Harvest Festival

[undergroundmods]

"" (Watch on YouTube)

Harvest Festival, 19th September 2015
Welcome to the Ealing Harvest Festival! Sponsored by Sylvia Redbright, this event takes place on a bright autumn day in Elthorne Park, Hanwell.

(Images for reference: One. Two. Three.)

FESTIVAL
The park has been transformed into a hub of colourful tents and stalls, a country-style fair selling wood carvings, paintings, baubles, baskets, plant pots and flowers, pretty tin boxes and knick-knacks of all kinds. Of course, this is all to give it an air of legitimacy should the general public wander by. The real wares on offer are those sold by witches: stalls crowded with incense, candles, precious stones, herbs, good-luck charms, spelled trinkets and magical jewellery. Gain entry to one of the small tents and you may be able to buy yourself a low-level spell or potion. It's all there if you know where to look.

Meanwhile, the centrepiece of the festival is the harvest altar: five large bales of hay, stacked around each other, where the festival-goers are encouraged to donate food and other gifts in thanks for the harvest. Tinned food is typically offered. Children attending can make a corn dolly and offer it to the harvest altar. There's food and drink to buy too, of course: vegetable and pumpkin soup, baskets of fruit and seasonal vegetables, home-made bread and jam, tea cakes, fruit cakes, seed cakes, scones and apple pie. Drinks include coffee, tea, cider and fruit juice. In short, it's all very wholesome. And decidedly not vampire-friendly.

A COMMUNITY IN MOURNING
It's not all about giving thanks. Following the hostile takeover by the fae in Croydon and the hard-fought conflict in Barnet, many witches have been displaced and are in desperate need of aid. The poster by the harvest altar says that all donations will be given to the homeless and vulnerable communities in London.

Meanwhile the entrance to the summer house has been disguised by a glamour to prevent the general public from entering. Only supernatural types may climb the steps to pay their respects at the memorial that has been set up to mourn the Daybreak witches and their allies who have recently passed. There are candles, flowers, wreaths and cards jostling for space with pictures of the fallen witches.

RITUAL AT SUNSET
The general public have disappeared but the witches have an important ritual to perform. As the sun sets, they gather up all the donations from the harvest and join hands around the altar. One witch will light a flame. Sylvia herself will invite volunteers of different species to step forward and offer their blood, as a symbol of unity between supernatural communities.

As the hay burns, the witches dance around the altar, their last ritual of the evening.

NB. Sunset is at 18:51.

Comments

[brightwitch]

A) MEMORIAL.
[Sylvia too pays a visit to the summer house and lays down flowers as a mark of respect. Her concerns, as always, must be with helping the living, but she will still take the time to mourn those who have been lost in the recent conflicts. She has a responsibility to prevent this from happening again. It is this thought that preoccupies her as she looks over the memorial with furrowed brow.]

B) RITUAL.
[As the volunteers line up, Sylvia invites them to step forward one by one. The fire burns brightly behind her. In one hand she carries a small knife, in the other a silver plate. As the volunteer approaches, she speaks:]

In the name of peace, we accept your offering.

(For those taking part in the blood ritual, though anyone else is welcome to stay and watch!)

[wolfmarked]

[Skip approaches the woman and gives a small nod of her head.

She doesn't know how to speak to someone this important. Even her father wasn't... like this. He had a good deal of respect in the neighbourhood, but that was from backalley deals and old fashioned Irish justice. This woman? Was the government.

So it's not the Munster girl who speaks. It's the girl who attended ballet school in London. A proper English accent.]

I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am.

[falsify]

[It's curiosity more than anything that brings Eames to the memorial. It's not that the concept of mourning or remembering those who've passed is lost on him - a lot of people he respected or was fond of have died - but this sort of thing. Photographs surrounded by flowers that'll decay and candles that'll blow our or melt away to nothing. Surely if the point is to keep their memory alive, something so impermanent isn't the best representation?]

[He's mulling this over when he sees Sylvia; the weight of her self-imposed burden must be just that bit heavier today, he thinks. Still, Eames isn't entirely without respect and when he speaks his voice is hushed and sombre. Not exactly offering his condolences, but he's not looking to antagonize her this time either.]

A shame, this.

[He doesn't feel any particular way about the lives lost, but it does strike him as a shame for so many of them to have been wasted on a place like Croydon]

B

[youronlylaw]

[James is simply hoping that this ritual isn't going to ruin the pack's chances of winning any favors with Sylvia. Because of this, he keeps his mouth shut, only nods respectfully as he steps forward and holds his hand out to allow her to cut into the flesh.

He'll make a point of approaching Sylvia later. Right now, it's about unity.]

B.

[reticence]

[Faolan doesn't even know what he's doing here. He doesn't know why he agreed to this whole mess. This isn't his scene, these aren't his people. He's not certain that he even has a people to begin with, what with how insular and divided Hillingdon is in the first place. What with the fact that he's a Night Council Guardian. He thought he had a place in the world, but it's quickly falling out from underneath him, changing, and that makes him uncomfortable in more ways than he can count. He was there, to help defend Croydon. He was there, and his aid to them wasn't enough. Lancelot had asked him to help and so he had, and it had been his first taste of territorial dispute, seeing as how Hillingdon really stayed out of the way and kept themselves to themselves. Faolan has seen violence before. But he has not had to suffer through the aftermath of a community in grief. And that shakes him more than anything.

At face value, he's here because Lancelot convinced him into it. Because the other man believes in this sort of thing, believes that it will promote peace, he'd turned those big, sad brown eyes at him and said that they'd needed a human -- an ordinary human -- for the ritual. So Faolan had said yes. Standing here, by the light of the fire, as the sun sets and he watches that knife being brandished around, he wonders if maybe he should have been harder to convince...]

[constantprisoner]

[Festival]

Sirius had managed to get a hold of some money. Not much mind you, but enough that he could at least get some food, which is constantly on his mind these days. But it's better than living off rats or something like that. He hasn't had to stoop to that just yet, but it's a possibility on the edge of his thoughts. He doesn't really pay much attention to the festival, more focused on staying unnoticed and getting what he wants.

He has pumpkin soup in front of him and a few scones. And part of him is wondering if there's a way for him to secure more.

[Ritual at Sunset]

He's not really sure why he sticks around to watch the ritual. It's not like he has much use for such gestures, but at the same time he's curious. And it's kind of nice to stick around a warm fire.

However, he stays back when volunteers are called for. Moving into such an open space would probably be an unwise decision.

[stauncherhearted]

Festival

[Nancy's been saddled playing babysitter today. If you want to find her, she's nearly surrounded by small NPCs, a collection of boys, ranging from about five, to fifteen. They weave in and out, laughing and shouting, occasionally stopping to harass Nancy for a bit of pocket money, or to ask a question or simply bother her. She's not harried at all about it, though. The boys are her brothers, for all intents and purposes, raised by the same man that raised her, and she was doing her part to get them out and functioning like standard children.

Standard children, however, don't pick pocket anyone unfortunate enough to wander by them.

When she's not herding kittens, Nancy can be seen actually shopping, or taking in some of the delicious autumnal treats.]

Mourning

[It's disgusting. It is so disgusting of Redbright to actually have done this. How could she have? It was a mockery made by this woman who refused to let Midnight witches exist. They'd nearly been slaughtered at the hand of the Redbright Institute. Nancy had seen friends and strangers die, and now here, Redbright was making a show of really caring.

If she cared at all, she would have made some sort of real effort. Maybe she would listen.

So all Nancy can do is stare bitterly at the memorial, like the flowers and wreathes won't be tossed out with tomorrow's trash.]

Ritual

[the boys are gone, back to Fagin's for the evening, leaving Nancy to participate in the ritual. She doesn't voulenteer her blood- it's marked with Kenzi and Abby's blood, and she could never put their blood into something without their express permission. And with Redbright overseeing it all, there's no way she's taking part.

She will, however, participate in the rest of the rituals, burning the hay and dancing.

But it wasn't for Redbright.]

[or create your own]

Mourning

[wolfmarked]

[Skip can't really say she's surprised to see Nancy in front of the memorial. Granted, most of the people here don't know what it's really for, but most of the supernatural community does. Which is why she approaches and bows her head in respect.]

If I'd known this was gonna be here, I'd've worn black.

[And she's not mocking anything. It's completely serious.

She smiles just a little. A sad, quiet smile. Her voice is low.]

You a witch?

[falsify]

[Speaking of pick pocketing little boys, Fagin might be a good teacher, but they can't exactly hold up against centuries of experience with this shit. Eames assumes to begin with that it's just some kid separated from his parents trying his luck, which is why he's now walking around with a child slung over his shoulder, trying to find the nearest official type of person who can reunite this little ruffian with his family.]

[At some point though, the kid switches from yelling threats and protests to shouting Nancy's name, and Eames whips around - Too many coincidences for it to not be the Nancy he knows - looking for her. When he spots Nancy he walks over with the child, though he doesn't deposit him down. This is your life now, kid.]

One of Fagin's, I take it?

[acrookedchild]

Festival

Abby's present, but her heart isn't in the festival. As much as she wants to enjoy the autumn and the gathering and believe in the message of peace... There's been too much war. There's blood on her hands. Innocent people have died. Good people.

And it's not over.

They're at a ceasefire now. Nothing official has been done. Those are political negotiations to work out. However, the pact is there. This is a time for harmony. The two sides need to not bring their conflict here.

Still, as she tries to go through the motions of tasting food and buying a few little things, she looks pretty obviously distracted.


Mourning

Abigail stops at the memorial. She makes a cash donation before stopping at the pictures. She knows some of these girls. She killed a couple of them.

But she adds to the shrine.

There are pictures of the Midnight girls she got from their families, and she surrenders the one possession of Jennifer's she took from Kenzi's looting. It's a simple crucifix, which she hangs over the picture of another girl, letting it rest against the frame.

Too many people have died.


Ritual

During Slyvia's speech, Abigail can feel the woman's eyes on her. Every word about cooperation and peace drives the knife deeper in, and her gut twists. Yet, it's not just with remorse.

She feels that, certainly. She hates that people are dead because of her.

But there's something darer there too. Even more bitter than anger. It's the coiling sensation of hate taking root.

Not for Daybreak, no. Not for the Night Council. Not even for the Institute. But for this woman.

'You started this.'

She knows she can't say it, but something in her eyes might as she steps up. A few scattered covens have contacted her, have asked her to step further up for them all. There are still plenty who she needs to speak to, but she knows there won't be a challenge. Someone willing to declare themselves to be Circle Midnight publicly? Will be acknowledged by the whole Circle.

For now, at least.

Those who have come forward, sought her out, have been asked to make a similar though lesser blood pact with her as the two of her coven have. She can only pray that the undeniable Widdowson in her blood can mask individuals who had added their blood to hers in a show of solidarity. If magic can even reveal such a thing.

But if she doesn't offer this, she looks like she's harbouring resentment. So, she has to step forward. In the name of 'harmony' and 'alliance.'

After her palm is cut and her blood offered, she accepts bandages for the wound but not healing magic. This should be a scar. Should mark her.


Wildcard

Want a different prompt? Let me know or add your own!

ritual

[stauncherhearted]

"Abby-" Nancy breathes, practically reaching for her friend's hand to keep her back. She didn't volunteer because she didn't trust Redbright. She didn't volunteer because she had Kenzi and Abby's blood flowing through her veins, and it seemed sacrilegious, for a blood worker to volunteer like this.

But she watches as the ceremony is performed, and when Abby is back, she reaches for her hand again. "Let me get that." She can heal her palm again, it's not a problem. Abby's internal monologue about wanting the scar is unknown, and all Nancy sees is a friend in need. It doesn't matter that her energy is low- zapped by looking after a gaggle of boys, by the rage boiling under her skin every time she looks over at the memorial. She just wants to fix something.

She wants to cry.

ritual

[digophelia]

Alice watched the ritual carefully, debating whether or not to join. She kept to herself, chewing the inside of her mouth thoughtfully. Alice was different, possibly, from the other members of Circle Midnight. Her allegiance to them was built on the memory of her parents trying to seek out their coven to help them and how many times they were turned away. Sylvia was an admirable woman, but her words were hypocrisy to Alice. She couldn't listen after so long, Alice had turned away, looking for others in the coven that she may have known.

Not that long after, Alice reemerges from taking a break, her eyes red from tears of anger and grief. Her family's killer was still out there, he wasn't held responsible and was still out there, somewhere.

She wanted to connect with more of the members of Circle Midnight, eager to join in and help, contrary to her somber mood. With her hands clasped together, she approaches Abby silently, offering a somber face. She's new, but she wants to try.

"I'm so sorry."

festival -- let me know if this is alright/needs changes? :')a

[knowstheworld]

Childermass is used to watching crowds. He's used to making observations about the people in them, the ones that stand out and the ones that don't. It's part of what he does, part of his unofficial position with Norrell, without Norrell's household. It's part of who he is, besides that. He sees, he observes, he knows. And he can tell that something is distracting her.

He knows who she is. For that is his job, after all, to know things. The fact that she's here at a festival for Circle Daybreak is curious. The fact that she is so obivously uncomfortable, distracted, is even more so. Childermass hangs back a few carts, poking through the various trinkets on the table in front of him -- for trinkets are what they are, if there were anything of worth to be sold at this festival he would have found it by now -- and watching her. With his long, dark hair, and his dark, shabby clothes, without even needing to work his magic he blends well enough into the shadows of the oncoming dusk around him. Perhaps the only thing of note would be the look in his eyes, an intelligent look. Sharp, bright, piercing, as he casually follows her from stall to stall. And observes.

((ooc: feel free to have her not notice him yet or do, i don't mind either way! :) he'll be coming up to talk to her eventually, if he can he'd probably try to get a more sneaky feel for what sort of conversation he's about to have if he could, though!))

Ritual

[hurtfew]

Norrell watches Abigail as she approaches in the ritual, watches as she offers her blood. He knows who she is, and what she does, and it bothers him. Infuriates him, even!

To think, a Midnight Witch! So open, so brazen at this festival --!

His eyes follow her in open distaste, lip curling and brow furrowed. If he had his way, oh if Norrell had his way such acts would be punished! No Midnight Witch would be able to come here, declare themselves in some false show of peace! After everything they've done!

He snorts to himself and mutters something indistinct under his breath about Widdowsons and their fae magic.

[kleptofaeniac]

Festival

Kenzi isn't working a stall in this festival - which she regrets every time she sees money exchange hangs - mostly in protest of Sylvia. Her workshop - her personal workshop - was completely burned to the ground during Barnet. Officially, a fire started in the factory above it and nearly took out the whole block. Nearly. There were very clean lines where the burned remains of the factory lay. Almost like magic.

With that taken from her, Kenzi's business has gone up in smoke (hah). Her bodyguard had been gone longer than this, so everyone she worked with or had as a client knew she wasn't safe to be around anymore. And her competitors made sure that knowledge spread quickly.

Kenzi was a survivor though. She'd make it.

She isn't looking to give out any notes either, she needs everything she can save for rent and bills, and is employing her five finger discount to feed herself for the evening.

She has a poppyseed cake and a cup of warm cider that she spiked with some Fireball whiskey she was hiding in a flask in her back pocket; after everything that happened with Barnet... Kenzi is happy to do everything she normally does in excess in a bid to feel like things are okay again.

They're not. But she can try.

Mourning

Normally Kenzi wouldn't give a crap about this memorial thing. But now? She can't help but watch the people paying their respects and quietly murmuring to each other solemnly and feel sick. She knows what the body count is. Plenty of Daybreak witches were lost and it's horrifying to think about it but the Midnight witches - her coven, the men and women she's come closer and closer to considering as friends and maybe even family - were almost wiped clean off the board. She didn't expect Barnet to be so bloody.

Kenzi watches the memorial carefully before sliding past the area filled with cards and pictures to toss a corn dolly onto the table with a note that looks like it was written with black eyeliner scribbled onto the body of it.

REMEMBER OUR MIDNIGHT SISTERS

With that act of rebellion done, she starts shuffling out of the summer house. She doesn't want Sylvia swooping down upon her and doing something evil to her for that.

Midnight Memorial

Kenzi texted her girls and the remains of their friends and allies to meet her at a small Russian tea room a friend of her family's ran for their own little 'memorial'.

'Russian tea room' was, of course, code for a vodka bar. And any likeness to the establishment in New York was very quickly and vehemently denied if anyone asked about it.

She had asked for the back room to be closed for the evening - the owner didn't so much as ask for her to pay for it before nodding and sending back plenty of food and alcohol - er, tea.

Kenzi doesn't know if anyone will show, but she at least made the effort.

Midnight Memorial

[stauncherhearted]

Nancy had arrived alongside Kenzi, having decided very early in the day that she needed a very large, very stiff drink.

Doffing her coat on one of the chairs, she immediately helped herself to a vodka martini or three. Then, and only then did she slide (third martini in hand, and an extra for Kenzi) into a booth next to her friend. Dropping her head on to her shoulder, she handed her the martini and gestured for a toast.

"Fuck Redbright."

midnight memorial -- if not okay, lemme know

[digophelia]

Alice herself doesn't drink, but makes a point to show and give her support to her fellow Midnight-ers. Tonight, she's been happy to rejoin her kind, but her mood has long since soured and turned into bitter cynicism towards some of the members of Circle Daybreak. Quietly, she emerges, a little bit bolder than she was before.

"They haven't changed much from when my father was alive. What a shame."

Mourning -- I'm sorry in advanced for this despicable man

[hurtfew]

Sylvia may not be swooping down on her, but Norrell is certainly lurking. He paces out not long after her, stands a short distance away managing an even mix of declining to even look upon her and shooting her the most disgusted looks possible. He clearly has something he wishes to say to her, something less than pleasant (which, of course, may not be a surprise given this is Gilbert Norrell -- a man known to have many strong opinions) but is declining to simply speak to her since he is above such things.

Above such things but dying to make his opinion known upon invitation.

He shoots her another look, one of puffed up superiority, then glances away again in disgust and takes a sip from his cup of tea. Midnight Sisters indeed.

[digophelia]

A - FESTIVAL

[ This has been her first fall festival without her family, in ten years, and it feels good to be back. Dressed in better clothing, Alice flutters around the festival, far too reluctant to talk to anyone that she doesn't recognize. Nearly all of these people, so far, she doesn't remember or recognize. Pressing her lips, Alice slowly moves to the side; she practically ran towards the park once she saw the gathering, happy to see it, once again.

Despite not being a child no longer, Alice pulls out a corn doll she had made in preparations. She added her own incantations and charms, ones to help her find her family's killer. Green, purple, and red strings tied on the doll, each representing members of her family. Slowly and quietly, she places it on the altar, ignoring the passing looks of children as she takes her turn. ]

Please, wherever they are, please take care of them.

B - MOURNING

[ Digging in her coin pouch, Alice stops by the donation table to offer little what she can. What her parents told her about fae was certainly opposite of what has happened here. It's not much and it's all she has to offer to her fellow witches. Assisted housing wasn't much, but it was better than being displaced. And in that moment, Alice is humbled as she walks away from the donation table.

It's a somber mood tonight, not like the previous festivals she remembers as a little girl. ]

festival

[knowstheworld]

[Childermass watches her making her way through the crowds. He observes the way that she seems to avoid all others' gazes, their touch. She does not speak to anyone she does not know, dresses in clothes that seem far too young for her (to him at least) and as he watches her with the corn doll, that too seems oddly juvenile. But there is something old about her, he can see that as well. Something about the way that she carries herself, perhaps. Or something in her eyes. She has seen things. She knows things. She has experienced things.

And it makes her interesting. So he watches, leaning back against the pole of a nearby tent, disguising himself in the crowd around him, pretending to be interested in whatever wares were laid out in front of him when what he's really doing is observing. Taking note of her next move, her next action. Who is this girl and what is her story, he wonders to himself. For there must be a story behind it all.]

((ooc: feel free to have her notice him or not, i don't mind either way! :') he'll approach her eventually, it's just within his nature to lurk from the sidelines at first.))

[reticence]

A. MOURNING
[Faolan doesn't even know what he's doing here. He doesn't know why he agreed to this whole mess. This isn't his scene, these aren't his people. He's not certain that he even has a people to begin with, what with how insular and divided Hillingdon is in the first place. What with the fact that he's a Night Council Guardian. He thought he had a place in the world, but it's quickly falling out from underneath him, changing, and that makes him uncomfortable in more ways than he can count. He was there, to help defend Croydon. He was there, and his aid to them wasn't enough. Lancelot had asked him to help and so he had, and it had been his first taste of territorial dispute, seeing as how Hillingdon really stayed out of the way and kept themselves to themselves. Faolan has seen violence before. But he has not had to suffer through the aftermath of a community in grief. And that shakes him more than anything.

Standing there hovering at the entrance to the summer house, where the makeshift memorial for the fallen and the lost has been set up, Faolan's not entirely certain that he wants to go in. He's a hunter, he's been through more violence and bloodshed than most of the rest of them in the crowd. But this. The emotions -- the grief, the loss, the pain of it. Not even his own. It hits a little too close to a time in his life that he's long since buried. And he's not certain that he can face up to that now.]

B. FESTIVAL
[Of course, if he's uncomfortable around the mourning, then he's hardly any better around the festival itself. He doesn't really... Do parties. He isn't really even certain why he's here. Well, he knows why he's here. Because Lancelot convinced him into it. Because the other man believes in this sort of thing, believes that it will promote peace, he'd turned those big, sad brown eyes at him and said that they'd needed a human -- an ordinary human -- for the ritual. So Faolan had said yes. For the peace. And because he knew that it would make the other man happy, which, seeing as he's really the only friend he can claim to have and therefore the only man he'd trust to have his back on any given day, he supposes is an important thing.

Standing here among the food and craft stalls, however, he's feeling decidedly out of place (and looking it too, for that matter). This really isn't his crowd. At all. Though he wonders if they've got any mulled cider around. Perhaps it's worth looking into...]

C. WILDCARD
What it says on the tin! If you have another idea, shoot it by me or just go for it! :)

[hurtfew]

A)

Festivals are not something Gilbert Norrell attends, in general. He does not approve of... trinkets, of sorcerers in tents selling wares. Of magic that is not respectable.

However, Sylvia Redbright is here and Norrell... Norrell is gritting his teeth and bearing it. Poorly.

His opinion is still clear, expression twisting in disgust and chin jutting with an air of superiority as he passes it all. Gilbert Norrell is not going to buy any charms or jewellery or spells. He may pause at a stand selling some degree of books, but by and large he is a man who clearly has no interest in being there and eventually retreats to sip some tea and regard the whole thing in a particularly bad tempered way. Not even children can make him smile. In fact, children and animals seem to only sour his temper further.

B)

The Memorial, at least, returns some sense of dignity and propriety to Norrell. He manages to behave with some degree of grace as he enters, spends a moment in quiet contemplation and lights a candle.

Of course, not long after he is out he can be heard debating with other witches -- plainly stating that it is the influence of fae which is causing other witches to join Circle Midnight. Causing witches to perform disreputable magic, to do things that will given all English magic a bad name. What other choice do they have? They must spread the safe zone, they must seal out the other realm or more attacks will be made on their person. More territories will be under threat!

He shoots anyone else nearby he does not already know a suspicious glance, as if they might be a threat themselves.

C)

[ Anything else -- after the ritual, watching it, I'm open! ]

[knightscode]

A)

Lancelot loves the festival.

He loves this time of year, in truth. The mild weather, the colours in the leaves, the food and drink. Things like this. On top of that, he loves the community spirit inherent in this kind of thing. He walks through the stand, fluffy white Samoyed in tow. She shies from people around them, sticks close to Lancelot, but he is bright and friendly -- stopping to ask people on stalls about their wares and interested in everything. His curiosity is sparked by almost everything there, for Lancelot himself is not someone who has been exposed to magic much until recently, and he still has plenty enough to learn. That in mind, he fields questions both stall owners and other people who pause to look too: have they used these candles before? Which helped them sleep best? Have they tried using these charms? Which one is better for warding a home, protecting an animal (his dog, Lily!) or himself? If he were buying a gift, which one of these would they recommend?

Opinions, after all, are something he is very open to -- and Lancelot little trusts his own.

B)

Lancelot had been there in both Croydon and Barnet, and when he attends the memorial it is without a trace of any of the joy or good humour he displayed earlier. His face is ashen as he looks over the candles, the cards and pictures. He met some of these fallen witches, carried at least one in his arms, and he feels partially responsible for their deaths. For failure to protect them all.

He has always thought of himself as a protector, and loss of Croydon is bitter. A defeat he had tasted too soon, too strong.

He leaves a candle and some white flowers, quietly makes his way out and takes a moment to catch his breath. The moment he sees anyone else looking down, looking like they might give way to sadness, he pulls himself together and approaches -- hesitates a short distance away and offers them a concerned look.

"Can I get you something?"

His voice is low, not wanting to draw attention, but if it helps he might at least lead them somewhere quieter and offer them some tea.

C)

[ Anything else -- after the ritual, watching it, I'm open! ]


[ Note: Lancelot is a meta human but will feel like seelie/fae magic to anyone sensitive to such things, you are welcome to pick up on it or ignore. ]

C?

[reticence]

Faolan has spent most of the day wondering why he's there. And then, of course, being found and convinced into another festival enjoyment by a certain man and his certain white sammy dog. He can't say that he even minds, really. It keeps his head preoccupied with what he was working up to be a pretty unknown event. The ritual would be a new experience for him, after all. He hasn't been to any before, let alone participated as a subject. It frightens him somewhat -- what will they want from him? Can he give what they ask?

As it turns out, he doesn't ruin their ritual like he fears that he might. There isn't any great disappointment that he causes. In the name of peace and everything else that Lancelot convinced him into this for, Faolan sheds his blood and does his duty and while he may not be a true believer, he is at least loyal to his cause. Though he's grateful that the other man stuck around to watch, considering. Grateful that he doesn't have to stumble back to his sad little flat all on his own. Not yet anyway.

The ritual completed, his hand taken care of by the witches as well, Faolan steps out towards the other man. "You're still here," he points out, stating the obvious. As far as conversation goes, he knows that it's lacking. But he's tired, it's been a long day, and really even that much says a lot about him -- the fact that he's relieved to see that he had stayed first and foremost among the lot.

[youronlylaw]

Memorial

James is respectfully silent at the memorial, and he makes sure to study each name and face. A few of them he knows, which is a sort of regret he's known before and, while familiar, doesn't meant it's any easier to process.

At least there isn't any blood on his hands today.

"It's a shame, isn't it?"

He murmurs quietly to the person paying respects near him. He may be doing his best to be silent, but there comes a point when it's either talking or dealing with his own thoughts. He'd rather spark up a conversation; a rare thing on it's own.

For Sylvia

As the witches dance and the fire burns down lower and lower, and the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, James makes his move.

He approaches her easily, from the fore so any guard dogs she has in place do not think him an immediate threat.

James does not know what the ritual's purpose really was, and doesn't know that his opinion on Daybreak is known to her. Neither fact deters him from approaching her.

"May I have a word?"

Wildcard

(Do what you want!)