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

fever (dark urge) | baldur's gate 3 | ota

[abhorrently]

givingstide.

The celebration draws her in as moth to flame, and Fever's been prepared - brought things carefully contemplated, finding places to be and soak in the mood, enjoying the food and laughing at the general merriment. There is no fuss, no bother, and she intends to enjoy herself as she can. Enough happens to observe, and for the most part, she's either got a seat on a couch or sitting on the floor to get into conversation with people or give a little cheer to someone enthusiastic for some reason. Children laughing, people smiling, warmth. It's a good time. There is dancing she joins, there is sparkling conversation to join in, there is the sense to linger.

But still, every now and then, she quietly disappears from the gathering, to go out whatever door she can, to go stand in the wind and the snow and try for balance. When the tips of her fingers and ears feel numb, she'll move back in, having soothed herself to being up for the next round. If nothing else, she'll manage like this.

Tonight is for peace. It will remain as such, at least from her.

mourner's night.

It's time. She's done all she can, and now it's time to play the role. Clad in black, heavy veil obscuring her face, Fever summons all her courage, and drives on. Just like she practiced, steady along the road, telling herself that no one will hear her heart beating hard in her chest. The horses know the way, and people are following, and all she has to do is be steady and breathe in the stillness. Silence like a shroud, and she might have been leading the town, or a fraction of the nameless souls who cling to her shadow.

People grieve who they lost, who they loved, the selves they had to let go of. And while one part of her heart clings to wickedness, protests the idea of mourning, finds celebration and liberty in death and loss and ruin - oh, she has grown, in strife and quiet, inch by inch, stretching herself enough to know where absence pains. The long healed cut on her palm still bears a ghost, where blood answered blood, and Fever makes herself remember. There is a list of names, after all. There are so many without names.

When the bell chimes, her voice is one of the first to lift in song, as she had known she would do this entire time. Unfaltering, clear, blessedly steady.

People move to reunite, to go, and Fever does not. Not yet. Not until the last soul departs will she even think about it. Her vigil isn't ended. This night is far from over.

(But occasionally, she softly hums a fragment of a different song, one she hasn't allowed herself to forget.)

wildcard.

[want something not covered? go for it.]

mourner's night

[stoneoftherose]

After a time, Pyotr comes up to her. His coat is much too light for the nighttime chill, but he doesn't shiver. "You played your part well," he tells her softly. "If congratulations are in order, then please allow me to offer them."

His voice is quiet, but slurred. He's been drinking.

[abhorrently]

"Thank you, Pyotr. In order or not, I'll take them."

Her voice is more subdued than normal, the veil still obscuring her face. So, he drank to get through a night like this. He can't be the first or the only one. Some people want the edges blurred.

"Did you come for curiosity, or for remembrance's sake?"

[stoneoftherose]

"Both at once...and I thought it would be better than spending the night alone."

His manner is always somewhat mournful, but tonight his shoulders are bowed as if he carries a terrible weight. "I used to have a twin brother," he says quietly.

[abhorrently]

"Who was he? What happened to him?"

In her current guise, asking this question is easier than it would otherwise be. And even a blind soul would see the weight upon him now, how it crushes him, and how it no doubt is a pain that feels all the more acute in this silence. He would speak, if someone would but listen, even if it's a murderer playing at being the Lady of Winter.

[stoneoftherose]

"Nothing," he responds, answering the second question first. "I left him behind."

He turns away from Fever, looking out over the headstones. It seems to make it easier for him to speak freely; he says, "He was my helpmeet, my second set of hands. When I lacked the strength to realize my visions, he gave up his desire to study medicine and joined me in architecture. We traveled all over Europe, looking for patrons to fund my designs. Always it was Andrey who spoke to outsiders, who fought on my creations' behalf, who broke the first ground. When the Dancing Bridge collapsed and the Cold Hall caught fire, he was the one who received the blame. Do you understand? They were my designs. But because he built them for me, he was the one blamed for their failure."

[abhorrently]

"Do you feel guilt for it?"

So much sacrifice. So much love. But to what end? The one who dreamt, and the one who turned dreams into tangible reality. Did he ever want another life, or were they simply born as a pair because they needed each other?

givingstide

[medekh]

Artemy will find her. He'll approach her, as he does, quietly, and he'll gently take her by the hand, slipping a small charm into her hand. It's clearly handmade by Artemy himself, made of leather and yarn both.

"Happy Givingstide, Basaghan," Artemy manages a smile, "A good luck charm, it's not much, truthfully, I wasn't sure what to get you, but I wanted to thank you for being a good friend to both me and Daniil. I do hope this suffices."

[abhorrently]

Her own smile is easy, looking at the charm with genuine delight before she decides to put it on.

"It's wonderful, Artemy. You're really kind to have brought me something at all. Not only that, but something terribly useful."

A bit of good luck can't go amiss in her life. She needs all she can get.

[medekh]

He gives a small shrug.

"I don't know much about useful. It can't hurt much. I just thought you would appreciate it is all."

There's a few people in town that he'd figure would appreciate a handmade gift from his culture, Fever's one of the few people on that small list.

[abhorrently]

"And I do."

Her hand drifts up to touch the charm, an idle fidgeting motion that's only a reflex. She can already sense she'll be wearing it often, after the fate that befell her last necklace - she'll take care not to repeat the incident.

"It's my first time celebrating a holiday like this, actually. I'm not sure there's something akin to it at all in the festivals where I come from."

[medekh]

"It's the same for me, honestly."

Artemy's holiday wasn't so much a holiday as a day of remembrance and sacrifice, more akin to mourners day.

"I believe something called Christmas used to be more widespread, but my country has changed a lot, and now it is not celebrated. Though my town never celebrated such things. Too backwards, I suppose."

[abhorrently]

"One might call you several things, Artemy, but not backwards."

Advancements in technology didn't mean one person was better than another. Just with different equipment.

"Did you celebrate anything, though, during winter?"

Mourner's Night

[pumpkinhollowites]

Almost everyone has left, by now. It's late enough to call early, when Fever catches a glimpse of white across the graveyard. A pale figure with dark hair, in a white dress. Such a contrast to blonde Fever in her black weeds. This might actually be the last person left?

[abhorrently]

One more person, but it's the white clothes that strike her, against the darkness. And curious enough to investigate, she makes her way across the snow, trying to not be too jarring.

"Who have you come to remember?"

The question comes when she's close enough, but keeping enough distance to be polite about it.

[pumpkinhollowites]

As Fever approaches, the woman becomes clearer.

Erm, I mean, the bit of translucence about her becomes more obvious, as she responds to the question with a vague gesture at herself, lips quirked in something of a smirk. Here to be remembered, as much as to do the remembering.

[abhorrently]

A distant memory comes to her as she beholds the woman, and then it becomes apparent why she'd be here in the first place.

"...hello, Linette."

They've never met. But her sibling knows her sorrows. Others fought to liberate her. And she is here now, on the night of the dead.

[pumpkinhollowites]

"Hello, tonight's representative of Mortanne."

She's clearly touched to be remembered by name; to be known, still. She drifts closer, not leaving any footprints in the snow.

[abhorrently]

"My name's Fever."

How many other mini-Mortannes have come and gone, she can only guess.

"It's good to meet you in person, after all this time. Even if I wish you might be able to find rest, after everything that's been heard."

mourner's night

[griefs]

If we’re being perfectly honest, James doesn’t know why he’s still here. This vigil has him sick to his stomach, his own grief like an ugly, festering wound inside him that nothing can soothe. If this is supposed to help, it’s not working.

But he doesn’t go.

He lingers, avoiding eye contact and not bothering to introduce himself to anyone. He walks the rows of gravestones. He thinks about his late wife and what it means that he's here, but she isn't.

Eventually, he notices that most people had gone already and only a handful remain now. One in particular catches hie eye: the woman with the veil. If there had been a crash course on what she represented in the procession, or what any of this other stuff means, James had missed it. As far as he can tell, Fever is just the grand marshal of this whole thing and must have some significance relating to the dead here.

He approaches her with a muted sort of curiosity. In lieu of an actual greeting, he begins with: “So you’re… you —” His voice falters and he shakes his head, brow furrowed. “You look after the cemetery, or… ?”

[abhorrently]

Even as the veil obscures her features some, there's a touch of amusement that can't be hidden away at the stranger's question. It's not a farfetched one, just a private joke for herself alone.

"No, I don't. I'm as much a visitor here as you."

And he's an outsider like her, to ask.

"Was it the spirit of curiosity that brought you here tonight?"

[griefs]

James makes a humorless noise in his throat. "You could say that."

He looks at her — a little bit puzzled, more so wary — as if he can really discern anything at all about a complete stranger in a veil, in the dark. After a moment, he settles for a relatively safe question –

"How often do they do this?" They, not you. If she's a visitor too then he won't lump her in with the natives.

[abhorrently]

"Once a year. It's a night to remember what has been lost. Not just the dead, saer - those who one might never see again. Or even to mourn yourself, if you wish. Just because a death didn't stick doesn't mean it didn't happen." A tiny pause. "Some think it's even more important because of that, and that we must do our best to not think of dying as something frivolous."

The twin promises she made to others lie heavy on her chest, as if they were pendants made of solid lead.

"All forms of grief find their way here, tonight."

[griefs]

Once a year, and it just happens to be when he shows up. James sighs through his nose with the weariness of someone who feels kinda like they might be the butt of some great, cosmic joke.

Just because a death didn't stick doesn't mean it didn't happen. Those words hurt, like a blade worked and wedged between his ribs. His hand instinctively goes to his pocket for a letter he no longer has.

"Frivolous..." he repeats, voice low and deliberately steady. "Is that really what people think?"

[abhorrently]

"Some of them. If it doesn't last, then why make such a fuss about it? They'll be right back, after all."

There's a little tilt to her head that can be read even with the veil.

"But we know this state of affairs can't last. We can't escape death forever."