ph_logs | December Event - Long Nights, Bright Lights [Holiday Catchall]

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December Event - Long Nights, Bright Lights [Holiday Catchall]

Long Nights,
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.

By Candlelight We Go

Check out the various festivities below!

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.

Threaded | Flat

Latke Time
There are potato pancakes and sweet potato pancakes; there is sour cream and applesauce. There is Cecil, grinning as he offers a plate to passersby at the Winter Market.

"Even if you don't celebrate Hanukkah, you deserve something warm to eat while shopping!"

Giving Time
Cecil's glad to let Yorick and the mayor do announcements and passing out gifts. He's sitting almost curled armadillo-like around a mug of mulled wine and just soaking in the good vibes in the room. Honestly, he's eyeing a couple of cushions on one of the couches and a spot on the floor near the fire. Does anyone want to be wholly improper and just. Do a cuddle in the warm?

Wildcard Time
come at me, cuz.

Hold your temper, too, my friend

Initially, réveillon is intended to just be a small stress test for the restaurant, with virtually only her closest family in attendence. Darcy’s still recovering from surgery and will have to purely direct, well enough to stand but not well enough for anything strenuous. Unfortunately, even with the low attendence of mass all year otherwise, Mulcahy makes it sound like there’ll be the usual uptick of congregation at Christmas. Fucking typical. Fucking protestants showing up twice a year and acting like that counts.

Well, Mulcahy is a friend and she does want to show her support. So fuck it- she tells the restaurant to expect more people, and passes word around that Christmas eve dinner for those attending the mass will be fully catered, with an optional (but strongly suggested) contribution to the collection plate as the only fee.

During réveillon, Darcy can mostly be found in a seat by the pass, helping direct the kitchen and get it through its growing pains. During mains she’ll help with the serving just to check in on how the food is being received, though you can grab her to talk if you want. Towards the end of the night when the last of the desserts are coming out, she’ll make her way to the chef’s table and all-but collapse, equal parts relieved and frustrated. Come give your compliments to the chef, or ask if she could use some wine, she looks like she needs it.

Troubled heart, troubled heart here withal [mingle and menu]

The interior of La Veritable Dragon Rouge is dark and moody. The walls are decorative wood panels, and there are exposed structural wood beams throughout. A candle chandelier lights the main dining hall dimly, helped by a few candles on each table, but still leaving the room feeling dark and intimate. There’s a couple of larger tables with white tablecloths, clearly set up for the congregation to mingle at during service. The rest of the tables have simple ‘reserved’ signs put up, along with a dinner roll on the plate and a glass of wine. Nobody ever arrives to fill the seats- or at least, nobody living, in any case, and any attempt to sit at the reserved tables will result in a very harried looking Maitre d’ kindly directing you back to the larger tables.

At the very back of the main dining room, close enough to see the kitchen itself, is a large chef’s table made out of an old butcher’s counter. This is the only table that has names on the reserved seating; Phil, Helena, Dimitri, Hawkeye, Ruby. No hard feelings to anyone else, Darcy just wants her most ardent cheerleaders close at hand. And Hawkeye. For her dad’s sake.

Towards midnight, the staff take the leftovers upstairs to one of the private rooms to celebrate a successful service, and the rowdy sound of raucous celebration can probably be heard through the ceiling.

The Menu

Apéritifs, pre-dinner drinks.

‘The Poodle’, a shaken cocktail of egg whites, whiskey, and a ginger syrup for bite.
‘The Normal Girl’, a non-alcoholic sweet lemonade with a salted rim, and small blue flower petals floating in the centre.

Entrée, a selection of small nibbles, to share.
‘The Detective’, bone marrow butter on Irish brown bread and bitter greens.
‘The First Mate’, English pastie with leek and onion.
‘The Princess’, bugnes, served with edible flowers.
‘The Pickpocket’, potatoes Lyonnaise, served on a skewer.
‘The Fop’, cervelle de canut spread with toasted baguette slices.

Plat Principle, main course, one per person.
‘The Spies‘, classic roast chicken with ghost apple sauce and stuffing, carved at the table.
‘The Beloved Dead’, a roasted pumpkin stuffed with bread, cheese, mushrooms, and assorted other vegetables, scooped out and served at the table.
‘The Tiger’, strozzapreti with pork sugo.

Fromage, cheese course.
Assortment of local Pumpkin Hollow cheeses.

Dessert.
Buche de Noel, a rolled Christmas cake in the form of a log.
Digestifs et le café
Selection of local digestifs, coffee, mulled wine, or non-alcoholic warm eggnog, all served with praline.

Givingstide has an unexpected special guest this year.

Anyone who’s consulted the book on Christmas will be able to recognize him, but anyone who’s not from earth might still think the sight is strange.

Namely, a man dressed in red with a white beard very clearly glued to his face and a pillow imitating a belly carries a large sack. For the rest of the evening ‘Santa’ and his helpers make sure that every kid they can find gets a little wooden toy. Nobody’s going home empty-handed. Otherwise, Hawkeye is acting the part of Santa with great enthusiasm, committing to the kayfabe and answering any questions from local children with good humour. Including acting wounded if anyone points out his beard is fake.

Friends and loved ones can come see him while he’s still in costume, but gift-giving or catching up with him will have to wait until after the kids have gone to bed and Hawk gets changed to soak up the last of the party. It is a near-complete transformation, except for one thing; the beard is still stuck to his face. That’s a problem for tomorrow’s Hawkeye to solve.

(( ooc: hey there! a little notice before we begin: since Mass is pretty hard to thread, but i figured we should still have an "onscreen" spot for it, this post is going to work a little differently. rather than full entire formal threads, people are encouraged to leave comments outlining their attending character's general reaction to the Mass(es). if people want to thread from there, great! but it's by no means a requirement! go forth and have fun! ))

The little area set aside for the Catholics has been done up for some time now; slowly, through the month of December, little decorations have slowly been added. The first was the Advent candles, a wreath of evergreen pine sat on the table, nesting four candles of red, white, and green wax; one for each of the four Sundays of Advent leading up to Christmas. Then a Nativity scene is added, and yet more little things; a small little pine tree all decorated in what he could reasonably get his poor hands on, the ornaments marking the family tree of Christ in the form of a Jesse tree, other candles, and baubles here and there. Then a book of the story of Christmas, so very, very kindly dedicated by the Pinhole bookbinders. On the 24th and 25th, the book, wreath, and Nativity move to pride of place.

Christmas traditionally demands four Masses: the Vigil Mass during the day of the 24th, the Midnight Mass, then the Mass at Dawn, and finally, Mass During the Day. Darcy will be there for all four, but Midnight Mass is the one that most go to. And considering the crowd that showed up for the evening meal at Darcy's Réveillon, he is sweating his ass off.

It's his first real Christmas in 6 or so years, and he really wants to do this right. He's never been a particularly charismatic or magnetic priest, and being the only person on this island to represent the Catholic faith at its best is... ah. A lot, to be sure. Although a part of him is also glad for the lack of competition; he knows that quite a number of them are rather more unpleasantly uptight than he is.

Midnight Mass begins. It's only an hour, and is not too much different than the usual Mass, but he still has to soothe his nerves, especially when it comes to leading the very few established Catholics in attendance in Gloria with a few traditional carols. Thankfully, simply reading the story of Christmas for the Liturgy takes up a good chunk of time, especially with added context for the curious strangers who have shown up in attendance and interspersed with direct sections of the Gospel relating to the birth of Christ. It's all a very intimate affair. Mulcahy is soft-spoken and affable. He still looks a bit like a stiff wind might blow him to dust, but the usual warmth to his manner has really come alive tonight. And with such a small attendance compared to the usual Christmas congregations on Earth, it's far, far less sterile in mood than these usually tend to be. In fact, if anyone in the crowd raises a hand in question, he'd be very happy to stop and answer.

And then it's over, and the congregation is dismissed. He lingers for any questions, for anyone who wishes to speak with him. And then they go too, and he sits down on the nearest elevated surface.

Phew.

o little town of marrow isle [givingstide]

Mostly, alongside Hawkeye, he busies himself with the children. He's been a regular volunteer at the Autumn Leaves Dormitory for around half a year by now, after all, and quite a few of them have come to adore him. (Unfairly, he thinks to himself, but you will never hear him speak a word of it to them.)

So he's a bit inaccessible for most of the party; they do so have a habit of pulling him hither and tither, inviting him into their games or even making him the subject of them; there's at least once instance of them trying to hang as many Givingstide decorations on him as possible. Mulcahy, for his part, is smiling warmly all the way. Even if he has to occasionally hush them from screaming at pitches only dogs can hear, he does so love the children.

Also like Hawkeye, he does not rest or become available for extended conversation until after they leave. He picks for his own food--a fairly small plate, all told--and retreats to a quiet, isolated corner, content to watch the rest.

how still we see thee lie [mourner's night]

Mulcahy is in the lantern-bearing procession. By all means, he has directly involved himself in a pagan ritual and is almost certainly committing some kind of grave heresy. He's lost too many people to care.

Even on most days, his sun-faded complexion, gaunt look, and all-black dress makes him look like a wraith, but the skull paint in such a grim setting sees him move into something downright otherworldly. He is no Enoch or Elijah who went to the places of death while yet alive. No; he died to come to this island, this place of death. Neither does he has no claim to it as the undead do. Still he is wrapped in the departures of hundreds of the sick and wounded, wreathed in the passing of hundreds of soldiers, cloaked in the vanishing of dozens of tortured souls into the ether between worlds.

Darcy, the most devoted of his congregation, whose faith brings to him a sense of familiarity, comfort, and home reaching even further back than his time in the war, marches beside him. They make a pair, the two of them. A psychopomp for the living and a psychopomp for the dead.

At the cemetery, many stand at specific tombs. Family and friends. Those they knew.

Mulcahy stands in commemoration of the Potter's Field and the unidentified dead, where once he arose from death. In his hand, a letter.

Beside the memorial bench facing the cliff and the sea, he bends down to dig into the frozen soil. To it he sings the songs as they rise into the air; when they are over, he throws in the letter, and a seed, and buries both. Nothing will come of it now, but in the spring--maybe.

Then he stands, and watches.

above thy deep and dreamless sleep [wildcard]
(( got anything else in mind? hmu! ))

Edited 2024-12-23 04:05 (UTC)

givingstide.

The celebration draws her in as moth to flame, and Fever's been prepared - brought things carefully contemplated, finding places to be and soak in the mood, enjoying the food and laughing at the general merriment. There is no fuss, no bother, and she intends to enjoy herself as she can. Enough happens to observe, and for the most part, she's either got a seat on a couch or sitting on the floor to get into conversation with people or give a little cheer to someone enthusiastic for some reason. Children laughing, people smiling, warmth. It's a good time. There is dancing she joins, there is sparkling conversation to join in, there is the sense to linger.

But still, every now and then, she quietly disappears from the gathering, to go out whatever door she can, to go stand in the wind and the snow and try for balance. When the tips of her fingers and ears feel numb, she'll move back in, having soothed herself to being up for the next round. If nothing else, she'll manage like this.

Tonight is for peace. It will remain as such, at least from her.

mourner's night.

It's time. She's done all she can, and now it's time to play the role. Clad in black, heavy veil obscuring her face, Fever summons all her courage, and drives on. Just like she practiced, steady along the road, telling herself that no one will hear her heart beating hard in her chest. The horses know the way, and people are following, and all she has to do is be steady and breathe in the stillness. Silence like a shroud, and she might have been leading the town, or a fraction of the nameless souls who cling to her shadow.

People grieve who they lost, who they loved, the selves they had to let go of. And while one part of her heart clings to wickedness, protests the idea of mourning, finds celebration and liberty in death and loss and ruin - oh, she has grown, in strife and quiet, inch by inch, stretching herself enough to know where absence pains. The long healed cut on her palm still bears a ghost, where blood answered blood, and Fever makes herself remember. There is a list of names, after all. There are so many without names.

When the bell chimes, her voice is one of the first to lift in song, as she had known she would do this entire time. Unfaltering, clear, blessedly steady.

People move to reunite, to go, and Fever does not. Not yet. Not until the last soul departs will she even think about it. Her vigil isn't ended. This night is far from over.

(But occasionally, she softly hums a fragment of a different song, one she hasn't allowed herself to forget.)

wildcard.

[want something not covered? go for it.]

it's the season of grace coming out of the void [givingstide]

Radar's been happily deputized as one of Santa-Hawkeye's... okay, not elves, since there's actual elves around here, but one of his partners in gift-giving crime. So along with him and Mulcahy, Radar spends nearly all of the gathering scampering around, handing out toys, explaining who Santa is to the littler kids, and keeping up the kayfabe by insisting -- with the same straight-faced, wide-eyed earnestness that's fooled three-star generals before -- that yeah, that really is Santa! He flew his sleigh in this morning! We got people taking care of his reindeer out on the farms! One of 'em's even got a glowing red nose and everything!

It's really nice. Since he got here, Radar's spent so much time with other stuff around town that he hasn't gotten much chance to help out at Autumn Leaves. He's missed playing with kids like this; like he would with the kids from the village or the orphanage in Korea.

Which means he's a bit out of practice and looking a little ragged by the time the festivities start winding down. Cheerful as ever, beaming with the pride of a job well done, but kinda ragged all the same. Once the last kid's out the door, he grabs a plate and a cup of cider (with just a tiiiiny bit of brandy in it) before flopping into the nearest chair with a loud, "Phew."

and knowing we are not alone in fear [mourner's night]

He joins the procession, silent as the rest.

The weight in the back of Radar's head has gotten heavier and heavier the longer he stays here. Death is so light on this island. It loses meaning when it's no worse than being knocked out for twenty-four hours. It becomes an inconvenience, a joke, even a reassurance: nobody stays dead here for long. And every time he patches his heart up and tries to take on the weight of what death ought to be, well --

It matters when people die, he cried to a near-stranger once, and it always has and when people here start acting like it don't, how's that any better than being back home, huh?

Here, for one night, it matters again. And it's kinda weird how the weight of so much collective grief makes Radar feel a little lighter.

At the cemetery, he sticks close to Dahlia for a while, slipping his hand into hers. Elsewhere, on a patch of open space between the headstones, he sits in the snow. Writes HENRY BLAKE with one fingertip; the closest his CO's gonna get to a grave when he's buried in an ocean a world away. There's more he wants to add, but it'd be whole sentences worth, not names. Everybody Dahlia's killed, even if some of them were only temporary. All the people in Korea who didn't ask to be pulled into some dumb police action war. The soldiers who left their homes and won't ever go back.

Radar guesses he's one of those soldiers for now, until the barrier comes down. He just hopes the world hasn't kept turning too long while he's away. He doesn't wanna think of his mom and Uncle Ed getting a letter from Colonel Potter in the mail -- and who'd be taking down the letter, anyway, if Radar's not around as clerk anymore?

He wipes his eyes. But when the singing begins, his voice stays steady.

but at least we all will be together [givingstide]

Gaeta has decided that he frakking hates this time of year.

It's not because he's a grump about the holidays. Truly. He liked a good Saturnalia celebration as much as the next person, back when it was an actual event and not a strained attempt at normalcy during the years after the attacks. No, he hates everything just because it's so unbearably cold. Even the chill at the Dance of Celestine was pushing it, and now, with everything below freezing for weeks on end, Gaeta's turned into an outright recluse.

But. If it's not the holidays, just the weather, he supposes he ought to try and drag himself out for Givingstide. Especially since he does have some presents to distribute. (Most of which feel woefully inadequate -- how do you even give gifts in a place of abundance like this? He's spent years exchanging things like five-year-old magazines and tubes of toothpaste, properly mended socks and half-cups of real coffee. Nobody here would appreciate something that basic.)

Catch him by the fire with his food and mulled wine, slowly shedding a comically large number of layers as he begins to thaw out. His mood will thaw out soon enough, too, we promise.

from now on we'll have to muddle through somehow [mourner's night]

He wasn't planning on joining the procession -- see above re: recluse -- but when it passes by the apartments on Goldleaf Street, the sight tugs hard at the old wounds crisscrossing his heart.

There's a reason Gaeta doesn't talk much about his life before Marrow Isle. If he ever gave himself real room to grieve, he's certain, it'd metastasize until that's all he was anymore. Grief made manifest. He'd start weeping and never be able to stop. Useless, helpless, uncontrollable. What would even be the point of him then? And a whole holiday given over to grief? No. He should keep his shields up and stay inside.

...

Gaeta wraps himself in his customary layers and falls in step with the procession, silently accepting a candle from one of the villagers.

Still, he tries to keep everything as small and contained as he can on the approach to the graveyard. It feels like every inch of him is drawn so tight with the effort that he's shaking with more than the cold. Moving among the headstones, he doesn't know where to go, what to do, what to say. It's different than sending out those lanterns during the beach party, or tacking a photograph on Galactica's memorial wall. Remembrance is not the same as mourning.

So all he does is stand, and breathe, and try not to weep, as precarious as standing on the edge of a canyon.

-Givingstide-
[ Technically closed to CR but I'm being loose about it ]

Unlike most years, Dahlia does not attend the normal Givingstide celebrations in town. Instead, she sends invitations to her partners and friends to her own private gathering to be held afterwards, allowing others in her home for the first time in a while.

'Bring friends,' the invitation says.

In the late evening, the lights of Leeds Estate are aglow with candles, hearth lit, food served with the help of Laios and Radar rather than her usual staff. It's nothing fancy, compared to things like her galas. But it's warm and inviting, with Dahlia dressed in a long green skirt with a white blouse and black waistcoat. She looks put together in a way she hasn't in a while. There's tea and snacks. Stay as long as you like.

Those close to her will also find that they have gifts from Dahlia.

-Mourner's Night-

Dahlia spends most of Mourner's Night in front of her family's mausoleum, but this year, she visits several other graves. In addition, she checks on her people quietly, drifting like a ghost from one to the next.

When the ceremony ends, Dahlia can be found briefly talking to Mortanne, before attempting to skulk to the far side of the back of the cemetery without being noticed. Her intention, it seems, is to fly home.

Edited 2024-12-23 00:03 (UTC)

Rex arrives with his brother and company, immediately shedding his coat so that he's wearing a long buttoned shirt, pants, goggles on his forehead and hair, and his boots (which César made him clean). He has to make one more pass at César carrying a "man bag".

1. Chicken: 0, Teenager: 1
The atmosphere at the O&I helps Rex work up an appetite and he goes off on his own while the others catch up with friends. He gives one of the servers the old puppy dog eyes to get his own whole chicken, eagerly taking it to a corner booth along with a big glass of milk. It's only when he sits down that he realizes he's forgotten to get silverware, and his brain immediately comes up with an extremely hilarious (to him) solution.

Rex hesitates, scans the crowd to see no one's looking at him, and picks up the whole chicken to take a giant bite of chicken breast.

2. Put a pin on it
After eating his second meal with family, Rex is surprised to receive a little wrapped box when presents are passed out. He tears into the wrapping paper and cracks open the jewelry box with some confusion. Rex's whole body lights up as he sees what's inside. But then some confusion filters back in as he looks down at his shirt.

César drops one of Rex's suit jackets over his head after pulling it out of his 'man bag', which makes Rex scramble to yank it off. He thrusts the jewelry box into César's hands, stands to hurriedly struggle into the jacket, and beams as César shows fastens it onto his lapel and straightens his jacket out. There's a quiet conversation punctuated by smiles and a laugh from César, and whatever he says next makes Rex lightly punch his shoulder.

For the rest of the night, Rex keeps looking at it, feeling as if a part of him is no longer missing.

3. The Hush
Rex sticks close to César throughout the procession and through the beginning of the candlelight vigil. Then all at once, it becomes oppressive when he realizes that he's the only one that really doesn't have anyone to mourn, and he excuses himself. César seems to understand, only making sure his sending stone is on him.

It feels like he's a horrific intrusion in this moment. Rex has no memories of losing anyone important to him, and his dead parents he can't remember are actually alive, and millions of people died horrifically during those years he can't remember. He finds a spot away from the crowds of people, carrying his own little candle, and stares at the Northern Lights, trying to make sense of his emotions, surrounded by the nebulous feeling of loss that doesn't include him.

-Winter-

It's a crisp Winter day, the day before Mourner's Night. Morning has just broken, still decently late into the morning, bathing the world in a pale blue that the snow hungrily absorbs into its reflective white.

Perhaps, if you are lucky, you will catch a glimpse sight of a white horse, standing in the snow.

Perhaps if you are curious, you will follow it.

-Beyond-

It's suddenly louder as the vigil ends, even as people murmur their chatter to one another. Even the smallest of voices seem like uproars compared to the silence.

She lingers on the outskirts of the festival. Anyone who has crossed the barrier and entered by ferry has met her before. Unlike the other goddesses, whose familiarity lies uncannily in what they represent, you know this woman. An office. A deal. She dressed differently then.

The White-Haired Lady.

Mortanne.

Death.

-Cessation-
[ Closed to Fever and Sheogorath ]

It's getting late, and most of the crowds have cleared out. Those who wanted to speak with Mortanne have concluded their business. She sits alone on the stone ledge of Linette's well.

"Are we ready?"

[Givingstide]

Artemy attends, as he is apt to do. He is even more distant than he was at the dance. His mind lingers elsewhere. Though he does have a few gifts for friends, and is apt to pass them out. Otherwise, he'll likely be keeping to himself, trying to make an appearance of being social, but not putting forth too much effort in doing so.

[Mourner's Night]

There's a deep seated part of Artemy that's terrified of participating. But he knows he could never forgive himself if he did not.

There is so much death that his on his hands. Rivers of blood, if some are to be believed.

He keeps a coat wrapped around his person, along with a blanket, refusing a candle, walking along in the dark at the very back of the procession. He does not want the others to see his silent tears.

Once arriving to the graveyard, he still stands at the edge of the crowd of people, he does not wish to draw attention to himself, at the fact that his tears threaten to cross into sobs as the proceedings turn to song. The Haruspex will try to leave as soon as it is socially appropriate, at least far enough outside of the cemetery to get some fresh air.

Interfaith Holidays

Artemy will find the Yule altar, and, while his religion doesn't celebrate Yule, it would be considered under the Pagan umbrella... to some, he supposes. So therefore, he feels inclined to leave a small bundle of herbs there. No one will likely know what it's for, or why it's there. But he'll know.

Perhaps that counts for something.

There's a sign in the window advertising a candy sale, and colorful alchemical lights out above the doorway to lure people into Ambrose's shop. It smells like warm sugar, an apprentice currently pouring a pot of the molten material onto a table to be worked into new confections. Ambrose, a stout dwarf with an animated face is fixing up a display with bags of colorful humbugs.

If you're looking for toffee or peppermint bark, ribbon candy or multicolored candy canes, those are all available. So are marshmallows, large and square-cut in several flavor, as well as caramels in foil wrappers. One table off to the side advertises cough drops--did you know those came from the local candymaker? Everything is wrapped in bright ribbons and crinkly paper.

As one leaves, there's a second sign, smaller than the first: HELP WANTED. Are you looking for work?

get a little warm in my heart when I think of winter (Givingstide)

The celebration at the Oak & Iron isn't much like Winter's Crest, but there are echoes: gifts exchanged, colorful decorations, lights and feasting. The talk around the Winter Market gave her sufficient warning that gifts would be expected, and she's brought a few to be distributed -- some trinkets picked up at the Market, a few more costly, a very few handmade.

She stays for the party, talking to friends, enjoying a hot drink (perhaps laced with just a touch of something stronger), maybe joining the dancing if the steps look easy enough to pick up. It's quite late before she starts to head home.

all the white horses have gone ahead (Mourner's Night)

Cassandra finds herself in a strange detached mood for most of the day, after her encounter that morning. But she comes back to herself in time for the procession, wrapped in her winter coat and following the solemn march.

This feels appropriate, after all. Winter is the time of the Matron of Ravens, and many do visit the graveyards on her holy days.

At the cemetery, she sets down one last gift: a white stone about the size of her two fists, on which she has carefully painted a crest. For her family, and for the many others who died there; for the deaths she could not possibly have prevented, as well as those she could have, had she been willing to risk her own.

She'll be willing to talk, should anyone care to.

you say that things change, my dear (Interfaith Celebrations)

The sight of blue and silver at the temple startles her -- surely not a Winter's Crest decoration, here?

It doesn't seem to be that at all, when she gets closer. She finds herself simultaneously homesick and curious, and leans into the latter to get away from the former, reading through the offered materials with interest. If anyone wants to tell her more about these Earth holidays, she'll be an eager audience.

And if, just by the way, anyone should want to ask her about winter holidays where she comes from ... why then, she'll be just as happy to tell.

wildcard

Hit me up on discord to discuss other options, or surprise me!

all my friends have evergreens and figurines (Givingstide)

The evergreen wreath over the hearth of the Oak & Iron is a familiar sight in its own way; she's gone to so many winter parties and gatherings with similar decorations. Zivia gives it a faintly rueful smile as she comes in, and gets down to greeting friends and neighbors with hugs and handclasps and good wishes. She's brought her own food -- a sizeable chicken sandwich on homemade bread and a wrapped jar of noodle soup -- but she's happy to sit at the long tables with everybody else and partake of the hot tea, the music, and the convivial festive atmosphere.

And she's brought gifts, too. Maybe one of them is for you?

look out the window, there's snow all around (Mourner's Night)

Unlike the Givingstide celebration, the Mourner's Night procession is unequivocally a religious observance, down to someone standing in for the goddess. Zivia weighs the options and comes to a decision she can work with: she does not join or stand to watch the procession itself, but she does come to the cemetery some time after its arrival, to spend some time with those who are remembering the dead, on this communal yahrzeit.

You could ask about her own dead, but there's no guarantee she'll be willing to talk about that.

and it shines forever faithful (Interfaith Holidays)

Every night from the twenty-fifth to the second, Zivia is at the temple's interfaith space, to light the menorah or to watch someone else light and answer amein to the blessings, to sing Haneiros Hallalu and Maoz Tzur and trade melodies. She tells a few more stories beyond what's in the basic book to anyone interested, including sharing the origin story of dreidels and teaching the game to a crowd of local children. (The children don't get all the stories, though; the story of Yehudit and Holofernes is reserved for slightly older audiences.)

And of course, she joins Cecil at the frying booth at the Winter Market, because fried food is the best winter holiday tradition and she'll stand by that.

Mourner's Night

A lot of the procession is, admittedly, rather lost on her given its silent nature. She feels the cold winter air, the warm flickering of the candle, the steady rumble of feet and whispers, that atmosphere alone having to carry her through until the singing begins. Which it does, well enough.

She doesn't sing. She stands and listens, taking it in and thinking about the people she's lost. Her mother, a freak accident. Her father, fading away long before the horrors of Ivy Meadows (easier to think about the dementia, these days, rather than let her mind linger on the truth, on the terrible things Elias forced her to know, forced her to feel—)

And then the singing ends, and Melanie takes the audible cue to blow out the candle, and she lingers a while to listen to the sounds of the gathering slowly dispersing.

She doesn't need to follow any lights to make her way home, after all.

Wildcard

Hit me up if you wanna figure out anything specific w/ the other holiday-related stuff, or just bowl something at me.

[Giving]
In the weeks leading up to Givingstide, Elsie can sometimes be glimpsed stalking people from above like a ninja on the roofs. She's watching people go to the market, and watching what they buy. She's mumbling to herself, too, something about colors and shapes. You might even be one of her targets. What's she doing up there?

If you don't get a chance to ask her in the moment, then the answer will at least become clear on the day of Givingstide itself. She's made small pendants from carved wood or stones in the shape of either a plant or animal, each hung from a leather cord. She's done her very best to judge what each of her friends might like, but it was harder to decide for some than others. She's too shy to pass them out herself, so she slips in through the shadows and leaves them among the rest of the gifts on the table. There's no note inside the small parcels of scrap fabric tied with twine to say who it's from, but the back of each pendant has a small "E" etched into it as a signature.

[ooc: Anyone with positive CR with Elsie of any kind is free to say they received a pendant from her. Please decide for yourself what the carving is. Handwaving is completely fine.]

[Mourning]
She still doesn't know where she fits with most of the locals, even now, but she's here just the same. Because she wants to fit. She wants to be part of things. Still, she can't bring herself to do more than hover at the outskirts. This year, as she gazes out at the sea, it's a different kind of melancholy. It isn't her mother she's mourning, not now that she knows her true fate. However, knowing her mother has been alive but sleeping all this time doesn't stop the hurt. She's mourning the time lost, the conversations not had, and all the things she learned to do alone because there was no one else. The demons took it from her. The sea was their weapon. She's going to make them give it back. Somehow.

The expression she wears is uncharacteristically dark and brooding. She's rarely ever felt her own forehead wrinkle like this. She isn't sure if she likes this feeling or not, but it's powerful. It makes her feel driven in a way that's sharp like the edge of a knife. But that scares her, too. These demons hold so much sway. What if she isn't strong enough? What if she can't do it? Then... she'll just have to die trying.

Edited 2025-01-01 18:41 (UTC)

[Givingstide]
It's nice that this town has its own tradition of giving. Crichton finds himself falling in love with the whole thing. At last, he can sit in a cozy cabin with the people he cares about all gathered around. At last, he can give them gifts and more importantly than that, he can give them affirmations of his love for them. So many people here are family to him. Even more are friends. He smiles as he looks around and realizes that in this moment they are safe. They can simply celebrate and enjoy the night. He can too.

[ooc: If our characters have positive CR, feel free to handwave that he got them something small that seems in line with their taste. And for close CR, that item came with a heartfelt letter expressing his gratitude for their place in his life.]

[Mourners Night]
He follows the crowd with a candle in his hand. His black leather fits the theme tonight. So does his somber expression. Once they reach the cemetery he goes a little away from the group and stares at no grave in particular. He's had his time to mourn in Whitestone. He'd done so much of it in just that one year. But being here is different. Now, some of the people he mourned have been returned. Some in full, others only in form. It's a new kind of rekindling of grief. It's pulled stitches in an almost healed wound. Now, it infects with thoughts of Why him? or Why not her? So many nights he'd stayed up staring at the ceiling chasing these and so many other thoughts across the ceiling. He needs to let it go. So, he carries it here with him, nestled in his chest, this new heartache. He searches for a place to bury it.

The pain leaks out in silent tears and muffled breaths. His lips quiver with the effort to keep quiet but the sorrow drips from his eyes instead. Until the bell begins to toll. The rising melody of the villagers' song beckons to him. He doesn't know the words, but he joins in humming the melody, suddenly feeling lighter, less burdened. The pain is still there, but it's shrunk. The swelling has gone down. He can face it now. He can face the next year to come. As he looks around to see that he isn't the only one with a wet face, he no longer attempts to hide his own tears. But he's smiling. It's soft and small, but it's real. It's a peaceful smile.

[For Sally + Gwen + Runt]
For Givingstide, Crichton can't quite contain his excitement, so he's invited The Girls over a little in advance for a nice quiet dinner and also a gift exchange. He's a little nervous as he brings his soft-wrapped parcel to the kitchen table to show her.

"I didn't want to do anything too complicated or extravagant as a gift. I hope you don't mind that I kept it simple." Inside are yellow-knitted hats and mitten sets. Four, in fact. "I got one for your roommate too and for, uh... Yellow. Didn't want anyone to feel left out. I have one for me and Runt, too. We all match."

Mourners' Night

Spring is George's chosen season, rebirth and joy and love. But Winter, of nostalgia and sorrow and grief, was- is? was Gilbert's. Fitting, perhaps, that the season of sorrow is the one George mourns for now.

He sits in the graveyard, alone with everyone else, and barely moves all night. In his hands is broken piece of porcelain dotted with sparkling ice crystals. He can't tell anyone why it makes his grief worse, why he wont part from it even if he'd only found it by chance on the walk to the graveyard.

He'd cry if he could, but he can't. So he just sits there, staring at the porcelain.

[Giving]
Max arrives loaded down with wrapped gifts and leftover baked goods. His birthday party was only the day before (which is part of why he insisted presents weren't necessary) so he's using this as a great excuse to clear out the rest of the cakes that didn't get eaten. Still pretty tuckered out from all his birthday fun, he's content to sit in the warm glow of friends all around him enjoying good drinks and exchanging warm wishes for the year ahead. This, he thinks to himself happily, has been the best year yet. The one ahead looks even more promising.

[ooc: Max has so many friends and people he loves and he 100% got something nice for all of them so please for my sanity can we handwave the gift exchange? If characters have any positive CR with him at all, they got a thing. That, or Max asked what their favorite dessert was and gave that to them as the gift.]

[Mourning]
He walks in silence among the rest carrying a candle. His mind turns over and over thinking of what's happened. There are so many things to mourn and yet... tonight he feels more hopeful than sad. He spoke to his sister. He got to tell her the truth, finally. She understood. She even forgave him. That's one loss he finally feels at peace with. This time, at least, he got to say goodbye.

That isn't the only old grief he can finally put to bed. All the guilt he's carried for killing Erik's sister has gone. It's become something new but it isn't grief. He isn't sorry anymore. He never should have been in the first place.

Finally, there's Erik, himself. He never imagined his new life would include rekindled friendship with his once Master. Standing up for himself and his relationship with Erik has been the most challenging thing yet, but this still feels right. This is what he wants. It's his choice, now.

As the silence breaks into song, and the multitude of emotions squeezing his chest begin to flow down his cheeks as tears, he finds himself not sad but excited. The past is firmly behind him and the future is alive and well.

Threaded | Flat

QUESTIONS/COMMENTS/CONCERNS

Cecil Gershwin Palmer | Welcome to Night Vale

Réveillon Dinner Mingle [For those attending Christmas Mass]

Hawkeye | OTA

midnight mass | OTA | read notice!

father mulcahy | M*A*S*H

father mulcahy | MAS*H