh?

[He tears his gaze and attention away from the sight of Kirkwall approaching and looks back over his shoulder at her.]

What will a needle and thread be used for? Should I see something amiss when I look at you? The clothes are not the most fashionable of cuts, but there is little to be done about that immediately, no matter the quality of needle or thread that we might find. But it is not the most unfashionable either. This is a compliment, nearly, in case you are about to misinterpret it.

[By way of reply, Wysteria simply parts the heavy cloak far enough to stick her leg out from the considerable slit in her costume's skirts. It is quite a lot of stocking, red garter ribbon and all—

And then it is gone again, skirts and cloak drawn close about her.]

It is one thing to show my leg to the whole of the Gallows and quite another to display it to polite society, Monsieur. I shall need a stitch to keep it in reserve.

[Val looks first at the revealed leg, then at the place where the revealed leg had been. His eyes narrow.]

And for this, we shall hunt about all of Kirkwall? Forgive me, mademoiselle, I do not see the problem. You can-- [He gestures, pinching together an invisible skirt and lifting it, to drape with stylish invisibility.] --yes? With great deliberation. And any reveal will be seen as equally deliberate and fashionable. This is the way of these things.

I most certainly could, but will not, [she says, terribly no nonsense about the whole ordeal as the ferry at last reaches the Kirkwall side of the harbor with a thump against the sock moorings.]

It is only a very short detour, I'm certain and you have contrived to owe me a favor. Be grateful this is how I mean to make good on it, Monsieur.

[She rises then, hauling the heavy cloak up with her still about her shoulders.]

Besides, is it not fashionable to be slightly late to any party? The widow will wonder what has delayed you, and you may act very coy over the whole subject.

A favor? I recall no favor.

[Still, he stands aside with a grand air, giving her plenty of space to move ahead of him. With his cloak, but he makes no move to recover it.

Yet.]

Is it that I have allowed you to presume to tell me how to arrive fashionably to a party, and how to behave mysteriously when questioned on my lateness? Because I need no such instruction from you on this. I have perfected it for myself. Where is this short detour to take us? Is there a shop with late hours in Kirkwall? I must know about it if there is.

[With his cloak then, she makes her egress from the ferry to the dock - careful to mind the gap and her skirts both. It is only once she is safely beyond any threat of misstep (and already moving promptly in the direction of her choice) that she continues:]

Nonsense. We will stop very briefly at my house, and I will do the stitch myself. Surely even very respectable ladies in Thedas practice that much, though I hardly expect you to know one thing or another about sewing or embroidery or whatever you like. Come now, de Foncé-- I had thought you would be grateful. Am I not saving you some minutes of suffering by delaying you? To say nothing of the immense service of my company!

There is a spare coat of mine there as well, though I believe I will leave it. For the lending of things will grant a certain impression which I believe may act in your favor if you mean to lose the widow's interest.

I know of embroidery. I do not care about embroidery, but I know of embroidery. Who does not?

[His small leap from ferry to dock did not require the minding of cumbersome clothing--or cloak, for that matter, as she is still wearing it. This allows Val to catch up easily so that he can fall into step beside Wysteria, and not dog after her heels.]

Artifacts of cloth are the first to deteriorate and become all but useless, if not entirely. This is well known. So I have not wasted my time familiarizing myself with anything of it. 'The lending of things'?

[He might have commented instead on the immense service. Is it so immense? Not to the degree that she has implied it. Instead--]

Then intention is that we are to imply some sort of dedicated chivalry in the lending of the cloak.

Why de Foncé! [she cries, pleased or at least sounding convincingly so in order to continue charging along toward the the familiar great series of stairs which lead most directly toward her goal.] I'm surprised to hear you are so sensitive to these subtle little things that ladies are so aware of and men so rarely are. But I suppose this must be more common in Orlais, where everyone is so sharp eyed and makes it a point to notice everything.

In any case yes, I believe that would be the assumption your widow might trusted to leap to. Painfully incorrect though it might be.

[Val scoffs. The sound rings particularly against the stones of the empty street that they are walking on.]

Please. Details are of great importance. This is including the small touches of an embroidery. It would be pure ignorance to ignore such things--and for what? Out of some sense of pride? What is there to be proud of in ignorance? [He scoffs again, makes another dismissive gesture, a man flicking water from his fingertips.] Pathetic.

And, to speak of that word--the idea of such an implication, planted in the mind of the widow--it would be consuming to her. We should work to convince her of this. A most valuable effort.

You are right - as far as the matter of details, in any case. You'll forgive me for comparing you to any number of other men I have known who failed to see the sense in such things. Although, you like mathematics. You might try your hand at cross-stitch, Monsieur. For when you are traveling and find your hands wanting occupation. As for the rest, surely work is hardly the word for it for there is nothing quite so unbelievable as two people determined to say something without speaking directly to it. I will arrive in your cloak and you may have one of my ribbons to pin to your lapel. From there, we may forget the subject entirely and the articles may do all the heavy lifting for us.

Which is, [she says, hitching her skirts up that inch or two necessary to climb the long series of stairs laid out before them.] All for the better. For I have been told I have a very poor face when it comes to lying, and should not wish to be pressed over much on the subject if Your Widow turns out to be the type to do so.

Of course I am writing or sketching during these moments that you have described--and what occupation could be better than these? Unless I should take up this pursuit and use it as a method to transcribe my notes. It would be highly irregular, and so I already like it.

[But also,] Which ribbon?

[For his part, Val takes stairs two at a time, simply out of habit. It helps to be without skirts--and to be without the heavy cloak that drags on one's shoulders. And provides warmth, yes, but even so.]

Naturally I am an excellent liar so I will be able to hold my end up. You might try saying nothing at all. A mysterious mute. [He holds up a hand.] I acknowledge, as I make the suggestion, that it is quite an impossible challenge that I put before you.

Which ribbon, he says, as if he has some preference.

[She does not take the steps two at a time, but it must be noted - which one to admire such silly things - that Wysteria Poppell is perfectly capable of traveling at a clip regardless of heavy cloaks or handfuls of skirts. She all but trots along for there is little point in taking stairs slowly if one is able.]

Have you forgotten that you've already directed me to speak about astronomy for as long as I'm able? Am I to write these thoughts down and have you read them aloud on behalf, then? It is not an impossible challenge. It is merely rather a counter intuitive one. Unless you mean to suggest that that is the kind of young lady whose company Your Widow will believe you might most prefer.

[She makes a face, then considers, and then that face resumes its place with doubled intensity.]

Surely that cannot be true, de Foncé.

Of course it was a second possibility that I suggested, not that we would try to accomplish both of these in a single evening. Really, mademoiselle.

[Val--noting nothing of the way that any stair climbing is being performed--certainly never having noticed the pace of travel or thought with any emotion akin to admiration that to be able to keep up is a quality that might be admired--scoffs again.]

The, [a light stress,] Widow would prefer for me to prefer to bring no one along with me, and so by bringing anyone along with me, I will already be in defiance of preference. The type of defiance presented will depend entirely on our invention. Do we cultivate the silence and the mystery, or do we cultivate the wit and the envy? A difficult question but one that we must decide somewhere between minor stitching and the moment that we cross the manor's threshold. And I must now ask, do you think that I do not have some preference of ribbon?

[Here, at the top of the stairs (one of many sets between here and their destination), Wysteria pauses for the time it takes to fix Val with a skeptical look so flat that it is in danger of becoming a cutting edge.]

Well? State it then. Your preference.

[Here, at the top of the stairs, Val pauses a half-step after Wysteria pauses--at first not realizing that she is pausing, then realizing that she is pausing, and so he does the same. He turns and looks at her.

Then again, he looks: up and down, considering ribbons, and reaches out to pluck one. It may seem at random.]

This.

This.

[It's one in a small collection pinned along her sleeve. She extends her hand to regard it, and it remains extended as Wysteria rolls her eyes to him.]

And why, pray tell, this particular ribbon, Monsieur?

You need only to look at it to know why. The cut of it is exquisite. Its borders, crisp. Its end, perfectly angled. There is not a hint of fraying to it. The angle at which it leaves the sleeve is particular, so that it catches the eye, almost with a slight iridescence. Of course it could not be so well replicated when pinned but for its other qualities? I select it.

[He leans in a very little to confide:] As I said, mademoiselle. The details, they are important. So they are noticed.

[The sound she makes is very similar to that favored scoffing one, only somewhat lacking in outrage and for a moment - an exceptionally brief one -, the corners of her mouth threaten toward some upward tilt.]

Well, [to mitigate the chance of a smile (it is hardly different from the others at all, and to give him any credit for suggesting otherwise would be monstrously foolish), the angle of her chin tilts higher.] In that case, I will endeavor to pin it with similar care. Here, de Foncé. Help me be rid of it. It's more easily done with two hands.

[Her arm is turned accordingly out to him.]

[Without thought at all--certainly no thought on the quality of the scoff, or the slight appearance of the nearly-upward-turned-corners-of-a-habitually-squawking-mouth, and no thought whatsoever on the proximity of an arm and the certain sort of intimacy that might be implied by being invited to pluck a ribbon off of a sleeve--indeed, no thoughts, this might as well be an everyday occurrence for Valentine de Foncé, to stand at the top of a stair in Kirkwall and reach for a young lady's arm--

--and then produce from some secret place a small penknife, which he uses to slice neatly at the ribbon's source, a deft movement and a deft sever. Commonplace.

He secrets the penknife away once more and holds the ribbon up like the prize that it is.]

It is perhaps more fetching without its fellows. To stand unopposed, singular, in the moonlight. One sees new dimension in it, so. Do you not agree, mademoiselle?

[Her dismissive 'tsk' is certainly perfectly regular, her inspection of the space left in the ribbon's wake quite serious until she is satisfied that he made no puncture in the sleeve and cut only the stitch of thread pinning the ribbon to it. The remains of the loose thread is plucked free. The unadorned gap of fabric is unnecessarily smoothed.]

Next you will suggest that it will look better pinned to your lapel than on myself.

[That—her own wit, for who will appreciate your jokes if not yourself?—does make her smile. With a shift of the cloak's heavy edge, she tucks her arm out of sight once more.]

Now, let us be on our way. We've skirts do up and now you require a stitch as well. We cannot keep Your Widow waiting for the entire evening.

We could.

[Val, holding the ribbon to himself, cranes his neck so that he might see how it will look when it is properly fixed in place. Does it look better upon the lapel? It very well might.]

It would be very controversial, to accept an invitation and then not to show face--and then, to later make the excuse: oh, madame, pray excuse me, I was stitching with the mademoiselle.. No one would know what to make of such a thing.

And miss out on Gerard? Monsieur, I myself am scandalized! You said it was a rare collection, did you not? To say nothing of the fact that I've changed my plans once already. No, I'm afraid you're somewhat obligated to the thing now, which I know is a word you hate. Obligated. But in cases such as these, when we have gone to such lengths as snipping ribbons and so on and there is so much on offer at stake—I believe you also mentioned that Your Widow keeps a respectable cook, yes?—, there is little choice but to take the blow.

[She 'tsks' once more for good measure, all high good humor, and fixes him with a long sidelong look before striking out after the next set of stairs.]

I will not teach you, by the way. Cross-stitch. Not even if you asked me to.

[Conjured first by the utterance of the offensive o-word--obligated--Val's sneer lingers. He allows the walls to bear the momentary brunt of it before he turns to catch up to Wysteria, and join her in taking on the next stairs.]

Why is it that I would be asking your tutelage? I have learned a great many things without you. I expect to continue to learn a great many things without you. For there are, I assume, books upon the subject? This will make an excellent starting point. Once I have learned all that they have to teach, I shall move beyond them, to the practical application and practice of the skill. All entirely alone. What is it that you presume that you would be showing me, if I were to ask you to do so?

You know, I don't believe that I've ever read such a book. But it is possible. Thedas has such an admirably robust culture of publication! I learned from little leaflets other ladies had made, and from having seen their stitching and practicing and so on. To that end, I imagine the thing to be very particular to the place it comes from, even a thing as routine as cross-stitch. Which is, [she admits, with a look to him.] Rather basic at its heart.

But if you are learning out of a book made here, you will be learning Thedosian cross-stitch. Meanwhile, it's possible that I'm the only person in the entire world who knows certain Kalvadan variations.

[How many ways are there to draw an x with thread? Hardly so many that Thedas can have failed to sort the entirety of them, even if the names are all different.]

However, I won't be swayed. For I've already decided that I would make a very poor instructor to you as I've no patience for it at all.

[How does one resist the lure? How can one do anything but show interest in the obscure variations on some topic, so obscure they are known only to one instructor, whose reluctance to teach the method would only serve to increase the obscurity?

Well.]

Yes, you would make a poor instructor. [--With a kind of absent thoughtfulness.] You are good to think of me, mademoiselle, in coming to that conclusion. In fact I am grateful that you will not be swayed, and that your patience is so very thin. It is good of you to know yourself so well. Perhaps I might be lucky and someday find that the Rift has blessed us with another of Kalvad whose virtues include an aptitude for instruction. And with a little pamphlet of instructions for cross-stitch--but I suppose I should not be greedy. I will take the merer, patience. It will be welcome.

MOD EVENT ↠ SATINALIA

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)