faderift | SATINALIA

WHO: Everybody!!
WHAT: SATINALIA!!
WHEN: Backdated to the first day of Firstfall
WHERE: Gallows courtyard
NOTES: Drunkenness and shenanigans. HALLOWEENMAS!!

This Satinalia is, perhaps, less grand than in years past. Blockades are still limiting access to luxury goods, after all, so the fine liquors and dainty foods that have been featured before are nowhere to be found. And Tertia, the temporary Morale Officer, doesn't have the connections or deft touch of organizers past, so things are rougher than they've been before - the musicians are less polished, the ale a little more watered-down, the decorations somewhat haphazard.

But you know what? It's still Satinalia. Nothing can really screw up Satinalia. Especially because there are some rather lovely touches, the best of which might well be the ice skating rink. A section of the Gallows Courtyard has been roped off and frozen over with magic, leaving a (largely) smooth sheet of ice covering it. Skates are available to borrow if you don't have a pair. Of course, some injuries are definitely going to result (if you skate off the edge, you're smacking into stone instead of a soft snowbank, which can be disastrous), but hey, it's fun.

Other perks are the bonfires, with mulled wine and cider being served out of cauldrons around them, where people might sit and reflect while watching the flame. There's also dancing, of course, with the musicians basically being any band that's been recommended by members of Riftwatch - so there are lots of half-competent cousins-of-friends playing here. What they lack in skill they make up for in enthusiasm; this is the first gig for a lot of them, and they're thrilled to be here.

One thing that's missing is the Satinalia fool being named ruler. Tertia wasn't familiar with this tradition and didn't arrange it - so there's a last-minute campaign being held, in which people can either nominate others or self-nominate to be named Riftwatch's greatest fool to be celebrated.

Enjoy yourself. Exchange presents. Get drunk. Have a blast. Don't lose any teeth.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Loxley's sigh out is more impulsive than a conscious gesture, like the question applies compression to his lungs as careful hands scoop a cat up from the ground. Some of Loxley's initial hackling, though, is already smoothing out, turning the empty cup in his hand before gesturing with it.

"This first," he says. It's Satinalia, after all.

He stands, balanced on his feet despite being loose of limb right now, his other hand pointing at Richard—don't go anywhere—as he departs for where the casks of wine are gathered. The golden sash he's wearing is, recognisably, a prior gift from Richard, during a Satinalia when he was apparently feeling more festive.

Another cup is collected, and deep red wine is emptied into each vessel. This excursion allows for a little quick thinking, of how he might go about answering Richard's question, but gods know it'll just be whatever comes out his mouth in the moment, probably.

He returns. Hopefully Dick is still there to receive his replenished cup.

Richard is where Loxley left him, speaking quietly to the wall-eyed cat in his arms.

The task of smoothing her coat has eased the ringing in his ears. His composure is steadier, the heat under his collar vented off into a sigh that drifts slow through the firelight.

He too is outfitted in gifts from the spirits of Satinalias past: his black cloak is fine, the clasp at his breastbone a pair of intertwined serpents in silver. The wool-lined vest beneath it might be familiar to Loxley’s eye, were it not layered away beneath a coat.

Of more pressing concern, he has the look of someone who is considering calling it for the night when Loxley returns to him with a full cup. It’s not a literal escape, but it is the next best thing.

He vanishes Thot to reach for it. Someone with better vision might catch her reappearing under a table a beat later.

“Thank you.”

Expectant.

Loxley nods at the thanks, glances in the wrong direction in an attempt to track Thot. Normally she might be winding herself around his ankles by now or making an attempt at his shoulders, but he only marks the absence and moves on.

Expectant, this pause.

Loxley sips his wine. Says, "It was very shitty all around," just in case Richard had missed that memo. "For everyone. We'd been moving through a temple and completing puzzles," you know how it is, fellow adventurer, "that is, myself, Derrica, the Commander, Gwenaëlle Baudin. And then we were in a room where there was no getting out, and a spirit demanded we make a sacrifice. To leave, and to get the information we came for.

"There wasn't any choice in that. At least, it didn't seem so."

Sometimes, Loxley talks around a thing. It's usually an inevitable circling to a truth rather than a real act of evasion, at least as far as his friends are concerned, but all the same. Meandering is telegraphed in a look down into his cup, bringing it up to drink from.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” could be a genuine apology. Even for Loxley, or perhaps especially for him, it’s very difficult to tell. Richard chases it with a swallow of wine long enough that he has to wait for the warmth of it to sizzle itself off to fully return to himself.

The break gives him time to watch Loxley looking down into his own cup before he drinks.

“What kind of sacrifice?”

Surely someone asked.

Loxley gives a sound at this apology—refusal, muffled into his wine cup. Loxley is not sorry Richard missed it. Of course, he takes it at face value even as he shakes his head, don't be.

"The old fashioned sort," he answers. "A life, of course."

In the gloom, he transmits a smile across at Richard, white and symmetrical, a little sharp. "But it asked for something from each of us instead." He gestures up towards his face. "Merciful, really, in that context. Gwenaëlle gave up the same as me. Derrica, her mother-tongue. The Commander, his swordsmanship."

And so they reach the neat conclusion of the story, everyone blameless, everyone suffering penalty, but everyone alive. A Satinalian miracle.

"I've been assured that I look very dashing this way," he adds. "So I'll appreciate you not to ruin it for me. As a gift, if you like."

There’s nothing unusual about the closeness with which Richard listens, suspicion razor honed well shy of judgment.

“The spirit demanded you sacrifice the life of one of your party members?”

Dire stakes for entities more often taken with romantic notions of mortal combat or putting one’s childhood on display for all to see. Even the cruel exchange they brokered in the end has bite, as seen before him now in the eyepatch tilting along with Loxley’s affectations.

“You’re certain it wasn’t a demon?”

A pause, a tilt of his cup, and he loosens the talonhold of his dissection to pivot with a more familiar:

“It should go without saying you’re more handsome than ever.”

Edited (sing ular) 2023-01-03 06:05 (UTC)

This last part has Loxley raising his glass in thanks, a flicker of a smile, but sort of hovers it in place as he considers the question. Then, a shake of his head.

"I'm certain of nothing. They were purporting to be ancient elven gods, and maybe they even were."

An eye, vanishing as if it had been cut out of his head years ago. A language, a skillset. The potentiality of memories, in one case, and an even finer surgery in removing the basis of a friendship, in another.

"Or this plane actually does have the Fey, and no one knew about it 'til now."

A little Satinalia flattery, as a treat.

Richard drinks.

The pieces Thedas has taken from him were burned and carved and clawed out, leaving nicks and scars and harder frown lines than the ones he arrived with. Grey hazing in at the temples.

Thot is still nowhere to be seen.

“I should read this report.”

"A thrilling read, no doubt."

—has an air of definite sarcasm.

"But I understand the information gathered was worth it." Another swoopy gesture of his glass, as if to suggest that Mr. Dickerson can soon be the judge of that. "I'm mostly just thrilled to be alive, still."

"Likewise."

Has Richard Dickerson ever been thrilled about anything? He doesn’t look or sound it, level over another long draw off the cup. No amount of mulled wine --

"Did you have holiday business you wished to discuss or was it your sole motivation to take years off of my life?"

SATINALIA

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