December Event - Long Nights, Bright Lights [Holiday Catchall]

[pumpkinhollow]

Long Nights,
Bright Lights

All Manner of Celebrations

Winter is hard for everyone, but none more so than the residents of an island that has been isolated by the cruel hands of fate. Where the rest of the Emerald Isles is able to rely on imports from other nations in warmer places, Marrow Isle has no resources but her own. All the while, her mettle continues to be tested against the horrors brought on by the curse.

It is for this reason that among all the holidays celebrated by the Mothers' children, Givingstide is particularly beloved. A warm and cozy festival based around wishing each other prosperity and love in the new year, the lengthening of days, embracing generosity even in the lean times, and celebrating the fact that the darkest part of the year is coming to an end. Set on the Winter Solstice, this gathering marks final day of darkening skies. While some observe the day in family homes, it's customary to join together in communal spaces.

Then, the following week, Mourner's Night is hosted in Fall's Promise Cemetery. A holiday dedicated to mourning the dead can feel a bit strange on an island where residents no longer die, but the tradition is kept up for all manner of reasons. Mourning those who died before the barrier, mourning the loss of offworld lives, and even mourning oneself are all entirely valid reasons one might attend. This year, as well, it is projected that there may be a special guest...

And of course, this year there are a number of festivities being hosted by the island's newly booming interfaith community. Chief among them, Hanukkah and several variations of Christmas will be celebrated around the same time. The Temple and the interfaith community encourage offworlders and locals alike to share and enjoy their festivities with the island in this most sacred time of year.

By Candlelight We Go

Check out the various festivities below!

Givingstide

The fireplace is lit at the Oak & Iron. A wreath of pine boughs hangs over the merry blaze, paper horses and snowflakes decorate the walls, and a table in the center of the room has been done up to look like a silver sleigh. As people file in, hot food and warm drinks begin coming out of the kitchen and bar, and gifts begin piling up on the sleigh table. (Ultimately, a fair amount of them end up on the floor around it.) Everyone greets each other warmly with hearty handshakes, firm hugs, and wishes of a blessed Givingstide. Perhaps if you have a clever eye, you may even see a horned figure drinking hot cocoa in the corner harmlessly, enjoying the atmosphere of good will and keeping watch over the party to prevent any troublemakers. And for once, just once, for the first time in so long on this frightful, forsaken island, there is true peace.

The tavern is warm. Orange firelight flickers, as if dancing with the shadows. Decorations of shimmering silver and hunter green, the colors of Givingstide, adorn the dark wood decor of the Oak & Iron. The stucco and timber walls of the dining hall safeguard those within from the bitter wind and snow. It's no Leeds gala--- the food is simple, but it is beautifully made. Roasted chicken, potatoes, onion soup, and fresh-baked bread. Slices of pumpkin pie are passed around for dessert. Hot cider with or without alcohol, mulled wine, coffee, and spiced tea are served with the meal. It isn't glamorous, but it's made with love and tastes like coming home somehow.

As dinner carries on, music begins to be played from the tavern stage, and Mayor Poe has Yorick assist her in doling out the gifts from the table. They read the tags and summon the recipients to the table to recieve them. You can open yours right there or at your table, and decide for yourself whether you care to announce the name of the giver to the room.

Once the gifts are distributed, the partygoers are left to their own devices, allowed time to laugh with friends, dance to music, drink to their hearts' content, sneak off to while away a private moment in one of the inn's sitting rooms, or head home for an early night. Regardless of your choice, let it be with a loved one. A friend, a partner, a member of your newfound family. Blessed Givingstide, and may your lantern ever stay lit.

Mourner's Night [cw: grief]

As the early dark of high winter begins to fall, people begin to gather on the streets. A somewhat odd sight, but this isn’t the first time that people have come together under lantern light for an event that is in defiance of the danger posed by darkness. They are bundled tightly, wearing mostly black if it is available in clothes warm enough, and many people have donned veils which cover their faces with black lace.

From the streets, there is an informal procession. At intervals, there are men in uniform black military peacoats and black caps carrying tall poles with bright lanterns on top, swaying in the frigid air. Their faces are painted to look like skulls. Yorick is among them, as are Father Mulcahy and Darcy. The rest of the townsfolk are asked to follow along as they please, each bearing a long white candle stuck into a paper cup meant to catch its wax. The candles are in no danger of blowing out— the wind is eerily still.

The procession is largely silent. The people who do speak do so only in whispers. It winds through the streets of the town, converging on one of the main roads. Once it is clear of buildings, the front of the solemn parade becomes visible. A black funeral carriage, like one that may have once conveyed caskets, bearing lanterns at each corner. The two black horses are marked with skeletons using white chalk on their fur, and it is driven by a woman in black garb representative of deepest mourning. This is Fever, playing the role of Mortanne.

It has been a long time, what feels like ages, since the people of this town have had a funeral procession outside the context of Mourner's Night. But they remember well their traditions and follow them with reverence. This, for you outsiders, is a unique glimpse at something you might not otherwise see due to the effects of the barrier. Each and every person in town follows the trail left by carriage wheels in the fresh snow and arrives at Fall's Promise Cemetery.

Beyond the wrought iron gate, there is more silence. Locals gather around the graves of their friends and loved ones, saying silent prayers and spending time in contemplative remembrance. You see Dahlia stand outside the central mausoleum, looking grimly up at her own name carved into the stone.

LEEDS

Degas has made his way over to a grave. He is here as himself, not as a reverend, and he does not leave the side of the headstone he gravitated toward. Melly Clayton.

Meanwhile, Dr. West is loitering at the back near a gargoyle. For once even he is present. And far off in the shadows, a small figure looms outside the fringes of lantern light, looking off into the sea. Cherry red hairs catch the light occasionally. Elsie.

The candlelight vigil remains silent for a long time as people recall and honor their loved ones. Any sound of shuffling or movement is dampened further by soft, fluffy snow, creating a deep and heavy hush that is almost loud in its soundlessness. Perhaps, deep in the Season of Spirits, the presence of the fallen can be felt in the quiet dark.

Your mind drifts as the somber reverence beckons your mind to your memories. Who do you honor? A lost lover, a passed parent, someone you left behind in your life before? Or perhaps you honor yourself. You did die to get here, after all. And it’s probable that you aren’t the only one to think so.

In the distance, the bell tower chimes. Then, rising up from the snow, soft at first and then louder, a song. The locals are beginning to sing a hymn about Mortanne sharing carriage rides with passengers, reminiscing about their lives as her carriage drives them to the afterlife. Did you learn it from a local before the festival? Do you sing, hum, or remain silent?

As the song finally comes to a close, all at once the locals blow out their candles, leaving the graveyard in darkness aside from the lantern poles. The silence now broken, people shuffle along, meeting up to mingle and hug or heading home for an early night. Some of them are crying.

Throughout the festival, lingering at the outskirts, shrouded in both the deepest darkness and layers of mourner's black, is a woman whose pale hair occasionally catches light even under her elaborate lace veil. If you are someone with a special connection to death, or to winter, you may feel her eyes upon you.

Interfaith Holidays

On the 24th and 25th of December, touches of red and gold are added to the traditional Givingstide green and silver, and images of angels and stars take their place alongside horses and snowflakes. On the left side of the main congregation space, a table has been set up to give a wooden Nativity set and an advent wreath pride of place. A little book, kindly crafted by Pinhole Printing and Binding, has been put together for those unfamiliar to read the story of Christmas.

From December 25th to January 2nd, the majority of interfaith space is decked out in blue and silver, handmade Stars of David hung in each window, in celebration of Hanukkah. On the right side of the temple's congregation space, another helpful storybook by Pinhole rests alongside a brand new menorah, as the evenings have the space reserved for candle-lighting and gathering. Additionally, a frying booth for latkes and sufganiyot can be found at the Winter Market, typically manned by Cecil (though Gerry is almost certainly there as well).

And for those that celebrate the pagan Yuletide, an outdoor altar can be found on the town's festival gazebo, protected from the elements but still amid nature. Plenty of places for indoor merriment can be found for those who observe it--- the Oak & Iron has discounted drinks from the Solstice till New Years! Skål!

Hand in hand, we put the darkness to our backs and step into the light. Rejoice, spring cometh.

Comments

father mulcahy | M*A*S*H

[lovethyneighb_or]

o little town of marrow isle [givingstide]

Mostly, alongside Hawkeye, he busies himself with the children. He's been a regular volunteer at the Autumn Leaves Dormitory for around half a year by now, after all, and quite a few of them have come to adore him. (Unfairly, he thinks to himself, but you will never hear him speak a word of it to them.)

So he's a bit inaccessible for most of the party; they do so have a habit of pulling him hither and tither, inviting him into their games or even making him the subject of them; there's at least once instance of them trying to hang as many Givingstide decorations on him as possible. Mulcahy, for his part, is smiling warmly all the way. Even if he has to occasionally hush them from screaming at pitches only dogs can hear, he does so love the children.

Also like Hawkeye, he does not rest or become available for extended conversation until after they leave. He picks for his own food--a fairly small plate, all told--and retreats to a quiet, isolated corner, content to watch the rest.

how still we see thee lie [mourner's night]

Mulcahy is in the lantern-bearing procession. By all means, he has directly involved himself in a pagan ritual and is almost certainly committing some kind of grave heresy. He's lost too many people to care.

Even on most days, his sun-faded complexion, gaunt look, and all-black dress makes him look like a wraith, but the skull paint in such a grim setting sees him move into something downright otherworldly. He is no Enoch or Elijah who went to the places of death while yet alive. No; he died to come to this island, this place of death. Neither does he has no claim to it as the undead do. Still he is wrapped in the departures of hundreds of the sick and wounded, wreathed in the passing of hundreds of soldiers, cloaked in the vanishing of dozens of tortured souls into the ether between worlds.

Darcy, the most devoted of his congregation, whose faith brings to him a sense of familiarity, comfort, and home reaching even further back than his time in the war, marches beside him. They make a pair, the two of them. A psychopomp for the living and a psychopomp for the dead.

At the cemetery, many stand at specific tombs. Family and friends. Those they knew.

Mulcahy stands in commemoration of the Potter's Field and the unidentified dead, where once he arose from death. In his hand, a letter.

Beside the memorial bench facing the cliff and the sea, he bends down to dig into the frozen soil. To it he sings the songs as they rise into the air; when they are over, he throws in the letter, and a seed, and buries both. Nothing will come of it now, but in the spring--maybe.

Then he stands, and watches.

above thy deep and dreamless sleep [wildcard]
(( got anything else in mind? hmu! ))

how still we see thee lie

[saltwaterlungs]

His pigeon pair comes over after he's seemed to have done what he needed to do.

"Lots of people here," she muses, "good turn out. They'll be happy, I think."

[lovethyneighb_or]

"Or at least their souls may be settled." It's the best you can hope for, sometimes.

He reaches over to squeeze her shoulder. "It's good to see you recovering well. And I hope this has done good for you, too."

[saltwaterlungs]

Darcy ducks her head just a little in appreciation of the contact, adding-

"It's nice to be out of the house. I'm probably going to need to sleep for a week after and see if St Luke accepts blood sacrifices for expedited intercessions- joking," it's not heresy if she says she's joking, "but it's good for the soul. Are you... alright, Father?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

A soft, mostly-soundless laugh at the joke.

“I’m…”

He sighs. It’s always such a loaded question, it’s hard not to panic every time someone asks that.

“It’s hard to tell. We’ll see, I suppose. It’s been such a long time since I could do anything like this, and I have no idea if I’m taking advantage of it properly.”

Whether he’s even processing anything, that is. He feels like he might have forgotten how.

[saltwaterlungs]

"For what it's worth, I don't think there's a 'properly' to it," Darcy offers, gently.

"That would mean there's a proper way to like... feel grief or mourn. And I haven't found that, if it exists."

For all the relief he's offered her, the least she can do is offer him some comfort back in her own area of expertise.

"It's not like you need a specific day for it either. If you have more to work through, then you just... come here."

[lovethyneighb_or]

Mulcahy takes a thoughtful pause.

"That is true," he muses. "I suppose I just wish I could muster up any more feeling than the usual that I carry with me every day. Either I've tired myself out of it, or I've gotten stuck, or both."

Like getting used to living with something crammed halfway down your throat. He doesn't like either option, but there isn't much he can do, is there? Not if an entire holiday and procession couldn't shake it loose out of him.

[saltwaterlungs]

"I mean. If you really want to feel sad, I can kind of. Ghost magic that out of you."

Does a spooky little finger wiggle for emphasis.

"Just kind of. Turn that dial up a bit. I don't do it because that's kind of an ethical nightmare? But I think it would be probably okay if it was to help."

[lovethyneighb_or]

The laugh he makes is more of a breath than a sound. "Well, I'd say you're right on both of those counts."

He glances down at his hands. "It's, ah, a lovely offer, but I'm afraid that it wouldn't feel earned if I can't muster it up myself. And the thing about that is that I'm already quite sad as part of my usual. I worry that..." glancing up, "I just... I don't know if being more sad is going to help me very much at this point."

This is a statement that is going to stand unexamined, yes.

[saltwaterlungs]

Darcy's normal dour expression falls to something a bit more sympathetic.

She sits by his feet and offers-

"I'm sorry."

Grief she knows about, but the formless sorrow of a hard life she knows only intimately and not from the outside. There's not much she can offer him.

"I hope it passes eventually."

[lovethyneighb_or]

He glances down as Darcy sits, with a bewilderment that only grows as she... apologizes in sympathy. It's not... inappropriate at all, and he probably should have expected something like this, but somehow he hadn't. Not for something so small. Or at least it felt small to him.

"Like a kidney stone," he jokes as he sits down besides. A weak offering in the old tradition of the 4077th.

"Well... what about you? Are you alright?"

[saltwaterlungs]

Darcy huffs a quiet laugh. Good old dark humour, it will buoy them all to the ends of the earth.

"You know we can't do the circle of asking how the other person is forever, ehn."

Rubs the back of her neck, "I'm fine. Honestly. Recovering fine, home is good, just... restless."

[lovethyneighb_or]

He sighs plaintively. The price of getting out of places where everyone is unilaterally doing bad is that you end up being the one who gets bothered for still doing bad.

"That's a good sign, at least. When I worked at the M*A*S*H, it was more worrying when the patients in post-OP didn't want to get out of bed. And it usually wasn't just because they finally had the excuse."

how still we see thee lie

[lightconductor]

Watson finds himself not far away at the cemetery, perhaps because he, too, is standing for people whose graves are far away, if they're anywhere at all. He can't imagine this is the sort of thing the Pope would approve of; fortunately, Watson is not Catholic and doesn't consider this fact a slight against Mulcahy at all.

"Father," he murmurs in polite greeting.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Mulcahy is here without shame, even among those familiar with Christianity on Earth. Yes, many of his duties in the war were out of necessity; when there is one chaplain assigned to an entire camp, he has to provide regardless of denomination or faith, either in place or in absentia. He and many others stepped outside of their scope out of necessity. They did a lot of things, out of necessity. With the proper clerics to lead and the faithful present, there is no need to attend or participate.

And yet, still, he can't quite shake it. He has a duty to the dead.

He turns. Despite everything, there's a soft smile he offers to greet in turn.

"Doctor." He holds out a black gloved hand to shake. "It's an odd day to ask 'how are you,' but I do hope you've been healthy."

[lightconductor]

Watson shakes the offered hand, with his own soft smile.

"I've been as well as can be expected," he says. "Influenza has so far passed me by, at the least. And here -- well, it may not be what I am used to, but it seems a very good sort of way of paying respects to me."

[lovethyneighb_or]

"It does, doesn't it?" He looks out over the graveyard, where most are gathered. "Grief and mourning can be such a tricky thing to express, nevermind appropriately. It's a wonderful thing to give people the excuse, and to do it together." And turning to look over the potter's field: "And I'm sure it makes the departed here very happy to be remembered."

He pauses for a moment. A sigh rises as steam into the air. "Did you have any plans for Christmas, doctor?"

[lightconductor]

Watson takes in a long breath.

"This is my second Givingstide here," he says. "And if I am perfectly honest, in London I had no one in particular to visit anymore, except perhaps some acquaintances and colleagues at Scotland Yard. I was rather glad to be here instead of home, last year."

[lovethyneighb_or]

"There's no shame in following where the love is. I'll never be grateful for the war, but it's for that reason I was happier to spend Christmas in Korea than at home. Almost all of my friends were in that camp."

And he was certainly closer to them than to anyone else.

[lightconductor]

"I had a Christmas in Afghanistan that was similar," Watson says, his voice low. "Many of those friends are among those I am honouring today."

Maiwand had treated his regiment quite poorly, after all. He lets out a long sigh. "That feels like both a lifetime ago and as though it were yesterday."

[lovethyneighb_or]

"I know that feeling. I have a suspicion it may never go away." That's the way of war, it seems.

"Whatever your feelings are about having a better holiday here than in London, I at least hope that as long as you are celebrating them with us, then they will be happy ones indeed. If it would bring you any peace, I've... been planning on doing the proper Christmas Masses. Er--the Midnight Mass, especially."

[lightconductor]

Watson gives him an awkward smile.

"I fear I'm not Catholic, Father. I had the typical Church of England boarding school upbringing, and I'm not terribly observant at that. I fear I wouldn't be wanted."

[lovethyneighb_or]

"Oh, not at all," he waves a hand. "I served all manner of denominations when I was in the Army, and the number of Catholics here is very, very small. None of them would complain about having even a few curious visitors. It's nice to have a group."

He pauses. "Really, don't feel pressured to go just because a priest is asking you. I only mean to offer the option."

[lightconductor]

"Well, perhaps."

He's not at all sure. It might be vaguely familiar, but it strange enough that he's not sure there will be comfort to be found there. "I should warn you that I would make a very poor convert," Watson adds, with a touch of light irony. He is not very serious.

[lovethyneighb_or]

"We can't all be perfect," he twitters good-naturedly.

He lets the moment hang in the air for a moment as he looks out over the cemetery, savoring that brief warmth, so much warmer in these cold days.

He looks back to Watson. "What did bring you out here, Doctor, if I may ask? Only to pay respects? Which is more than enough reason, of course."