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ph_logs2024-12-21 08:15 pm
pumpkinhollow) wrote in ph_logs2024-12-21 08:15 pm
Entry tags:
December Event - Long Nights, Bright Lights [Holiday Catchall]
Long Nights,
Bright Lights
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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Angel reaches up to gently, so fucking gently touch Gaeta's cheek with fingertips that hold absolutely no warmth.
"I'll be here to help pick you up afterwards. We'll put the pieces back together. I promise it. I swear by Mortanne, comfort of the widow and the orphan."
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Angel is not the first to give Gaeta permission to grieve. There was Crichton's father at the Visitor's Center; there was Celestine herself at the dance last month. He has let himself break before -- as much as he can while staying within the bounds of functionality, at least. Easy to patch up after, so everyone, most of all him, can dismiss the sorrow as a quick, passing thing.
But to shatter entirely. Gods. What comes after that?
Just this. We'll put the pieces back together.
The weight is heavier than it's ever been, and so much nearer. The gloved hand not braced on his cane rises. Gaeta doesn't think, not entirely: he just clutches Angel's fingers where they rest against his cheek, as one hot tear, then another and another, fall against their hands.
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"There you go. There you are. It's okay." Coaxing, gentle.
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Angel speaks like a parent might while tending to a skinned knee. Comfort, unconditional. Like there is nothing Gaeta could do to make it turn away.
A keening noise lodges in his throat, reflexively stifled, and then he breaks down in the kind of awful, convulsive sobs that feel like they'll rip his chest open.
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While the Gospel isn't what it's here to spread, it knows the value of not using words.
cw: suicidal ideation, references to murder/gore
His bad leg starts to buckle, but he doesn't fall. Impossibly, Angel still keeps hold. And so he clutches its shirt and keeps sobbing like he's bleeding out. He passes through every shade of his grief -- betrayals, lost friends, dead family, two hundred prisoners, thirteen lifeless planets, Galactica herself on the verge of death after four years of war -- and it feels just like he feared it would. It doesn't stop. It won't end, gods, it won't ever end, there will only be this hopelessness renting him apart forever, how will he bear it, he can't, he can't.
But it does end. Eventually, slowly, and mostly because Gaeta... well, he can't bear it any longer. Too exhausted, and in too much pain, his crying trickles into a shivering silence.
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Because he meant it, about putting Gaeta back together, but part of that is cleaning him up and making sure he drinks water, and Angel doesn't have all the tools for that here.
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"I can walk," he manages to croak, in a hoarse whisper thickened by tears. (Still, always, never wanting to be too much of a burden.) "...But could. Could you just."
His grip moves, tightens infinitesimally on Angel's shoulder.
"Help me a little?"
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Together, slowly, they limp from the graveyard toward Gaeta's apartment on Goldleaf Street. The sobbing may have passed, but he keeps silently leaking tears the whole way.
"...I was supposed to be helping you," he thinks to whisper when they're almost there.
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"You are. You're giving voice to all the pain that I don't get to cry over. Giving me something to do on this night where everyone's mourning together."
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They reach his door. (Unlocked; he forgot to lock up before joining the procession.) Gaeta's voice splinters as he tries another perfunctory protest: "We barely know each other."
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I just hope that people realize, eventually, who I am. He said that to Gaius Baltar on the last night of his life, and it had felt like such a benediction to hear Gaius reply I know who you are, Felix. Yet here, he has fought tooth and nail to keep his secrets. He pries fragments of his life out for display only when he's too exhausted to keep the dividing wall between himself and his friends upright. Call it shame, or wanting to forget, or wanting -- like now -- not to be a burden, but the end result is that barely anyone here really does know him. They know pieces, at best.
He presses his fist to his mouth to stifle another sob.
And he nods.
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"Okay. Then I'm not going to let us not knowing each other yet stop me tonight. Because the me you want to know already cares about the you I want to know."
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"Okay," he rasps, and leans into the embrace, letting Angel take more of his weight. Probably for the best anyway, considering how his bad leg has begun to shake.
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"I can manage."
Especially when they're this close. Through the door of Goldleaf Street Apartments, then to apartment 1C. Gaeta nudges the door open onto a utilitarian space that, even after nine months in Pumpkin Hollow, doesn't look much different from an apartment someone moved into a week ago.
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"You've chosen not to make a home for yourself here." Or perhaps it's just that he hasn't chosen to make a home. There's a difference, but either way, Angel's unbeating heart aches a little seeing it. It's similar to how Degas didn't change his home for years, after his wife died; a house haunted by someone who doesn't know how to belong in it alone.
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Couple that with Gaeta being military, and keeping his life to the bare minimum was probably inevitable.
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Angel pauses, remembering more practical matters. "I'm going to the kitchen to get you some water, alright?"
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Gaeta, for his part, makes his way to the couch. (Which at least has a pillow, but just the generic one that was on it when he moved in.) He sinks onto it like someone unseen has pressed him down by the shoulders, stays bowed like they're continuing to pin him in place. After wiping his eyes yet again, he rolls up his right pantsleg and starts to undo the straps of his prosthesis.
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He stays hunched over his knees for a time, essaying small sips from the glass. At first the space comes as a relief; it's familiar, expected, a chance he'd ordinarily take to regather himself and patch up the cracks in his facade. But then it starts to feel more like the empty spot after losing a tooth. (Or a limb.) Aching, uncomfortable. Wrong, after the way Angel stayed so close while ushering him home.
Who the frak is he kidding, thinking he can patch himself up within a few minutes.
He is so, so tired.
And still the words stick in his mouth, unable to be freed without effort. "Could you. Sit up here?"
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Clear invitation. Angel's smile is a strange thing--his face sort of moves a little at a time, like he's performing the smile muscle-by-muscle, and it all seems to drop at once, as if it's hard to hold for long. As if his face is just so much heavy flesh.
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