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

Mortanne || Mourner's Night

[psalmofseasons]

-Winter-

It's a crisp Winter day, the day before Mourner's Night. Morning has just broken, still decently late into the morning, bathing the world in a pale blue that the snow hungrily absorbs into its reflective white.

Perhaps, if you are lucky, you will catch a glimpse sight of a white horse, standing in the snow.

Perhaps if you are curious, you will follow it.

-Beyond-

It's suddenly louder as the vigil ends, even as people murmur their chatter to one another. Even the smallest of voices seem like uproars compared to the silence.

She lingers on the outskirts of the festival. Anyone who has crossed the barrier and entered by ferry has met her before. Unlike the other goddesses, whose familiarity lies uncannily in what they represent, you know this woman. An office. A deal. She dressed differently then.

The White-Haired Lady.

Mortanne.

Death.

-Cessation-
[ Closed to Fever and Sheogorath ]

It's getting late, and most of the crowds have cleared out. Those who wanted to speak with Mortanne have concluded their business. She sits alone on the stone ledge of Linette's well.

"Are we ready?"

Bed, Bath and Beyond

[graveling]

Angel approaches Mortanne with a small wrapped box. "Another year. I'm still doing my best."

[psalmofseasons]

Mortanne smiles, pulling back her veil to kiss Angel's cheek. "I know you are, love. And I'm still proud of you. How've you been holding up?"

[graveling]

"It's been...up and down lately. I gave up the farm, when Eddie left. The beehives were moved to the temple yard. If you can ask Serranai if the little blue flowers that make the calm honey could bloom there this year, I'd appreciate it. I think Degas will like the flowers themselves, too."

He lingers close to her, so he doesn't need to speak above a mere murmur.

"He seems determined to break his own heart again."

Beyond

[pineapplesalmon]

César catches sight of Mortanne as he's leaving with those he came with, and his mind immediately leaps to the letter he left on her altar. His eyes meet hers, and he pauses, wondering if it'd be improper to ask about it.

[psalmofseasons]

Mortanne saves him the wondering, waving him over.

[pineapplesalmon]

Well, that settles that, then. Rex follows César's gaze, makes a rather chaotically wide grimace, and whispers frantically to César. With a soft laugh, César pats Rex's hair, and excuses himself from the others to walk over towards her.

"Good evening, Mortanne. Rex wants me to apologize for accidentally taking your mug. Do you want it back?"

cessation.

[abhorrently]

It's as simple as answering a call. Fever's felt everything while waiting for the crowds to clear - anticipation, anxiety, fear, doubt, hope - and watched them all, grateful for the veil that hides her face from view. Grateful for the chill, for otherwise she would have overheated with too much thinking, with the inevitable mortal worries that have twisted up inside of her ever since she saw the first frost.

A leap of faith, pure faith, that this will help. That this will work, that she'll be able to come out of this changed in the right ways, that she won't be lost before she can tell those she cares for the words that terrify her.

"I'm ready."

[blindwatchersees]

The Madgod is strangely reserved and somber in Mortanne’s presence, anchored by the solemnity of what they’re planning to do. He’s gathered every bit of his focus for days before and after this, so he can do what needs to be done.

“Madness is ready, Mother Mortanne,” he smiles, the normally carefree expression hardened with a tinge of grit.

Winter

[redlightgreenlight]

Valdis is headed home from her night shift when she sees the pale horse standing in the snow. She knows that horse. It greets her in her dreams whenever they turn too dark, when the memories and the Void threaten to interrupt what should be restful sleep, laughing at her. Surely it can't really be standing there, but Roheryn nickers at it, his breath leaving steam twisting the air.

When it turns to go, Valdis directs her stallion to follow, somehow, she feels she needs to follow it.

[psalmofseasons]

The horse, as it runs, becomes less tangible. Hoofprints in the snow grow smaller and shallower until they disappear, the horse's body becoming transparent as it runs and runs, always just fast enough to avoid being caught. The ghostly visage of the animal now allows its skeleton to be seen through half-visible flesh. It runs to the cemetery, where a large black hearse waits outside the gate.

It isn't the town's simple funeral carriage. It's elaborate, painted a black so dark it seems to form a void in the snow, accented by silver filigree in swirls and flourishes and etched snowflakes. Heavy iron spokes on sturdy wheels are caked in frost. One horse of a similar spectral quality is already hitched to the carriage. The other stops next to its own open spot on the other side.

There is a woman standing there, dressed all in black, moving to hitch the ghostly horse as Valdis rides up. "There you are. I was wondering when we'd get a chance to chat."

in wonderment i trip and spill through winter fields

[not_the_last]

Cassandra has dreamed of this: the white snow, the white horse, the white silence. Perhaps she's dreaming now.

In her new boots and her new warm coat, she steps out into the morning's chill, and -- cautiously, respectfully -- approaches the horse in the snow.

[psalmofseasons]

In dreams, this is where the horse would run. But instead, it lowers its head that Cassandra might place a hand on it.

beyond

[lovethyneighb_or]

It is her.

He has seen her. In the beginning, and in the Temple windows, but he would recognize her even without that. He walks slowly, befitting the silence, the still air, the cold. The lantern creaks as it sways on the pole.

He stops in front of her for a moment.

"It's good to see you," is what he settles on, eventually.

[psalmofseasons]

"And you as well, Father," Mortanne replies softly. "The lantern bearer role suits you. You've worked hard."

She pulls back her veil. Long white hair hangs in straw-straight bangs, framing a face with thin crow's feet and smile lines that speak to middle age. Her hands are enclosed in thick woolen gloves. She extends them to him.

"May I take your burden from you for a while?"

Beyond

[impostor_syndrome]

Purple's wearing less of their signature colour than usual today, just their helmet and a long purple coat breaking up the black. The vigil brought to mind thoughts of their last partner, Cyan, the one who didn't make it out of the job gone wrong. Cyan had been quick to action. Hadn't put in the effort to build up an alibi.

Purple themselves nearly didn't pull through. Found themselves in the office of a woman in a black spacesuit, and then stepped off a rustic ferry into a town holding a vegetable-themed summer festival. When they got back the union told them they'd been lucky to recover so fast and bought them a ticket for the furthest spaceport they could get on short notice. They found a job at their destination, just a seasonal contract to cover the bills until the investigators closed the case, and it killed them before they had the chance to get back. The woman in the black spacesuit was there then, too. On Adamance, or not long afterwards.

They flag her down, waving an arm. She's not wearing a spacesuit here but her height, her voice, her presence are all uncannily familiar. "It's Mortanne, right?"

"Why me?" They break off, turn their helmeted head to look at the falling snow instead of her. "I must owe you a pretty big favour after all of this."

[psalmofseasons]

There's a ghost of a laugh in her voice. "Why, indeed. Why would you owe me a favor?"

Beyond

[saltwaterlungs]

Well. This was a talk that probably had to happen at some point ever.

Darcy, fixture of the graveyards, tender to the dead, conversationalist with ghosts and connoisseur of the different flavours of grief, comes by just outside the range of an intimate conversation, setting himself nearby to sit on a nearby rock, not stand.

Mortanne gets a small salute.

"Boss," he greets, "I'll cut to the chase, is anything you want me to be doing?"

[psalmofseasons]

Mortanne breathes a laugh, brushing aside her lace veil to reveal the face of a girl. A young girl, younger than any death ought to be. A teenager.

"I'm no boss of yours," she informs them. Her mirth is subtle, but evident when juxtaposed with her usual sobriety. "But if you must know, what I'd like for you to be doing is living. Making yourself happy, integrating with your community, connecting with the place where you are. All things that you have been doing, and doing well."

Beyond the Pale

[preacher_in_reticence]

Degas lowers himself slowly to a knee after approaching, and bows his head.

"Lady. Mother. My guide and companion."

[psalmofseasons]

"Oh, Degas, my beloved child." Mortanne lifts her veil, revealing the face of an older woman. Deep smile lines around her lips and creases around her eyes imply she is well into her 60s. She bends down to kiss the crown of his head as he kneels. "Please, you may rise."

Winter morning!

[lestercraft]

Arthur, it turns out, struggles to sleep in winter. As good as his apartment is in downtown, it's still achingly cold, in a way that makes him limp reluctantly through the kitchen to stoke the hearth back to life. Going outside isn't going to fucking help with it, of course, but at least getting moving always helped him feel more himself.

So when he starts wandering the streets, rubbing his arms tightly to try and get his circulation going, he spots the horse.

And there's absolutely no way in hell he'd just leave that be. So of course he's walking towards it immediately.

[psalmofseasons]

For a long moment, the horse just stares at him.

And stares.

And stares.

Then once he is nearly in arm's reach, it bolts past him down the street, leaving a rush of disturbed snow kicking up in the wind behind it. Bye, Arthur!

Or perhaps not bye. It slows down a bit once it's well out of reach. Almost a challenge.

Beyond

[lordoftheozarks]

Erik has been eying her with curiosity and trepidation. He spoke to her once, yes, but he hadn't known her for what she was then. Now that he does he finds himself just as paralyzed with fear as always. But this time, he's not going to let that stop him.

"May I speak with you, Lady Mortanne?"

[psalmofseasons]

"Of course, my dear," Mortanne says easily, offering both her hands. "What would you like to talk about?"