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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
No one tell them that historians not even fifty years after labeled Korea "the forgotten war."
"But that's just... that one. There will be more, as there always is. John's from Vietnam, isn't he? At least... I've heard that the draft is abolished some time after us. No one else from the States can be driven from their homes."
He looks at the name in the snow.
"May our sons know peace," he sighs. "May the statues they erect for us be reminders enough."
no subject
Radar's quiet a moment, listening to the susurrus of unspoken words drifting around them. It feels like the snow's even muffling that. Or maybe he's reflexively trying not to listen too hard, so he doesn't intrude on anybody he barely knows.
Then he shifts again so he can look up at Father Mulcahy, and says, not a lot louder, "Do you wanna talk about anybody you knew in the Village?"
no subject
Does he want to? Not really. Asking him to think about even good things from the Village is like asking him to go find something in a flooded and rotting basement of standing water. It's a foul place to be, regardless of what's in there.
Even then, he won't deny that it's been... lonely, holding onto their names all by himself.
He sighs. "I suppose I could. You already met one of them. Nyx. The Arrayer. The woman with razor-hands."
(If her place in his memory is a file, then finding this name for her is like flicking past several pages before hitting the right one; Nyx and The Arrayer both work fine, but Number 44 lingers only out of repetition and is torn with his absolute refusal to use it, and Vickie Reeds is yellowed, folded and tucked away into secrecy, held onto largely for his own sake.)
"I'm sure she left quite the first impression on you. She was one of my closest friends, believe it or not. She was an ex-Baptist who often came to me for friendship and guidance. I'm sorry if she frightened you. She only meant to protect herself and me from... well." (Blood, white walls, red hands, blood, blood--) "Everything. There was no safety in the ship or the Village. And there was a length of time where all we had was each other, once... once all the others had lost the strength to fight."
no subject
"Yeah, she was a little scary," he admits. "...Or a lot scary. But I knew she was just looking out for you. First thing she asked me was whether I was there to, um, well the way she said it ain't a way I want to repeat it, but she wanted to make sure I wasn't going to mess with you. So I'm glad you had a friend that good when everything was so awful. And..."
A deep breath.
"And especially that she helped you fight against that place as long as you both could."
no subject
The empty world is one that is cold and hard, and he has rarely felt it more acutely than through this fact. The world of the Village was empty and everything in it was dead. Mulcahy is a scrap. A leftover of something that tried, with nowhere to go.
Before Radar can argue, “One of my other friends was the Father.” Again the flipping of papers, another Number crumpled up. “Abraham Cook. A former priest. You never met him, but you would’ve liked him quite a lot, I think. He was… gentle, and shy. He was wiser than he gave himself credit for. He’d already endured subjugation, so he sat the fighting out when we were tricked into the Village. I never blamed him then, and I certainly couldn’t now.”
Another flip of files—another, another Number. “And there was… Jester. That was her name. She was a cleric—there was quite a lot of clergy on that voyage, actually, though rather few Christians. She served a god of mischief and joy, which should tell you what a light she was. And a ferocious one, too.” He pauses. “She looked rather like Dahlia, actually. I mean, with horns and a tail and blue skin. No wings, though. And she was quite a bit like Hawkeye. She had a taste for pranks, and a constant habit of annoying the stuffing out of our captor.”
What a feeling, to speak about these people for the first time in so long, and to do it in the past tense.
no subject
So he bites his tongue on any reassurances. He listens, cataloging the names, too, ignoring the numbers as they flit past. Father Cook sounds exactly like the kind of person he would've liked, yeah, and of course Radar can't blame him either for buckling so quick. And Jester, oh, Radar bets he would've fallen in love with her within days, if she looked like Dahlia and had Hawkeye's quick wit. Two good people lost forever, but two tiny sparks kept alive in Father Mulcahy's retelling.
"They both sound real swell," he says, soft. "...Were there any really funny pranks Jester pulled?"
no subject
“Oh, plenty. One memorable one was when she’d swapped all of the salt shakers in every restaurant—and I do mean every one—for sugar. In hindsight, I haven’t got a clue where she got the sugar from, because we didn’t have kitchens.”
The new batch did, though. Lucky little finches.
“That was back when we were on the ship, before the Village. She was a real menace then, especially when she teamed up with Hawkeye, which was often—er.”
(A laughing smile, grey hairs; blood, limp hands; dead eyes, pleading eyes; two-man poker on the beach; singing in harmony; his raised and pleading and broken voice, the last time he saw him, standing there, thin arms hanging lifelessly; all this, fluttering by like riffling through a photo album. A file so much thicker than the others. Heavier.)
“A… a different, different Hawkeye. Not the one we know from here. This other one I knew from the ship, he didn’t end up in the Village. Thank goodness.”
no subject
Oh. Oh, no.
Radar's learned by now that if he actually glimpses something, instead of just overhearing it, then it's really, really important to whoever's thinking it. It's so loud and strong that sound isn't enough; it forms a picture, like echolocation, and for a split second Radar can see it too. And so he sees Hawkeye, so much older, barely any black left in his hair at all, stooped with pain and heartbreak. The shadows of a ship behind him. The tiniest flickers of joy, seized upon the same way they'd all grab tight with both hands in Korea, but these ones slip by so much faster.
Very small: "There was a Hawkeye on the ship, too?"
He shouldn't be asking. He can hear that, too, in the echoes between one thought and the next. But how can he not?
no subject
(His hair, flickering in the wind like grass as he lay still. His hand, blood crusted under his blunt and carefully-kept fingernails.)
"... Yes."
(Him, leaning with his elbows over the glossy, dark surface of a piano. Mulcahy's hand on his cheek.)
"A different one. A very, very different one. Only on the ship."
(Mulcahy, alone.)
His gaze is distant and glassy, and cold.
no subject
(Love. That's all he can hear, like two heartbeats in sync, before one of them stops like it's been ripped out of a body altogether. Stronger than the love they already had for each other in Korea. Its absence is a whole continent cratered by a bomb blast, too big to ever repair.)
He turns so he can put his other arm around Mulcahy, too, and presses his forehead against his friend's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Father," he says in a bare whisper.
no subject
He blinks, and the tears fall, and the tears fall. It doesn't feel like catharsis. "Thank you, Radar," he says, far, far away.
wrapping?
Because somebody's got to stay here and remember the people who aren't. He can't let Mulcahy be the only one.