Satinalia, part I: Arrendajo
Hmm. Some imagery that crossed my mind. This should be in no way considered "canon" for Alessar, not anytime soon, anyway. ;) Maybe it will be some day, who knows?
This is spoilerish for the epilogue of Awakenings, as well as for a certain letter that never appeared in the game... but really, it's so vague that I'm not sure I'd consider it a spoiler. XD
(If one is somewhat familiar with birds, there is anare extra layers of meaning here that Alessar is not aware of... and a big thanks to barkingM1 on the BioWare boards for adding a few. XD)
Satinalia, Part I: Arrendajo
Author: jenovan
Rating: G
Warnings: none
The Plaza of Lions, the first evening of Satinalia. I will find you.
Alessar realized his hand was trembling slightly as he read and re-read the note. Taking a deep breath to collect himself, he let the parchment fall to the bed, where it landed on top of the small chest it had accompanied. It mattered little that the note was not in his grasp, however; he could close his eyes and see that single line of text, the hand so achingly familiar, burned into his eyelids.
Finally.
A messenger had intercepted him not long after he arrived in Antiva City. He had expected contact of some sort -- from the Crows if not from Zevran -- and had not been disappointed. Of course, that was assuming that "Zevran" and "The Crows" were separate entities at this point... What was going on here?
He had come for answers, to that and to other questions harder to put into words, but that first, brief message, also in Zevran's fine script (did Crows train in penmanship? He'd never asked...), had asked him to wait, to lay low. That seemed sensible enough; he was a foreigner, after all, and one who would very likely attract all the wrong kind of attention if his identity became known. Better to keep quiet until his lover (...if they were still to be considered such, after so long...) decided the coast was clear.
And so he had, keeping mostly to his rented room above a weavers' workshop for the past five days. He had a window that looked out onto a small market square, and that view had provided him with a tolerable way to pass the time. Never too proud to earn his keep (or, in this case, to at least defray some of his expenses), he'd also helped the weavers -- two middle-aged human sisters, and the daughter of the elder sister -- compile some of their rich dyes. Unsurprisingly, many of the materials the Antivans used were different from what Alessar had grown up with, and he had found the work interesting, much to the amusement of his landladies.
But even if these labors helped the days to pass faster, the nights crawled by. All of the questions he managed to push aside in the daylight hours came flooding back, seemingly with more in tow each night. First and foremost was, how long must I wait? It had been... difficult... in Amaranthine, not knowing if Zevran was even alive and well, but now, knowing he was somewhere in the same city and not being able to see him... It was an entirely new level of frustration, whipped together with a high degree of anxiety into a maddening froth.
Today had finally brought something different, a break in the pattern: another forgettable messenger -- a human boy who could, and did, disappear into a crowd at will -- had brought him the chest and the note. Satinalia. That was only four days away. The tempo of the city had already increased as preparations for the festival got into full swing, and now Alessar had the most compelling reason of all to look forward to the revelry.
But the Satinalia was a riot of masks and madness -- and Antiva's festivals were legendary. It was, naturally, a perfect time to meet someone clandestinely, but how did Zevran intend to find him?
Ah. Of course. His eyes fell to the chest, a small treasure in and of itself even if it were empty. Carefully setting the note aside, he admired the box's delicate embellishments -- patterns of twisted silver wire inlaid into the dark wood -- before flipping up the catch and opening it.
His breath caught in surprise. Oh, there was a mask, just as he had expected, and there seemed to be garments beneath it, as well. But the mask itself...
He picked it up gingerly. It was a bird mask, made of shaped leather, with a long, straight beak that would jut out a good hand's-length beyond his face. Most of the surface of the mask had been painted, but tiny feathers surrounded the eyes and covered the top half of the thing before giving way to longer, more striking feathers at the edges. The markings, mimicked to outstanding effect by the unknown artisan, were immediately recognizable to Alessar, although he wasn't sure if such birds existed in Antiva.
It was a laughing jay, colored in white and black and rich blue-gray -- colors that he preferred, and Zevran, of course, would be well aware of that. Now very curious about the rest of the ensemble, Alessar gently set the mask down and pulled out the bundle of clothing lining the bottom of the trunk.
First was a pair of dark gray velvet trews that looked to be close-fitting -- well, that was appropriate, to mimic a bird's legs. It was also appropriate for Zevran's tastes in clothing... Alessar stubbornly pushed that thought away as he picked up the other garment.
It was a silk tunic, its base color the same blue-gray of the mask's feathers. The sleeves had been made extremely long, and would reach past his knees when he wore the thing, but half of that length had been cut into "feathers" that would drape from his wrists, suggesting wings. Black bars had been dyed or painted onto the "feathers", just as on a jay's wings, and the tip of each "feather" had been painted white and then dusted with something silvery to draw the eye. The effect, particularly with the mask, would be quite literally fantastic.
Maker's Breath! How much must this have cost...? the elf thought as he held up the tunic, his amazement only growing the longer he looked at it. I'm almost afraid to wear it.
But wearing it was how he would finally find Zevran... or more likely, how Zevran would find him. So much for laying low! he thought ruefully, although from what he'd seen in the market, and in the weavers' shop, extravagance was the name of the game for Satinalia. His new costume might stand out for its unfamiliarity, but certainly not for its richness.
He had no doubt now that Zevran would be able to find him, even in the midst of the festival crowds... but... what would come after that? The possibilities, spanning from foolishly optimistic to heart-stoppingly terrifying, nearly made him dizzy as he carefully folded the costume back into the trunk. Underneath those swirling thoughts, however, two phrases drummed a refrain, steady and simple as a heartbeat.
Satinalia. The Plaza of Lions.
. to be continued.
This is spoilerish for the epilogue of Awakenings, as well as for a certain letter that never appeared in the game... but really, it's so vague that I'm not sure I'd consider it a spoiler. XD
(If one is somewhat familiar with birds, there is anare extra layers of meaning here that Alessar is not aware of... and a big thanks to barkingM1 on the BioWare boards for adding a few. XD)
Satinalia, Part I: Arrendajo
Author: jenovan
Rating: G
Warnings: none
The Plaza of Lions, the first evening of Satinalia. I will find you.
Alessar realized his hand was trembling slightly as he read and re-read the note. Taking a deep breath to collect himself, he let the parchment fall to the bed, where it landed on top of the small chest it had accompanied. It mattered little that the note was not in his grasp, however; he could close his eyes and see that single line of text, the hand so achingly familiar, burned into his eyelids.
Finally.
A messenger had intercepted him not long after he arrived in Antiva City. He had expected contact of some sort -- from the Crows if not from Zevran -- and had not been disappointed. Of course, that was assuming that "Zevran" and "The Crows" were separate entities at this point... What was going on here?
He had come for answers, to that and to other questions harder to put into words, but that first, brief message, also in Zevran's fine script (did Crows train in penmanship? He'd never asked...), had asked him to wait, to lay low. That seemed sensible enough; he was a foreigner, after all, and one who would very likely attract all the wrong kind of attention if his identity became known. Better to keep quiet until his lover (...if they were still to be considered such, after so long...) decided the coast was clear.
And so he had, keeping mostly to his rented room above a weavers' workshop for the past five days. He had a window that looked out onto a small market square, and that view had provided him with a tolerable way to pass the time. Never too proud to earn his keep (or, in this case, to at least defray some of his expenses), he'd also helped the weavers -- two middle-aged human sisters, and the daughter of the elder sister -- compile some of their rich dyes. Unsurprisingly, many of the materials the Antivans used were different from what Alessar had grown up with, and he had found the work interesting, much to the amusement of his landladies.
But even if these labors helped the days to pass faster, the nights crawled by. All of the questions he managed to push aside in the daylight hours came flooding back, seemingly with more in tow each night. First and foremost was, how long must I wait? It had been... difficult... in Amaranthine, not knowing if Zevran was even alive and well, but now, knowing he was somewhere in the same city and not being able to see him... It was an entirely new level of frustration, whipped together with a high degree of anxiety into a maddening froth.
Today had finally brought something different, a break in the pattern: another forgettable messenger -- a human boy who could, and did, disappear into a crowd at will -- had brought him the chest and the note. Satinalia. That was only four days away. The tempo of the city had already increased as preparations for the festival got into full swing, and now Alessar had the most compelling reason of all to look forward to the revelry.
But the Satinalia was a riot of masks and madness -- and Antiva's festivals were legendary. It was, naturally, a perfect time to meet someone clandestinely, but how did Zevran intend to find him?
Ah. Of course. His eyes fell to the chest, a small treasure in and of itself even if it were empty. Carefully setting the note aside, he admired the box's delicate embellishments -- patterns of twisted silver wire inlaid into the dark wood -- before flipping up the catch and opening it.
His breath caught in surprise. Oh, there was a mask, just as he had expected, and there seemed to be garments beneath it, as well. But the mask itself...
He picked it up gingerly. It was a bird mask, made of shaped leather, with a long, straight beak that would jut out a good hand's-length beyond his face. Most of the surface of the mask had been painted, but tiny feathers surrounded the eyes and covered the top half of the thing before giving way to longer, more striking feathers at the edges. The markings, mimicked to outstanding effect by the unknown artisan, were immediately recognizable to Alessar, although he wasn't sure if such birds existed in Antiva.
It was a laughing jay, colored in white and black and rich blue-gray -- colors that he preferred, and Zevran, of course, would be well aware of that. Now very curious about the rest of the ensemble, Alessar gently set the mask down and pulled out the bundle of clothing lining the bottom of the trunk.
First was a pair of dark gray velvet trews that looked to be close-fitting -- well, that was appropriate, to mimic a bird's legs. It was also appropriate for Zevran's tastes in clothing... Alessar stubbornly pushed that thought away as he picked up the other garment.
It was a silk tunic, its base color the same blue-gray of the mask's feathers. The sleeves had been made extremely long, and would reach past his knees when he wore the thing, but half of that length had been cut into "feathers" that would drape from his wrists, suggesting wings. Black bars had been dyed or painted onto the "feathers", just as on a jay's wings, and the tip of each "feather" had been painted white and then dusted with something silvery to draw the eye. The effect, particularly with the mask, would be quite literally fantastic.
Maker's Breath! How much must this have cost...? the elf thought as he held up the tunic, his amazement only growing the longer he looked at it. I'm almost afraid to wear it.
But wearing it was how he would finally find Zevran... or more likely, how Zevran would find him. So much for laying low! he thought ruefully, although from what he'd seen in the market, and in the weavers' shop, extravagance was the name of the game for Satinalia. His new costume might stand out for its unfamiliarity, but certainly not for its richness.
He had no doubt now that Zevran would be able to find him, even in the midst of the festival crowds... but... what would come after that? The possibilities, spanning from foolishly optimistic to heart-stoppingly terrifying, nearly made him dizzy as he carefully folded the costume back into the trunk. Underneath those swirling thoughts, however, two phrases drummed a refrain, steady and simple as a heartbeat.
Satinalia. The Plaza of Lions.
. to be continued.