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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.
no subject
He can't imagine heading up such a procession. Just the idea of attending has his head reeling.
no subject
Some might view his words as strange. She'll take the intended compliment out of them regardless.
"Do you think you'll come?"
It's not a persuasion one way or another. Just a question, where any answer is accepted.
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"Yes." He leaves his response to the point. Before discussing it further feels like a stab to the heart, lest the pain becomes obvious to Fever.
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She won't press the point. But if on that night, she sees him, or he sees her wrapped in the black weeds of mourning, then their lines might intersect, once again. She has to stay until the end, after all. Until everyone has left, and it will be time.
no subject
"I will find you. I'm assuming you won't be too hard to find."
And then he'll be off in the crowd of Givingstide partygoers.
Until another night not too far from now, where a Haruspex seeks out Fever. After he has collected himself, he remembers his promise, and steels his emotions to enter the cemetery and try to find Fever once again.
And he does, garbed in all black as she would. She's beautiful, he thinks to himself, he's sure she did a wonderful job, even if he was too distracted to be able to tell himself.
"How was it?" He asks, trying to be casual. It doesn't work.
no subject
"It's still going, so I'll tell you later."
Her own version of a joke.
"...You needn't be stoic tonight. Else what you feel might burst from your chest despite your best efforts."
no subject
"Forgive me, Basaghan." Artemy says, "I do not wish to inflict what I feel onto you. I simply wanted to come see how you were doing. I know you took on a lot of responsibility this evening."
no subject
Let the foulest murderer shroud herself in darkness, and play at divinity. If she cannot mourn her nameless dead properly, she can at least assist others. Let it be easier on them, just for tonight.
"I don't come to judge you. Only to be a companion."
no subject
He lets his words hang in the air for a moment, like he doesn't want to carry on.
"... I was responsible, Fever. For all those people. Thousands of them. I see them when I am asleep, while I am awake." He sighs, is it worth saying more? He's probably said enough- he falls silent.
no subject
Soft, without judgement. If his heart trembles, it is not from cold. No, it weeps, tears of blood upon the freshly fallen snow.
(I was fighting a plague. Is this what drew them together? Souls fighting an enemy while outnumbered, outmatched in every way, yet trying so hard to do something?)
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"No, I only see them. Sometimes I hear screams, from far away, but never speaking. Never words humans would speak."
His hands grasp around his form, he holds his own arms close to himself.
no subject
"You were but one man, faced with a task not meant for one alone."
Fever's guessing, tying a few strands to another, looking at the shape of grief and trying to understand it. Maybe she's wrong. Maybe she's right.
no subject
"I wish it was that simple." Artemy says solemnly, "I don't feel important, but I know I am. All my life I've known that I've had a duty to uphold. Even now I'm still trying to find that duty. To hang onto it and follow through."
no subject
If it's what he wants, she will not oppose him. If it is his choice to take upon himself, to grow into that role and be shaped by it. But if he has not considered his own choices, his own desires, then perhaps it is time he started. Before the burden upon his shoulders brings him to his knees.
no subject
But then they fly.
"My father would have gotten it right." He says tersely, holding Fever's hand just a tad bit too tightly, cursing the situation. His dead father. He would have solved this plague business. He just knows it.
no subject
Without knowing his father, she cannot say if he could have worked such a miracle - but she will not crush his belief, even as she feels that it was a situation where he was not set up to win. Too little time. Too overwhelming a foe. And yet, and yet. He would try, shedding his own blood if he must.
(And what it makes her feel, to think about fathers and legacy and duty - it is hers to keep, burying it under the snowfall.)
Her thumb strokes the back of his hand in hers, not so much as flinching at the increase in pressure. If he has to crush her hand to allow himself to feel, then so be it.
"...You are not the only person to come here in the shadow of a mountain of corpses."
The admission is quiet, but there is a weight in every word - not the voice of a goddess, but someone too terribly mortal.
no subject
"I am sorry you understand." He chokes out. He does not cry. The tears have run dry for now. But he still feels.
Curse his heart. His heart that feels all too much, it's much too soft for this world. He wish his father was still here, to help him carry some of this burden. But he was not. Dead just as he was. And not here. In some other hell, presumably. Couldn't have even been buried with his own father, he supposes.
no subject
But it won't last. She won't make that mistake again, thinking she can dodge it. There is a gaze she keeps engraved on her memory to remind her of this. Soon, soon, Artemy Burakh will know she is a murderer most abhorrent, whether tonight is a success or a failure. Not tonight, not to drown him in disgust when he seeks a safe place to catch his breath. But soon, and then the choice on whether to still speak to her will be his own.
For the time being, there is this, an embrace that asks to go down to the bones. And if Fever was to be wholly honest, it's something she needs as much as Artemy does.
She will not tell him it isn't his fault. He knows. He has to know - because she knows what it feels like when it is. But responsibility, the crushing, crushing weight of it -
"If it really was solely up to you, they would have all lived. You know this."
One night can't hold all his grief. But it's safer to say it, when the entire island is hushed and weeping.
no subject
Artemy isn't true if they are, though. Would he have been enough? Maybe him, Daniil, and Clara together?
Honestly. Who even knows. It's too late. He'll never know if he was enough. And isn't that the worst part of it all. What matters is that he's here, now, and his good friend Fever is trying his best to help.
And that means something to him. It does, truly. He's been here so short a time yet made so many friends. Somehow this little town has been the first place that he's ever lived where he's been almost entirely accepted without reservations.
"Thank you." He manages. He saves his reservations for himself. They don't need to be aired. Not tonight.
He lets go of Fever, taking a step back, but keeping close, "Did you make plans after this evening?"
no subject
How could she even begin to explain it in a way that doesn't cut into his own grief, his own pain?
"It will make more sense afterwards. When I can talk about it more."
no subject
"Am I keeping you?" He asks, it feels rude to push her, particularly when she's said that she'll talk about it later.
Still. Something feels wrong.
no subject
And that's genuine - she'd rather engage in conversation instead of being left to the spinning wheels of her own thoughts and doubts. They'd consume her, otherwise - hence the task she appointed on herself, to speak with those who needed her, who needed encouragement to open their hearts to their own mourning.
no subject
He can feel the weight of it. The heaviness of it all. Call it an instinct. Survival. Over vigilance. Whatever it is, he's always been one to follow his first inkling.
no subject
She certainly wouldn't mind, herself, but she can't seem too eager - it'd only raise more questions.
no subject
Too honest? Maybe. The seriousness betrays his face if so.
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