September Event - Guest Appearances

[pumpkinhollow]

GUEST APPEARANCES

Ignition

September 20th is the Autumnal Equinox. Many places across the world of Concorde celebrate the first day of fall. While various nations and regions have their own cultural practices surrounding it, nature is god everywhere. And so the inception of Mother Autumn’s domain is universally recognized, even if the names change from place to place. But on a little island named Marrow, in a little town called Pumpkin Hollow, there is another reason to celebrate.

The birth of Dahlia Leeds is not so important an event that it supersedes Celestine herself, and neither Dahlia nor anyone in town is foolhardy enough to claim as much. In fact, after the events on this very same day last year, one might argue that perhaps her birth at least started out as a bad thing. But she is certainly the wealthiest person in town. It is through the combination of substantial wealth and a generous heart, two things that are very seldom found in the same place, that we end up with a soiree where the birthday girl would rather spoil everyone else on her day than herself.

The doors to Leeds Estate, which presides proudly over the town upon its throne at the crest of Founder’s Hill, are flung wide open. Large sums of Brass are paid to caterers, florists, and seamstresses to make sure this place is decorated to the nines. Some businesses labor all year, just to prepare for the handsome payoff they’ll get from this event alone. And you, dear neighbor, are invited. Not only are you invited, but you are dressed for the event in whatever your heart desires, completely at the birthday girl’s expense. Dahlia ensures no cost nor conflict stands in between anyone in town and a much-needed break. She is determined for this birthday of hers to be a good night.

Or else.

Incipience

{ The timeframe between ignition and the peak of burning, where a small, contained fire spreads and grows gradually into an established flame. All it takes is a spark. }

The whole town is abuzz as preparations for the gala begin. From the moment people begin to wake up for the day, the air throughout Pumpkin Hollow just feels electric with excitement. After August, people have been needing this lift in morale, and after how last year’s gala went… well, there’s a lot riding on this one. And Dahlia seems much more in control now.

Speaking of being in control, the whole lead-up process has been incredibly organized. You wake up to a delivery--- your outfit, perfectly tailored and completely paid for. Accessories are included. She truly thought of everything.

It’s noteworthy that Dahlia’s invitations this time included another name beneath her own. “Suzanne Marie Dyneax,” it said. Most people don’t know the name, but gossip gets around in a small town like this. It’s not hard to pick up on the fact that this probably refers to Susie, one of the teenagers that Dahlia recently moved into her home, whose own birthday was ruined by Seemingly’s attack. Gift baskets have been delivered to others whose days were in proximity to the disaster--- Zivia, Capochin, even CT. Wine, fruit, and sweets, along with a birthday card. Dahlia has said in the past, “my birthday is your birthday,” but never has that felt more true.

With businesses mostly closed for the celebration, you are left with the majority of the day to prepare in relative peace. For many of the women in Dahlia’s inner circle, there is even a pre-party group dressing room set up on the third floor of her home. Only those who received her special invitation (Susie, Noelle, Fever, Cassandra, Anya, Alice, Patty, Melanie, Basira, Elsie) are permitted to join, but any friends or partners are gladly invited to wait at the bottom of the stairs for the girls to make their grand entrance.

The food is laid out, flowers placed, dresses laced and buttoned. The clock strikes 6pm, and the fun begins.

FLASHOVER

{ The moment when a blaze reaches its maximum size and heat, and the radiant heat in the space is such that all combustible materials ignite at once, allowing the flame to steadily and freely burn for the rest of the night. }

By the time it reaches 6:15, the ballroom is already flooded with eager dancers and hungry dinner guests. After all, the whole town is invited, and everyone’s excited to see Dahlia’s beautiful new ballroom and take a load off.

The music is elegant, played by a rotating cast of musicians who join the party when their act is over. The food is extravagant--- Dahlia and two of her partners are some of the biggest foodies in town, so this is expected. There is talking and laughing and the swirling of ballgowns, and all is well.

But there is a guest you do not recognize in the corner of the ballroom. An older man with white hair, strong features, and a dour expression. You can see Dahlia eyeing him, then flitting over to him, then talking to him. Her expression shifts from anxious, to annoyed, to resigned, before at last she sighs heavily and leaves him to it. Whatever it is that’s going on, clearly it’s something Dahlia is willing to begrudgingly tolerate in order to get back to having fun.

The reason for the disturbance becomes clear in short order, but by the grace of Celestine (and perhaps Eligos), it isn’t a reality bending nightmare or an attack by some monstrous beings. It is simply more guests.

A lot more, in fact.

Those who were on the island in September of the previous year will recall the Visitor’s Center, which appeared briefly just past the beach and served as temporary living and meeting quarters for visitors from the homeworlds of current residents. It would seem that this is a repeat incident. For the night of the gala, one to two “plus ones” have been invited for the vast majority of offworld residents. Most of them are friends or family who are happy to see their guests--- but this is ultimately a working of Eligos, so naturally, this is not always the case.

At the very least, Eligos seems to have been generous with his own granddaughter. As she turns away from him, she very nearly runs into someone much shorter than her. A dark haired human man with dwarfism. He laughs at the accident, grinning up at her as she stares back at him, utterly baffled. Then, petticoats billowing out, Dahlia sinks to the floor and embraces him as tight as she can, head pressed to his chest with little regard for her carefully-styled hair. Even those across the room can hear her shout his name. ”Jonah!”

Within the hour, the ballroom is packed with nearly double the people originally expected, turning the party livelier than it’s ever been. Tearful reunions, laughter, dancing, mischief, romance, sparring, cruelty, and even proper, righteous violence. Truly, this Leeds Gala will be one for the books!

--------
[ OOC reminders: each apped-in player character is entitled to one or two guests from their homeworld. This can be former selves, family, friends, enemies, and they do not have to be from the character’s exact canonpoint. They can be from the past or the future. You may play them yourself, ask another member player to do it, or recruit a non-member player to do so with moderator approval. Non-member players are permitted to join the Discord server while they’re active in this event! Threads you write for your own guests are eligible for AC for the character they’re there with, and threads you write for someone else’s guest can be used on the AC of a character of your choice. Just make sure to mark them as guest threads. After the gala, guests will be allowed to move freely about town, stay the night on Saturday and go home Sunday, or leave right after the gala if preferred. And last but not least, characters played in the gala can be apped directly from this event, rather than going through the normal arrival process. Let a mod know if you have questions, and have fun! ]

Smoldering

{ The decay of a flame as available heat, oxygen, and burning material gradually diminish. Eventually, the flames will recede entirely into glowing embers, glittering like orange starlight amid the ashes of what once was. }

The party rages well into the night. It’s not typical for residents of Pumpkin Hollow to stay out this late, with everything around here that goes bump in the night, but eventually party-goers begin to find their way out. They move in small groups, huddled around lanterns, may they ever stay lit. Perhaps the surprising bit is that their guests can go with them. There are even reservations made for board overnight at the Oak & Iron, all under the name “E. Rex”.

But alas, these reservations are only booked for one night. And by the time the sun begins to set on the darker half of the year for the first time, an unfamiliar black boat is moored at Jack's Marina. One that the guests will recognize as the vessel on which they arrived. They must leave by the time it becomes dark.

Or must they? Perhaps for a select few, they will fail to feel the call which draws them home. It is unclear why. There are many that Mortanne would have allowed residency for, if she could. But for some reason, all but a small few feel the pull. Perhaps Eligos has simply abandoned them here. (Or maybe none at all end up marooned and everyone goes home? That all depends on you, dear reader.)

When the sky goes dark, the aptly named Heavy Heart shoves off, with only her crimson sails hanging suspended seemingly in midair in the moonlight. The black ship is otherwise consumed by the night. And soon, even those flashes of red vanish into the distance.

Moments recede into memories, like a dying fire settles gently into glowing embers at the bottom of a hearth. The festivities are over, and the guests are gone. Life in Pumpkin Hollow resumes as before. But maybe just a little warmer and brighter.

“My birthday is your birthday,” as Dahlia often says.

Happy birthday.

References to the appearance of Leeds Estate can be found here!

Comments

father mulcahy | M*A*S*H | (overall CW: prior torture, gaslighting, manipulation, threats, etc etc)

[lovethyneighb_or]

we'll know such joy as we have never dreamed [closed to number 2]

It has been his honor and joy to both see and support the slow reconstruction of the town; calls to deliver, calls to build, many hands going around. There's a system. People take roles, like the cells in a body kicking into overdrive to clot the blood and bind the skin. One by one, piece by piece, one assistance after the other, the houses go back up. The Hollow heals itself.

The party promises to be an exciting thing. He dresses in his provided finery, relatively plain compared to some other outfits and yet by far the nicest thing he has ever owned. The weather is temperate. The night is sweet. With how many mass celebrations here tend to go awry, he can't deny that he's tense, but until something actually happens, he's going to try to enjoy himself.

The first warning is, however, that the party population has nearly doubled with strangers. Some greet strangers with tearful recognition, others fall into tense arguments. Mulcahy looks for his sister and tries not to think about the worst. He looks for his friends.

The massive crowd is overwhelming though, even with the ballroom's great size. Before he even manages to find anyone he finds himself in need of air. Mulcahy quietly steps outside to the grounds, where some other people seem to have had the same idea. He wanders even further afield for a bit of quiet and sits down on the other side of some hedges. He just needs a moment. Only a moment.

we'll fathom the deeps of pain [open, WITH number 2]

Mulcahy runs as far as he can: nowhere at all. He shrinks inside himself, feels his mind and soul pulling far away from what the body can't escape, making himself small to put as much distance as possible between him and him. Static fills his ears; the world slips far, far away.

It's never been enough. It never stopped him from trying.

After he arrived on the island, so much of "back then" passed him like a dream. He holds no scars from it; only from before on the ship, and after from the Hollow. He has no evidence. In practical terms, it's nothing but a bundle of neuroses he can't let go of and a handful of scary stories. But like this, now everyone sees the devil that haunts every dark corner. They've made it real. And all of a sudden Mulcahy--4077--understands something he should've known long before: there is no escape from the Village. Not for long. He saw this place as an awakening into a real world from a long, dark nightmare, but he had it the wrong way around. This was a beautiful dream, and Two is taking him back where he belongs. The living world has no place for something as thoroughly broken as him. He will go back, and he will die. Like everyone else.

There is a man at the ball who calls himself Number Two, and a pale priest follows at his heels, saying nothing and seeing nothing, with nothing in his gaze; looking at him is about as useful as looking at a pelt's eyes, all glass: fragile and cold and colorless and hollow.

He does not speak unless spoken to. His cross, which he has never gone a day without since arriving, is missing from his neck. He is being good.

He thinks, help me, help me, help me, oh God. I'm dying. I'm dying. I'm dying.

He's being good.

but the hardest bit of it all will be... [open, WITHOUT number 2]

Number 2 finally lets him wander off on his own, and he feels utterly frozen. This is a test. Or a plot. Something. There is one right in a sea of wrongs and he has no idea how to find it. Why does he want to find it? What happened to him? How was it easier to disobey back in the Village? How was he braver then than he is now?

His heart thuds in his chest with tightly muffled panic, gagged and bound, so buried it only shows if you know how to look for it. Anyone he recognizes in the crowd he tries desperately to avoid, wherever he goes, as he moves simply to move. In the estate gardens, in a private hall or side room, some corner, find 4077 anywhere. Anywhere but away. He doesn't know what'll happen if he tries.

[closed to 4077]

[number_2]

"There you are 4077!" booms a familiarly jovial voice. "Almost thought you'd given me the slip. But, ah, here, let me have a look at you."

It's no dream, despite how much Father Mulcahy may wish; Number 2 is really here, dressed exactly as always in his blazer and scarf set. He saunters around the bush and comes to stand in front of his prey, smiling that awful saccharine smile he always wears.

"Doing quite well for yourself, aren't you, pup?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

For half a second, it isn't real. Just another one of a thousand innocuous things that set him off in his day-to-day, like shapes flitting around the corners of his eye, but when he looks up, there he is. He looks the same as he's always been, that familiar looming silhouette in the shredded memories and nightmares he still has of the Village.

He looks happy. Healthy. Whole. Oh God, it's not fair.

It's not real, something in Mulcahy whispers, and he can't tell if it means Number 2 or the world around him.

"How..."

He scrambles to his feet, putting distance between them, but a few feet can't possibly be enough if whole universes weren't. Fear lurches up first, but it's seething rage that he rips out into existence from his chest. "How--dare you. How dare you, you--viper!" The word is spat, venemously hot. His hands curl to fists. "What brought you here?! Why can't you just leave me alone?"

we'll fathom the deeps of pain

[not_a_traitor]

"Francis! Hey, there you are!"

Gaeta can't pull off a jog, but he's moving as rapidly as his bad leg allows, relief breaking over his face. "I was looking all over for you. I..."

And then he slows. The relief drains away, like blood from an open wound. He spares only the quickest glance to the man next to Mulcahy before asking, lower, "What is it?"

[number_2]

"I believe you mean Number 4077," Number 2 loudly cuts into the conversation with his simpering voice at full volume.

To Mulcahy he says, "Care to introduce me to your little friend?"

the hardest bit of it all will be...

[tehilim127_1]

She sees him start off on his own; starts off after him; sees him catch sight of her, and duck away.

There's a furtive, hunted look to his movements, a look that isn't at all like him and yet somehow looks familiar. When the familiarity comes home to her, she very nearly swears out loud, or groans in pain, or both. She doesn't do either.

It feels cruel, to follow him when he's trying so hard to get away. It feels necessary.

Zivia heads in the direction Mulcahy seemed to be moving: toward the gardens.

[lovethyneighb_or]

It is shockingly difficult to keep track of him once they make it outside where there’s darkness and cover. He’s never had reason to use these skills, so it’s the first time anyone will be seeing this from him, but in hindsight it shouldn’t come as a surprise.

She loses him for long enough that she might be afraid he’s evaded her entirely and gone back inside; but for all his self-taught experience, he’s no professional. There: a half-second of a head of white ducking behind some rose bushes.

Closed to *Kevin*

[redlightgreenlight]

When the familiar soul enters her senses, she almost doesn’t believe it. The taste of blood on her tongue and memories of triumph very nearly take over, tempered only by the memories of what he put them all through. The fact that his heart beats again is a travesty.

She comes up behind him, her voice pleasant and kind.

“Hello, Kevin. Fancy meeting you here.”

[number_2]

It can't be. He whips around at the sound of her voice, sweat already breaking out on his forehead.

"You?!"

How? Of all people, of all places? How does this bitch keep finding him?

"Don't call me that."

the hardest bit of it all

[incomingchoppers]

"...Father?"

Of course Radar would track him down, despite Mulcahy's attempts to avoid everyone. He's always had such a knack for locating difficult-to-find things.

(He swears he could hear the Father a mile off. The despair, the desperation; the rattle of his thoughts like a dying soldier choking on his own blood. An entire squadron of choppers plus the whole OR crammed into one man's head, sobbing help me, help me, I'm dying.)

He sits next to him. Almost timidly, he asks, "What's going on?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

He almost bursts into tears right there, just to have someone as sweet and familiar as Radar ask him what's happening? And to call him Father--he's had his gripes with being referred to as just 'Father' here and there, sure, but when he's like this, that title is the only safe thing he has. Vickie called him that in lieu of his number. Almost everyone did, at least sometimes if not all the time. It doesn't make him flinch.

He trusts Radar so much it hurts. If there's anyone to tell, it's the people from his unit. If there's anyone who can pull miracles from thin air to keep the unit running, it's...

(He won't hug him. Two can't know. He thinks about it, though.)

"He's..." (Syringes, the smell of smoke, a man standing in the door of his home, help me, help me.) "... here. Him. From that place."

for No. 2

[not_the_last]

There are a few people at this party that Cassandra wants to keep as far from this man as possible. A quiet warning or two, passed quickly, are well and good ... but to be certain of keeping someone's attention away, sometimes one needs to make oneself a distraction.

Or, perhaps, an irritation.

From a little ways away, well within Number Two's range of hearing, a possibly recognizable voice: "Percy, look over there! Why, it's that Number Two fellow I've told you about."

And a less familiar one, older, male, in much the same accent: "What, the fatuous jailer with the toy village?"

"The very same. I wonder what he thinks he's doing here."

Re: for No. 2

[number_2]

What is this, he thinks to himself, a reunion of all his most hated village annoyances? He was told he was going to a party, but this is hardly any fun.

"Don't you have the nerve to ask me yourself?" he says as he stomps over.

but the hardest.

[abhorrently]

Unfortunately, due to Two's machinations, Mulcahy has a tail who's furiously scribbling notes in the shadows, following his instructions to report on who 4077 talks to and what about. When he goes away, trying to be alone, that still persists. That creeping feeling of observation, of 2's oppression, on his back at all times. There will always be men who are all too happy to celebrate the capture and pain of their fellows, those who no longer know the path of brotherhood, or perhaps never did.

Until, coming down a private hall towards the side room he's in, sounds echo down. Something that sounds like a strangled squeak, before paper tears violently, and there's a solid thud.

"Milady-"

"Leave us."

The voice of command isn't 2, isn't one of his lackeys. And there's scurrying off, scampering of a creature that in the end only seeks to live.

Who comes in is Fever, her steps soft and quiet, clutching a small notebook in her hand. Before she says anything, she tosses it into the room's fireplace, and a bolt of fire rises to her hand. (One very similar to what Gaeta can do now, after all his hard work.)

"Ignis."

The book burns, and she controls the fire, stokes it higher - it'll be nothing but ashes now. No sorcery can undo that, and if her wretched former servant seeks to give a report, he'll have to rewrite his entire log from memory. Which will take some time, so there's some breathing room now. Instead of immediately saying anything, Fever just sits down, moving a chair so she can keep an eye on the door at the same time. Nearly a year ago, she did the same thing when they had barely met. Because it was needed, and because she was there. Now again, it is needed, and it is provided, without having to be asked.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Familiarity and trust is so often a weak opponent to sheer terror and deep, deeply worn grooves of paranoia, the long gouges in his heart. For many years it wasn't even paranoia; it was just learning how to survive, the same way one learns all the million little ways to maintain your life as you grow up. Keep the mugs in your cupboard upside down so the dust stays out. Clean often to avoid pests. The most common places for hidden wires is inside electronics or various seams and cracks alongside and inside all drawers and cupboards.

The moment he hears a commotion inside, he feels his hackles raise. He stands and grabs for a heavy bookend off of a shelf. He hears her command, dark and authoritative, leave us. He watches her walk in and burn something immediately, doesn't flinch at the firebolt. She sits down, near the exit, watching it and him.

It is a very familiar sight. He remembers her kindness back in the casino. It feels so very much like a hundred other instances of nurses and doctors walking into his hospital room to interrogate and intimidate and assault him. He stands still, clutching the weight.

we'll fathom the deeps of pain

[glaceir]

Eventually, Dess leaves to go spend some Quality Outdoors Time with Asriel, and Noelle knows better than to follow. Her sister deserves to spend time with people who aren't just Noelle, even though Noelle is going to be antsy the entire time Dess is gone. What if she doesn't come back? What if -

The whole thing's got her on high alert, for better or for worse. It means that she sees the human with the horrible goatee make the rounds a few times, Father Mulcahy trailing behind him. And Angel, Father Mulcahy looks awful, like someone's hollowed out his insides and made him walk around anyway like nothing's wrong. Noelle is fairly sure she's never gone around looking quite that awful, (at least she hopes) but she knows what it's like to have to pretend like nothing is wrong when everything much is. Stifle enough screams and you forget how, and then you convince yourself you never even knew how to scream in the first place.

It's a beastly feeling, isn't it?

There's a difference between abilities that come from evil and using them for evil. Fever is helping show Noelle that. And didn't Noelle take the deal so she could protect her friends? Wouldn't it be an insult to Kris if she did nothing? And to Father Mulcahy, who has been nothing but steadfastly kind, both when she first met him, and in the times she's returned to the temple since?

Noelle takes a deep breath, fixes her hood, and makes her approach.

"Hello, Father Mulcahy." She's being polite. She's not going to make this any harder on him than it has to be. To the stranger: "Hello, mister. Are you enjoying the party?"

the hood link is missing, no need to edit but i'm curious what the image looks like

[number_2]

"Number 2," he says, offering out his hand in gentlemanly fashion. "And, yes, I'm having a marvelous time. Most fun I've had in ages."

He turns a cool look on Mulcahy, "Aren't you having fun, 4077?"

The Hardest Bit of it All

[redlightgreenlight]

Her intimidation of Kevin has allowed her no relief from Mulcahy's fear as he wanders through the crowd, almost a shadow of himself. If the little man hadn't been so confident about her being unable to harm him, she would have tried, but suspicion stayed her hand. Perhaps it is far wiser to just watch him throughout the night.

But she still wants to check on her friend, the man who has helped her begin to open her heart to the idea that not all Gods are in it for themselves. The garden, out of Kevin's gaze seems to be the best place, so thankfully Mulcahy has already wandered out there. Though does seem as though he is trying to avoid her.

"Mulcahy?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

He jumps. Flinches to be recognized and called out by name.

He cannot, cannot shake the feeling of being hunted, but it's hard to convince even him that Valdis has ill intent in approaching him. He remembers how she'd blown up her own cottage while she was there; how, in the last moments of everything, she'd eaten that man's heart.

He's tense, still. Afraid and despairing, like he's witnessing his last day of life on Earth before he gets dragged down into the pit of Hell. But he's not afraid of her.

He turns to look as she calls his name. "V... N..." He sighs, bitterly. Keeps his hands clasped in front of him. "... Hello."

Not Here

[priestessofthewilds]

In the midst of his fears and despair, he may reach into a pocket to find a piece of paper. A card he knows quite well by now, one that a certain fortune teller has spoken of to him more than once.

On the back in scrawling, glimmering gold is written:

Remember to thank me on the other side of it all.

[lovethyneighb_or]

He clutches it tight like a talisman. Keeps it close by. He hopes, very, very much, that she was right.

but the hardest bit of all will be

[graphomaniac]

Even though he's got his own problems to attend do—

No, that's untrue. Because he's got his own problems to attend to, Lev takes the time to shirk responsibility and go find someone else to help. He could've hardly missed the commotion around Mulcahy. So when he notices Mulcahy slip away to a side-room, he follows. The walking-stick prevents him from carrying two flutes of champagne, so he just brings one for Mulcahy.

He stands in the doorway, a thin and slightly stooped silhouette.

"Reb Mulcahy? I thought ... nu. I thought, like, thou may'st appreciate a drink, just about now."

[lovethyneighb_or]

Though he sits up straighter all polite-like, keeping his hands in his lap and an amiable sort of smile, there's no missing the way his shoulders square or the prey-animal look to his face.

(Oh, he wishes. He so very wishes he could relax. Lev is a friend, has never been anything but a friend, how much comfort he normally finds in another person of clergy...)

He eyes the champagne. "I'm afraid that I haven't got much stomach for anything right now, but I appreciate the gesture. T-thank you, Rabbi."

we'll fathom the deeps of pain

[fuelmayor]

He doesn't spot them immediately. The ballroom is packed with colourful figures of every shape and size, who are already turning unruly, and he doesn't have the tolerance for crowds that he used to. The sea of strangers shifts, and the Fuelweaver catches sight of two extremely familiar faces. His friend, ashen and diminished, and an enemy second only to Them in the ranks of terror and far more personal in his attentions. He has to stop this before it's too late.

He slams one fist on the floor; shadows bloom from the point of impact. In the blink of an eye half a dozen long thin fossil spikes erupt around Number 2. A spell he's practiced enough that it requires no conscious thought. Not itself an attack, but not comfortable for the target; the sharp edge of a bone grazes the side of 2's jaw as it rises to trap him.

for Number 2

[tehilim127_1]

[After this.]

There hasn't been enough time to think it through from every angle, and there isn't going to be. Whatever she's going to do, it has to be now.

Zivia circles the hall until she spots the man who calls himself 2, for the moment on his own. She draws a deep breath, and takes a moment to get her face in order and her feelings under control, as she would for any major social undertaking. She's not here to vent her feelings or to seek satisfaction: she's here with one very specific goal, and anything that doesn't serve it will have to wait its turn.

And with that in mind, she approaches.

"Excuse me. Number 2?"