faderift | SATINALIA

Entry tags:

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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

i. dancing (or thereabouts)

[ There is a shy bone in Bastien's body. One shy bone. Medium-sized. So he arrives at the party dressed like a character from Les Chats, but in a homespun, relatively tasteful way. And he jumps right into the dancing, eventually trying to press people into shambling renditions of the dances of his people, but he's not anywhere near as flashy as his obvious familiarity with any given step might allow him to be.

And he won't dance alone. When there's a floor-clearing lull before he's ready to quit himself, despite the faint clammy sweat he's worked up in the cool evening air, he holds out a hand to whoever is both nearby and at least semi plausibly going to agree, fingers wiggling in invitation, eyes beseeching without going full overblown beg. ]

Please? There are only so many Riftwatch parties we don't have to play ourselves.

ii. bonfire

[ He does tire out eventually, at which point he can be found on his back by the bonfire with a cup that's all spice, no wine, staring at the sky instead of the fire. ]

Wings or invisibility?

[ —needs no context, clearly. ]

[ He did not lose a tooth.

But he is bleeding rather profusely inside his mouth, at the moment, where his front teeth cut into his lips when he slammed face-first into the wall. When he moves his hand aside his teeth are red, his mouth smudged. One cheek is already bruising. ]

I won, [ the race he did not stop racing in time to avoid this. ] I—shit.

[ He's still on his skates, wobbling slightly in the way of a brain-rattled man who does not realize he's wobbly yet.

He feels his nose. Not broken. So everything's fine! ]

Right? I won.

Upon seeing the ice rink, and considering the trajectory of the race, Derrica had taken it upon herself to occupy the stone wall opposite the finish line. It seemed the best place for a healer, all things considered.

"Yes," she answers, without any authority to make such a ruling, or even the knowledge. She hadn't been watching closely for who was reaching the far side, only who made the most explosive finish. "Yes, you won."

Is there room for contradictions? Probably.

Derrica is reaching for his arm regardless, eyes moving intently over his face as she says, "Let me see?"

No, he hasn't lost a tooth. Small blessings.

[She isn't meant to be dancing. She'd sworn it off months and months ago, and had said as much when the subject had been raised.

Yet here Wysteria is, lingering at the edge of the dance floor and looking like a particularly hopeful and strikingly effective Nevarran mummy thanks to her darkest dress, a prodigious supply of cotton wrapping temporarily pilfered from the clinic, and the elaborate prosthetic worn on her left side. The whole effect is charmingly macabre, even as she has spent the last however long laughing at the dance floor hijinks that are all but required at any Riftwatch Only function.

She laughs harder now at the invitation.]

I don't know the steps for this one, Monsieur Cat.

skating;

[ Having failed to arrange for himself a dedicated costume, Loxley has instead simply worn every garish piece of clothing he owns. An orange shirt beneath a trim blue jacket, a flowing golden sash and trousers of mustard-yellow stripes. On their own, or paired with the correct items, each individual piece is an acceptable level of colourful, but altogether make for more of a riot.

He makes for a colourful sight on the ice rink, anyway, having very confidently strapped on some skates and set out as if he had ever done this before. ]

Fuck—

[ —might pass you by as one lanky qunari goes sliding past, half-crouched in a bid to lower his centre of gravity, arms out to balance.

The desire to go fast paired with a desire not to go arse over teakettle distinctly at war, but he gets the hang of it quickly enough, until he can be found hurtling in reckless loops around the rink, or perhaps you find your arm linked with his where he stealths up from behind, with anyone he is at least half familiar with. ]

dancing;

[ Dancing, later, once the immediate novelty of the ice has passed. It's been years enough for him to have picked up some local steps. There is now silver decorating his horns, pointed caps that make the curled ends come up in sharp points, and a couple of rings nearer the thicker base. ]

I can show you, [ is his invitation to whomever he might have drawn into a dance with. ] Or we can make it up.

wildcard;

[ ooc ; feel free to switch to nonbrackettes. ]

skating;

[ Having lent some assistance in the forming of the ice rink, mostly for a girl, Marcus eventually makes his way out onto the ice for reasons of helping maintain it. (He is not in costume, himself, unless the fact he is in casual and comfortable garments, hair left loose, is costume enough for anyone he doesn't share intimate quarters with.) That he does not strictly need to put on skates and go out there to do so, really, is a modestly tilted hand towards festivity.

Content, first, with placid loops to become familiar with that treacherously slippery feel of ice under bladed foot. Occasionally, there's a glimmer, coating over melted or worn-down patches of ice with magic that streams from open palm in pulses of bright blue light.

Otherwise, he is easily goaded into racing. ]

bonfire;

[ Because later, Marcus does exit the rink with a bright red streak of fresh blood soaking in from the inside of the knee of his trousers from when he took a harsh tumble, but he doesn't pay it very much mind. Seated, now, by the fire, he has in his hand a wooden pipe with griffon shapes carved into it, packing dry leaf into it.

The usual smell of burning tobacco follows, but it's mingled with a sweeter trace of elfroot. As ever, he is content to keep his own company, watching people or watching the fire. ]

wildcard;

[ ooc ; feel free to switch to nonbrackettes. ]

He inches closer on his skates when touched, no resistance. It's the adrenaline—from the (alleged) win, from the pain—that makes him grin more than grimace in the process of exposing his mouth for her inspection. Adrenaline and a very reasonable two drinks.

"Keep healing us all like this," he says, "and we're never going to learn any lessons."

[For a man who grew up, quite literally, on the shores of a lake, Julius doesn't have a great deal of skating experience. But after watching others for a while, and perhaps one other in particular, the pleasure of it is tempting. He acquires a pair of skates and ventures out onto the ice, tentatively at first. He's dressed comfortably and practically, at least, so he's not working against an impractical costume as he finds the trick of balancing.

He'll make his way over to Marcus in a moment, when he's confident he won't fall on his face.]

"I think the only lesson we need to be concerned with is finding a better place for the ice next year."

Obliged, she tows him close, sways him until she can prop his shoulders back against the stone. He's on skates. His pride won't survive his legs sliding out from under him.

"What did you win?" she asks, with fingers gentle at his jaw. This is a fair amount of blood, but through it she checks again: yes, all his teeth right where they should be. And a cut, that she soothes away with a whisper of a spell, pressed to the corner of his mouth by her thumb.

[ He grins wide, charmed by her laugh and by the costume, which is only improved by the fact that she's one of the most alive people in the fortress. ]

You can pick it up, Madame Momie.

[ He's shifting from foot to foot, just short of hops. ]

Or—no. Teach me one of yours. From before. Do you know anything for this tempo? I can ask them to change it.

( by contrast—

petrana is in her element. she is, perhaps, the happiest that she's ever openly been in front of so many of their compatriots; not the gladdest that anyone here has ever seen her, but the most relaxed she's ever seemed with so many eyes around if not on her. in the new riding habit that marcus had gifted her, skirts full and not buttoned up, she is doing idle and, indeed, less idle loops as they get their bearings.

twirling, with increased confidence, after so long away from the ice. it's muscle memory, after all, and she's long been able to point to her balance and her control over her own physicality as some of her greatest traits.

it's easy, joyous. few things are, these days. )

[ Marcus imagines that he could have contented himself by staying safely on the sidelines, watching Petrana carve pretty swirls and loops into the ice in her turns, smiling and fluttering. But then he notes Julius' careful entrance onto the rink, and is differently glad for that. He waits with some patience until it seems the other man has the motions of it—

The scrape of metal on ice directly behind Julius precedes a hand in the middle of his back, and the subtle pressure of a push forward to increase his speed.

(It should be noted that Marcus probably only has a little more experience than Julius appears to, made negligible by how many years its been since, and only appears not to be on the verge of disaster at any second.)

But anyway— ]

i. skating

Like most things she does, Clarisse's skating is fast, aggressive, and for show. She spends a lot of her time on the rink working on hairpin turns that end up sending ice spray into the air, but manages (barely) to avoid actually hitting anybody with it.

When she isn't doing that, she's challenging people to a race across the rink, or trying to get them to play hockey against her one-on-one. The thought of possibly crashing into stone at the other end of the rink doesn't seem to bother her whatsoever.

"Come on, don't be a coward!"

ii. bonfire

The bonfire is, for her, a more chilled out experience.

It's something they always did back home, every night, no matter what, and so the routine of hanging out near the flames with a warm drink in her hand and music playing from nearby has Clarisse falling into an almost Pavlovian response of calm.

She settles into a seat near the fire and takes a sip of her wine. Huh. It's good. There's a new bruise on one cheek from an Incident on the skating rink, but she doesn't seem bothered.

"Who do you think's going to get the most wasted tonight?" Just a casual question, guys, really.

(( feel free to wildcard! ))

[ Clarisse doesn't even need to think about it— ]

Invisibility. No question.

[It startles him, but he laughs, which as reactions go is probably close to ideal under the circumstances.]

Am I holding you up?

[He is getting the hang of it, slowly, but it's different to anything he's done before. (That, and he doesn't have the ability to refreeze the ice as needed.)]

"A," he says.

And pauses. The sensation of pain leaving is particularly odd when one hasn't quite managed to feel the pain in the first place. His head makes a jerky movement like he's caught the chills.

To finish the thought: "A mouthful of blood."

The bloodstained grin has reduced to a blood-smudged smile. He moves one skate; it moves further than he wanted it to, and it's only both hands going back against the stone for supportive friction that keeps him from going straight down.

"I haven't done this," as an excuse, "since I was eighteen."

i. bonfire
[Here is something of a yearly tradition too: Riftwatch's Commander makes a brief appearance at any Satinalia festivities—long enough to recommend a fellow division head for fool maybe, or to have a cup of wine—, and then he can be relied upon to steal a bottle of wine and disappear elsewhere for the remainder of the night. Further, he hasn't worn a costume since that first Satinalia in the Gallows when he and the rest of the Nascere pirates stuck in the harbor had crashed the party to raid it for wine casks, well before Coupe had retired from her post and he'd stepped into it.

So there must be something more than just the crisp touch of winter on the air tonight. What other explanation is there for Flint's continued presence, or for the wolf's mask, and the black fur mantle he's donned over his coat for the evening?

—Well, the last one makes some sense; it's cold. See also why he's presently warming his hands near the bonfire, one held out toward the ambient heat and the other enjoying the residual warmth coming through a pewter tankard filled with mulled wine. Every now and then, he swaps which hands is occupied with which, the assortment of rings on his fingers glinting as gold animal eyes might in the firelight.]

ii. dancing.
[The music is, at best, slightly off its rhythm. But there's something to be said for enthusiasm shortening the distance one must travel to accomplishment, as this is the second time this particular band with its cheerful but entirely mediocre drum player has come up to play and the ranks of dancers on the floor and would-be partners on the fringes has only grown in response.

(Might it also have something to do with the fact that there's been time for third and fourth drinks to reach the head, and for some people to tire of risking life and limb on the make-do ice skating rink? Maybe. Who can say.)

One finds themselves subject to unlikely partners in such circumstances. Which explains how in one of those sweeping line dances where hands are constantly changing how one might suddenly and unexpectedly find themselves being traded from one partner and into Flint's possession, then subsequently swept deftly away on the new leg. He might be a surly old wolf, but apparently he makes for a startlingly able dance partner.

Or, later, when some other band has rotated in to relive the Enthusiastic Drummer from his duties and subsequently the tempo and tenor have both suffered a change: Flint, an idle participant in the knots of conversation bordering the dance floor, sighs, sets his cup down, and offers a hand to someone nebulously game to be victimized by the music.]

We might be better off facing it directly.

iii. wildcard
(ooc: Feel free to ditch the brackets if you'd prefer.)

No question!

[ An echo, impressed at her decisiveness, rather than agreement. ]

Why?

Think about all the things you could do if nobody could see you.

[ She sips her wine and adds, ] Besides. Wings would look stupid on me and if I wanted to fly I'd just grab a griffon or something. [ It's a win-win. ]

"I've never done it."

A break, in which Derrica presses her palm to his forehead, then the side of his head. Checking for any rising lumps, any scrapes or bruises.

"But I'm guessing you won all your races, and even received a better prize when you were eighteen?"

Her tone is very fond. Kostos' grin and the smile that follows it are so good to see, even with so much blood to accentuate it. Derrica plants one boot on the opposite side of his skates, though it's unclear whether that will prevent him from sliding away in a moment or two if he weight shifts again.

"I miss your playing," might sound like flattery, but it's sincere.

The beat of hesitation that follows it, however, does resolve into a nod as she puts her hand into his.

"But I don't know the steps to this one."

All these years in Kirkwall, attending Satinalias where southern style of dancing was on full display, and all Derrica's managed was a handful of steps. Not out of time, just unfamiliar.

"You'll have to lead," she tells him, a condition, as her hand tightens in his.

It's been more than a year, so Ellie can hopefully get away with wearing the same fancy clothes twice, with her hair falling loose around her face for once. Unfortunately she is also in those fancy clothes while she laces on borrowed ice skates. On the first few passes she wobbles unsteadily around the rink, obviously familiar with the concept but without much practice, and could probably use a bit of instruction, or maybe literal support to keep from falling on her ass more than a half-dozen times.

Either she skates up to someone's side, or catches herself on the stone at the sidelines with a loud oof as the air's forced out of her.

"... do you know how to stop without running into something?"

Later, happily bruised and with her pants somewhat crusted in ice fragments, Ellie finds her way over to the dance floor. Perhaps surprisingly, she knows how to dance passably well in a ballroom style, but more importantly, both how to lead and how to follow.

"If you want, I can teach you?" she offers to anyone looking apprehensively at the dance floor (who might reasonably want to join), especially new people. "Don't worry, I'm wearing boots."

If it's a friend she's danced with at any point before, she'll grin as soon as they lock eyes and hold out a hand. "Lead or follow?"

Later, when the performers begin to flag and get tired, when everyone's started to get boozy, Ellie briefly disappears and comes back with a dulcimer. (And she will give her jam band buddies a glance or two to silently invite them to join her, if they'd like. No pressure.)

Regardless of whether anybody joins, she'll play a few softer, slower songs to round out the evening. Good for slow-dancing to or just to play in the background of a conversation. If someone wanders over to talk to her between songs, she'll ask:

"Any requests? Can't promise it'll be perfect."

[Or wildcard me, baby.]

[At some point in the evening, Flint does grow sick of the company and extracts himself from the festivities. But rather than disappear into the central tower and deal with all the stairs between him and the division offices, he instead makes his way down to the Gallows slip where Gwenaëlle's eyesore of a houseboat is blighting the landscape of otherwise respectable smallcraft which compose a majority of Riftwatch's quote unquote fleet. The string of assorted boats have yet to be hauled out and stowed away from the winter. Lined there now in the houseboat's shadow, their various rigs rolled up and tarpaulins drawn tight from gunwale to gunwale, shifting against their springlines at the behest of the night's weather and the pull of the tide, they look very like nervous ducklings crowding for the protection of their mean mother's wing.

Hours later, having spent the time splitting a considerably better bottle of wine than those on offer at the party while treating themselves to the skewering of some fucking awful collection of poetry recently published out of an ordinarily respectable Orlesian press, Flint set his empty cup aside. He draws the black fur mantle back about his shoulders, and together he and Gwenaëlle make their way out into the night so they might continue discussing the last of their conspiracy theories regarding the poet's nepotistic connections for the length of the walk to the central tower's stairwell.

It's late. The air has taken a cutting turn. The bonfires have died, and there is no more sound of musicians clanging inexpertly away. Anyone wishing to continue the festivities has clearly either retired to warmer rooms, or has crossed the harbor and into Kirkwall proper. The skating rink, evidently satisfied with its evening of blood sacrifices, has been entirely abandoned.]

i. skating

Gela does not own anything nice enough to constitute costumery, but she does wear her favourite skirt (which should count considering she's patched it over many times with bright and different colours, the result aggressively cheerful against the dull white of winter). She is out onto the ice the moment she spots it, to go round and round the edge of the rink, her hands clasped behind her back.

Until she sees somebody reluctant to join in, or having trouble with their first few steps- then she's by them in a flash, ice spraying in a little arc when she stops. She reaches out with both her hands, gesturing in earnest. "C'mon. Around with me, up you get-"

ii. bonfire

Once she has exhausted the ice- it does take a while, she has been at it for maybe an hour- she comes to toe her skates off near the fire, get the warmth back into her hands. She has accepted a hot cup of cider to drink and it smells sweet and fermented.

Gela's cheeks are chapped red, and curls of hair have escaped from the loose knot at the back of her head to frame her face. Looking about, she notices that the unsuspecting person closest to her has left their neck exposed! Her mouth curls with mischief. Abandoning a skate that is still half on, she reaches over, and lays her freezing cold fingers across the skin there.

iii. wildcard

(Insert own or get me to write you something! So fine w switching to brackets x)

Nah. No, she's no good at skating, and isn't about to get out there while Clarisse is zooming around, doing tight, 90 degree angle corners. But she will be an unruly spectator- this involves gathering snow up into her mittened hands, and packing it tight, before she chucks it hard at Clarisse as she whizzes by.

Missing, obviously. It spatters across the ice.

But this gives her a heads up for the next one, which is being hurriedly made-

She's grinning when she calls out, "Show off!"

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 33

SATINALIA

bastien | ota | will swap out of brackets np

kostos | ota | injury cw | will swap out of brackets np

yoinks from brackets

i.

loxley. ota.

marcus. ota.

no subject

skating time

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

clarisse | ota

ii

no subject

no subject

flint | ota

no subject

no subject

no subject

i.

Ellie | OTA

gwen;

Gela, OTA

skating