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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
"It sure is." There's a sound that's not quite a laugh, in the back of her throat. "The funny thing about the war lasting so long was that you sort of... got used to waiting for the worst to happen? I used to think I'd be prepared for when it was my turn, but— hah, I couldn't have been more wrong about that."
The day she found out may still be the worst day of her life, despite all the horrible things that have happened since.
"But it's an old wound now. And Resol lives on with me, if nowhere else."
no subject
"I try to think about Picon the same way," he says. "But... all I have of it is such a small piece, you know? It was easier when there were at least a few other Pican survivors around. We could fit all the smaller pieces together to get the full picture. But now people here ask me about it and -- I don't know what to say. I can tell them a little, but not everything. Do you ever feel like that?"
no subject
CT's brow furrows a touch, like she's considering the sentiment for the first time. "...yeah, yeah I guess so. I was the only one from my colony in my unit, and the next time I ran into survivors it was—"
Needles, Rat, the rest of the once-Insurrectionist-now-UNSC operation that she'd allied with. Old friends of her brother's that she'd never really known in the first place, and in the situation they didn't exactly have a lot of time for reminiscing.
"—complicated," she settles on, aloud. "But every time I've told people about it, I've never felt like I'm really doing it justice. There's always something missing."
no subject
So many times since they began to open up to one another, he's looked at CT and seen piece after piece of his life mirrored back at him. And here's one more. The worst club, like he said, but it's an odd relief, finding another person who understands.
"Hell, I think I was one of the only kids on Picon who never saw an ocean. On a planet that was seventy-five percent water." He huffs a rueful laugh. "We lived inland on the biggest continent, right by Fleet HQ, so... I never really got the chance. To hear me tell it, there were barely any bodies of water at all."
no subject
"I always forget about the agricultural quarter," CT says, shaking her head. "I was a city kid. I don't think I ever stepped foot in any of the rural zones, not once in my life. But people lived out there. They had their own problems that echoed the city but weren't the same. And I just..."
She waves a hand vaguely. It wasn't a part of her life. There's little she feels she can tell of it.
"I can talk about the city all day. The way it stretched from the cloud belt to as deep as some of the mines I'd watch people come home from every day. The way I used to climb between levels, jump between buildings..." she laughs, faintly. "I bet if you asked someone who lived out in the flatlands that, they'd wonder what the fuck you were talking about."
no subject
"It sounds like a hell of a place, though," he says. "The bit that was yours. I can't imagine a city built up that much, not even on Caprica -- um, that was the planet the rest of the Colonies sort of revolved around. Not literally," and he huffs another laugh at the need for a correction, "but... it's where you went if you wanted to stay on the cutting edge of pretty much anything."
He tips his head a fraction.
"Could you tell me more about it?"
no subject
CT smiles and nods her head to the side. "Trade? Sharing for sharing. If you want."
She rolls her bracelet up over her palm to fiddle with as she talks. "My home city was the capital, San Tierra. The way I always describe it is— cities on Resol spread upwards, not outwards. Outside city limits it was all mining, production, farmland... and the smaller the footprint of the city, the more resources we could put out. And Outer Colonies live and die on the back of their exports.
"Anyway, that meant that cities were sort of... built on top of themselves. Buildings built atop other buildings, or on top of platforms multiple levels up, levels interconnected by bridges or roads... there wasn't really a ground level, just up and down, and it wasn't neatly organised, you know? It all just sprung up organically as the city grew. Though— there was one clear divide: the richer you were, the higher up you lived. I was never in the lowest zones, but I was much, much closer to them than I was the top.
"Now, the safe way to get around was using the elevators, powered stairs, monorails, so on. Buuuut kids who grew up in poorer areas tended to..." she laughs to herself, shrugs, "be a little more adventurous? We learned to climb up the outside of buildings, or use service shafts, or hop between platforms and bridges, so on. A whole generation or freerunners skipping fares because we could. I used to love sitting on ledges you were never meant to get to, even if it gave my brother a heart attack every time he spotted me doing it."
no subject
Yeah, Gaeta was that kid.
"Space wasn't nearly at that kind of a premium on Picon. Not in River Junction anyway, I don't know about the smaller islands. It was -- if Fleet HQ was here," he sketches a circle on the tabletop, "RJ was about here," and he taps out a dot about a pinkie's length away. "One of the suburbs. Small houses, trees scattered around, two big rivers that cut through, hence the name. It was right under one of the biggest flight paths out of HQ, too, so the housing was a lot cheaper." Gaeta rolls his eyes, half embarrassed and half self-deprecating. "Until I actually met people from Aerilon and Sagittaron I thought we were poor, but we were Picon-poor, you know? Doing fine for ourselves, just not as rich as some of the other kids I went to school with. Anyway."
Another crooked smile. "That's why I decided I wanted to join the Fleet. I'd see Raptors going overhead every day and wish I could fly them, too. I went through phases as a kid where I'd pick a new career every other week, but wanting to be on a battlestar, even if it was just for a few years... that always stuck."
no subject
CT can't help but laugh at the thought of little kid Gaeta, stickler for the rules in a way little kid her never was. She can just imagine him looking up at the ships passing overhead, daydreaming of being up there too.
"It sounds nice." Simple words, but genuine. It's the kind of nice that she struggles to actually imagine, so used to the way her own world's space age has shaped itself. "I was— well, I was the opposite. I was the quietly rebellious type, always breaking rules so long as I thought I wouldn't get caught. And I was terrified of space, just pants-shittingly scared of it. I thought I'd live and die with my feet firmly on the ground—or, at least, on a building. The military only became the plan when I needed college money and even then, it was only the Project that got me into space. Which meant getting comfortable with some things very quickly, but the idea of wide, open space still gives me goosebumps sometimes."
(There's some grim poeticism, to the final moments she spent with her original team being in open space. Crossing the distance between the drop point and her contact was almost as hard as accepting she had to leave in the first place.)
"What I loved more than anything was coding. And the city was full of easily exploitable technology. I hijacked the screens so many times."
no subject
His smile quirks, more mischievous.
"So what's the rudest thing you made the city's signs say?"
no subject
"I still miss it. I get the itch to just get my fingers into some code but— I mean, writing it out on paper isn't really the same," she jokes. "I built my very first computer from spare parts I scavenged from the markets. That thing was screaming for death by the time my brother saved up enough to buy me something better, the kind of things I was using it to run. There's just something so... freeing, about being able to build a program or crack a decryption with something you came up with."
Everything at the Project took some of the joy out of it, by the end, but there are cracks in the parts of her that had no choice but to turn away from doing anything for the joy of it. Enough for her to really miss having a keyboard beneath her fingers after months of only pen, paper and typewriters.
"God, the rudest..." she makes a thoughtful noise that morphs into a laugh. "Okay, well, it's a sort of two-parter. One of my favourite tricks was exposing local scammers and the like and obviously those people didn't exactly take kindly to their business being public. This one guy, he made the biggest fuss, total public tantrum, sooo I switched the feed out to a crying baby. And when he didn't like that I switched it again to an animated middle finger. There were literally dozens of screens playing the animation over and over and he had no idea who let alone where I was."
no subject
"Please tell me the final act was an animation of a crying baby giving him the middle finger," he manages.
no subject
CT half-covers her own snickering in the side of her hand. "God I wish I'd thought of that! He might've actually started steaming from the ears! I'm pretty sure I kept a CCTV recording of his reaction juuuuust in case, though."
Fresh material, on the off chance he tried to just go back to scamming people.
no subject
Another snicker.
" -- I'll get it for you for, frak, I don't know. Your birthday? Yamsgiving?"
(Look, for all Gaeta knows, Yamsgiving is an actual Earth holiday and not just something Cecil created on a whim.)
no subject
"Yamsgiving would be easier—see, you'd have to get my birthday out of me first," CT jokes, which isn't not a challenge.
(For all she knows Yamsgiving is some holiday around here.)
no subject
He holds out a hand to seal the deal.
no subject
CT snickers, takes the hand and shakes. "Deal. I promise I'll play fair."