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Harvest Festival

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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!)

[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.

[Sylvia doesn't know the girl, so can only assume that she is a concerned member of the community. Now is not the time to ask such questions. She nods, offering a tired smile.]

Thank you.

Would you--

[It sounds so dumb. But she wants to do something. And she can't ask someone in mourning for help for her people.]

Would you like something for the school?

Poor art student here. But I can make something.

[She blinks. What a sweet offer. Sylvia never fails to appreciate the generosity of others, and her expression warms, nodding graciously.]

Yes, of course. How lovely.

Least I can do.

[She gives a polite nod.]

I'm sorry I don't know much about your school. When does your term start? I can try and have it finished by then.

It's already started. But don't worry about that. If you let us know when and what you're making, I'm sure we can find a space for it.

[If it's good, they can make it a prominent feature. If it's terrible, they'll hide it away in the dingy corridor where they consign the artistic efforts from other students.]

I'll try to have it by October. I've got...

[Well, this woman would understand.]

I've got family to protect in a week with the Blood Moon. So I won't be doing much but preparing for that for awhile.

[Ah. Yes, she can understand that. Sylvia nods.]

Of course. Be safe. You and your family.

(no subject)

wolfmarked - 2015-09-23 21:51 (UTC) - Expand

[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]

[Sylvia blinks, looking up. The man looks familiar, but she can't quite place him. She's too preoccupied by recent events.]

Yes... More than a shame.

[She can't look at this from a detached perspective. It's all too personal for her.]

[Why... Did he address her. Eames gives her a thoughtful look, but for once in his life he doesn't have much to say. As much as he dislikes Redbright and all she stands for, now is not the time to push her on those things. Tactless, he's often been called, but he's not entirely without respect.]

My condolences. [He looks back at the memorial, frowning.] This must be difficult for everyone.

[She gives a tight smile.]

For the whole community, yes. We grieve so that we can begin to heal. [It's the sort of platitude she might give to younger witches to reassure them. No words help, really, it's knowing that they have her support that makes the difference to her covens. She sighs, shifting.]

Have we met? I'm sorry, the faces are beginning to blur into one today.

Briefly, a ways back.

[A few words "exchanged" at the reveal of the new Midnight coven, it's a good thing she doesn't recognise him from then. A better thing that she hasn't yet recognised him for what he is - too preoccupied with this to give overmuch thought to the types of magic around, he assumes. Eames gives her a half smile and a slight shrug, implying it's not important where she's met him before, and attempts to move the conversation forward.]

Have you given any thought as to how best to move forward from this?

[She can sense that he's magical, but that's hardly surprising. If she guessed he was fae, her reaction would be far chillier, to say the least. She shakes her head.]

Today is for mourning. Tomorrow we think about moving ahead.

[Obviously, she has thought about it. But now is not the time as far as she's concerned, and certainly not the time to discuss with a stranger.]

Of course. [He was pushing his luck really. He nods his head respectfully and backs up a step to leave.] I'll leave you to it.

[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.]

[Sylvia holds the plate out under his hand to catch the blood, then turns to sprinkle it over the fire. The flame barely flickers, but a large amount of thick grey smoke billows up into the air. Grey means neutral, no reaction from the fire indicates a lack of strong feeling.

So he hasn't ruined the pack's chances by any means, but nor has he won any favours. Sylvia simply continues with the ritual, calling for unity between their people. She gives a short nod to James, then moves on to the next volunteer.]

[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...]

[Humans come last in the ritual. So Faolan will have watched everyone else offer their blood to the fire before Sylvia turns her eyes his way and gestures for him to come forward.]

Faolan. [She raises the knife.] Representing the humans among us. Humans, who keep our secret. Humans, who defend our right to live alongside them. Humans, who are our kin, our friends, our allies. In the name of peace, we accept your offering.

[This is the cue for Faolan to hold out his hand so that she can cut his palm.]

[Humans come last in the ritual. Of course they do. Faolan is used to being last, though, the lowest on the totem pole as it were. He's used to people underestimating him for it, underestimating him for his height (short, definitely below average for a man), for his build, for his background. For any number of things. So it doesn't surprise him in this regard as well. Though it does give him all that time to keep wondering why. Why is he here? Why is he doing this?

Despite it all, when she prompts him for it, he holds out his hand. His eyes flicking up to her face, more than a little uncertain about what it is that he's getting himself into here. He's seen what happened with everyone else's blood into the fire, after all. This being his turn, feeling the apprehension that he does about just about everything about this, he's hardly certain whether this is going to be something to regret or not. But he does so anyway. In the name of peace. (Lancelot is going to seriously owe him one...)]

[His blood goes into the fire and a thick fog of white and grey smoke drifts up, curling this way and that. Its lack of direction indicates uncertainty, the white and grey an uneasy medium between ally and neutral. The fire burns a little higher and stays strong. There's potential here for Faolan to become a strong and loyal ally, if only his doubts can be allayed.

It's not difficult to guess where the doubt comes from: he is a member of Hillingdon, after all. Sylvia is relieved to see that he's not a traitor or spy. That would be quite a different matter.

The ritual has now reached its finale. She nods at Faolan, and then invites all of the volunteers to join their circle. The witches will dance and chant, invoking the magic of unity, marking the land as a place of power.]

[Faolan's not certain what to make of the color of the smoke, noticing that it, like the others' before him, takes its own color and follows its own pattern of things. Sylvia doesn't seem to be upset by it personally, so he takes it as something of a good sign. He still doesn't know what he's doing here, but maybe he at least hasn't done anything wrong.

He steps forward and joins hands with the rest of the circle, watching as they chant and dance and complete their ritual, their spell, whatever the hell this is. It doesn't really mean much to Faolan, he doesn't understand magic. But he'll play his part, like the good little soldier that he is, he supposes. He has ever been good at following orders.

When the ritual is complete, Faolan will take a moment to look over and see if Sylvia is free to speak to. If she is otherwise preoccupied it's no harm done, he's got company waiting for him. But he figures he might as well pay his due respects, if he can.]

[She's saying goodbye to the other witches, who all want to be blessed by their Mother, but she's approachable if Faolan is willing to hang around and wait for them to leave.]

[Faolan does wait. It is not for long and he does not have much to say, but he has never participated in such a thing, nor does he know exactly what she gleamed of him from it. So this is more for his own reassurances than anything else, business or otherwise.]

It was quite the ceremony. I hope I did suitably enough? Lancelot suggested you still needed a human ally and, well. [He shrugs, slightly.] Who am I to say no, I suppose.