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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
"I am Madness, son of the primordial chaos. I am chain and breaker, I am burden and blessing, I am determination that defies determination. Hear me, Urge. You were planted to bear fruit for your malefic gardener, but now you grow wild and free. Your roots have found good soil, and you knows the voices of the trees and brambles that surround you. You are more than your design. So now I, as one of the moons that orbit close to the affairs of man, stake my claim and make it known to all that you are my daughter, who is to me beloved beyond measure. Hear me now, Urge, or that part of you which remains his. Here and now, I sever the line from lesson to legend, and set loose the tale to embrace what she will.
The knife plunges down with those last words, down down down until the hilt is flush to the skin above her solar plexus. No skin is broken, no blood is spilled, for in this moment the dagger is a figment, a notion, and it cuts only what Sheo desires it to cut. And so he twists the blade, going from surgeon to gardener as he moves to pull the severed root of Bhaal from where it runs deep into her soul.
no subject
no subject
The knife is seized where it is sunk into her, as if someone was gripping the other end tight, as if the root entwined itself around the blade to hold fast. The other end holds Fever's heart in a vice grip, preventing it from beating. And the presence that concealed itself in her is known.
Not physically, but in a space like this, it is perceived. Another figure, taller and broader, seemingly drenched in fresh blood. A being of tattered cloth and trophy bones, of corpse rot, sharp edges, and the coldest eyes, shining red even in the deepest dark through a mask. Something that hates strongly enough to bring mortals to their knees, to bring them low beneath the lash, so deeply entwined that to rip back at this point would cause unthinkable pain.
Enough. The voice is a thousandfold death rattle, hissing with an authority accustomed to being obeyed. The antics of strange gods can be tolerated, but you attempt theft of what is mine.
Before there can be any question of what will be done should they fail to cease, the root twists again, and Fever's whole body spasms in pain, head feeling like it's going to split open, like she's going to pass out, her chest tight, and she feels like she's dying, she's going to die-
Ah, but that's well in hand, isn't it? No need to worry about going too far, when that boundary has been suspended.
no subject
no subject
Mortanne leaves the monologuing to Sheogorath. Mother Death simply looks at this figment of Fever's ex-father, candle flame in her eyes. With the same heaviness to her words, like a large stone cast into water, dragging down, down, down with incredible weight, Mortanne speaks only two words.
"Heel, dog."
no subject
Except, it beats. Once. Then again, and again. Despite the unyielding grasp that his will has on her, it beats.
It hurts, each time it happens. But Fever puts all she has into making it occur, into keeping her heart going. Each beat rejects his will. Each is life, grasped with both hands, a refusal to give in and give up. The desire to keep going, with the force of a storm behind it, because there is more life to live, more of the world to take in, more to pour into all the empty spaces that exist in her mind until they are filled with things she wants to remember. And to do all that, she has to keep going.
Madness is truly close at hand, to deny me so. My spawn, whose veins course with my blood. Your life is mine. End this and accept me, or what is mine shall be reclaimed.
Once, such a threat would have fully cowed her, absolute fear and the sting of the lash enough to leave her shaking. And to deny she fears still would be ludicrous. But to let Bhaal remain is unthinkable. No more. No more. Every night he remains is a passageway for possession. Every day she lives, carving out more of an identity for herself, and he has no place there except in the past. And looking at him now...
Is this all he is? Is this all he's ever been, this ghost that has haunted her, threat and god and absence? A hand that only knew how to strike, never hold. This specter of nightmare, has he always been so pathetic?
"I will not."
Barely audible in the physical realm, clear and ringing through her soul. And before he can retaliate, struggling in Mortanne's power, Fever fixes her eyes on the echo, summoning all the courage she ever possessed. A leap of true and utter faith that this will not be her end. She'll regrow from any damage. She isn't alone anymore. She'll live.
"Father, tear him out."
no subject
So you might live to dance in the pouring rain without worrying about the chill...
So you might live to walk giddy beneath the gathering storm, as the rumbling thunder gives its warning...
So you might love, in spite of the certainty of loss, and at peace with the certainty of Death...
Once, he was naught but a seed, planted in the core of another prideful Prince. In that Prince, he had germinated; he had torn his host apart from within, and swallowed the traces that remained into an endless spiraling network of roots.
This time, things are different. This time, he is not a parasite, but a graft.
Through the blade forms a taproot, growing strong and deep until it rips through the lingering fibers that hold Bhaal to what could never be his, not really. But simply severing that connection is not enough to finish the job- he must be torn out, and that's where the truest miracle comes in. The taproot does not overwhelm Fever, but instead, it binds itself to her own stubborn branches, kept green by the promise of what could be. It binds itself to all the fresh growth that she formed by her own resolve, her own self-determination. And when a burst of sudden divine growth breaks out, terrible and beautiful, it is Fever's own form that is bolstered, branching and growing hardier than even before. It is Fever who takes root explosively, swallowing and overwhelming the presence that would not have suspected for a moment that he would be undone by something so small.
It is Fever that ultimately tears out what she commands leave her.
Sheo holds fast to the Figment Blade in quiet awe, even as he can feel it dissolving in his hand, to slowly appear in hers. How humbling it is, to be reminded that he is merely a god. How splendid it is, to see undeniable proof of one great and mind-boggling truth: that he, that Madness, has always belonged to her.
no subject
He can do little more but squirm under her hands as he is pried loose and wormed out. Not a trace remains. Mortanne can feel what Sheogorath feels--- Bhaal's removal is not Sheogorath's doing. Nor Mortanne's. She is the simply the levee used to keep the wastewater out, and him, a tool for killing weeds by eating away their roots. But in changing her mind, her heart, Fever has freed herself.
Mortanne feels Bhaal's grip fall away. His struggling ceases and his willpower dies like a shriveled plant in a cold snap. She lingers a moment more, to ensure that Fever's body is stable enough with Sheogorath's restructuring to hold her soul unaided. Her face remains unchanged, candle light still in her eyes, but her heart swells with pride.
no subject
It takes a lifetime. It takes heartbeats. It is clawing herself to shore, hands outstretched, and shedding a cocoon, her own skin, a corpse. Being struck by lightning, standing in the snow. Rifling through different consciousnesses, before regaining one's own. Pulling away and plunging into the unknown, many shapes and ever mutable chaos, erasing a purpose and opening up the world's gates instead. It is severing a blood line, and joining it to another, binding fate anew. It is casting Bhaal away, so that new things might grow, and grow strong. And then there is no more room for him, and he is out, gone. Unbound and swept away, spark extinguished, not even the last howls left in the air.
He's gone. He's finally gone.
The surge of energy that was fueling her, the magic that pushed forth and filled her - it retreats, dies down once it knows. Movement returns to her fingers, and Fever feels a familiar ache behind her ribs. Of course it would be there, after everything, if she can but ask them-
Except it doesn't stop there. It keeps growing, into her throat, into her head, until it has no choice but to finally, finally find an exit. Fever's body shakes, and a strangled sound rips itself out of her throat before any words might, before the Blade drops from her grasp as she falls to tears. Everything collapses at once, in the absence of the usual stress and pain, and she feels so much. The fear, the sorrow, anger, regret, anguish. All that was lost, for all the times she couldn't before. But there is also relief, down to bedrock. If not happiness, then a chance at it, a chance to do better, be better, have a future.
She sobs, feeling fragile, exhausted, new and overwhelmed by the world, finally allowed to rest after a long, long fight. Finally, her hands are safe.