undergrounds | Harvest Festival

Entry tags:

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

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!

"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.

Abby shakes her head. There is no smile. No hopeful little spark. There might be something cold at the heart of it, something determined, but that's all. She is completely solemn.

"I want it there."

Maybe it's melodramatic, but there are so many people dead. For next to nothing. She isn't going to let Redbright destroy them, not now and not when she meets with the Night Council. But now she has to watch her step. Has to be very careful.

"It's a reminder. Of all of this." She glances over at Redbright, and her eyes narrow faintly. "Of her."

"Don't." She moves in a bit closer to Abby, still holding on to the other woman's hand.

"Don't be so daft- you can't get rid of any of this in your head, and you want it on your body as well?" She had so many scars herself, she couldn't imagine someone wanting another one of their own free-will.

Maybe she was taking it personally. Maybe she was just worked-up with the thought of all things Redbright. Or maybe it was just hitting a little too close to home, for a girl who'd had her entire life mapped out across her own flesh.

Regardless, it was certainly an over-reaction.

Abby closes her other hand around Nancy's and manages a smile. But it's a sad, shallow one, and her eyes are filling with tears as she shakes her head. She has to take a moment. Both to force herself not to cry -- she won't let Redbright think she's won -- and to find the right words.

"Not a reminder for me. Not entirely. But for everyone else."

She'd made promises to Sylvia in exchange for similar ones, but it was only delaying the inevitable. Sooner or later, someone would cross the line, and they'd both be embroiled in the battle all over again. So, it all stood poised on the edge of a very high cliff. Once that happened, everything would collapse permanently.

"That no matter what they do, we're not going anywhere. Not now."

She looks her over carefully, her jaw set. She was upset, that much was clear. The exact level was far higher than she had expected, given the gravity of her words.

It took a lot to stop Nancy from wrapping her friend in a hug. Instead, she squeezed her hands in comfort, her apprehension and irritation fading away nearly instantly. "No, we're not. And they won't forget it."

"After the festival, I need to talk to you and Kenzi," Abby whispers. She nearly starts crying just thinking about what she needs to tell them. If she could, she'd do it now. But if all of them gather here and now, Sylvia may get the wrong idea. And... And this isn't the place to tell them she betrayed them.

"I'm sorry." It needs to be said. "For all of this. For everyone we've lost."

"Of course," she promises, wanting to pull Abigail closer and wipe at the tears that are threatening to fall from her eyes. But she doesn't know Abby well enough yet, she's sure. And besides, not here. Not with Redbright watching.

She shakes her head. "No- don't you bloody dare apologize. This isn't your fault. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

(no subject)

acrookedchild - 2015-09-24 00:03 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

stauncherhearted - 2015-09-24 00:33 (UTC) - Expand

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."

"We all are."

It's not as sympathetic or accepting as she usually tries to be, but Abby has little energy for strangers. Only the day before, she was in Sylvia's office being threatened with a vampire and forced to drink a truth potion. Anyone who isn't a trusted friend is a possible enemy, lurking on the borders of her Circle, ready to strike at any moment.

Even if the girl looks so young and so fragile.

She has no tears to spend today, not in public. After crying herself to sleep last night, she can face most of today with a weary numbness. All she's really felt so far was a pique of hatred when Sylvia had spoken of her desire for peace and unity. They both knew that was a lie, but they would both pretend for now.

Then, she shakes her head a little.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. Thank you for your condolences."

Alice found herself almost perturbed by her disposition. Sucking in a breath, Alice had to remind herself to be a little civil. She was here largely to find other witches in Circle Midnight and attempt to familiarize herself with the others, in an effort to get to know them. She felt like an outsider already, amongst her own kind, and at that moment, Abby's words don't help. Chewing the inside of her mouth thoughtfully, Alice gives a curt nod, "I understand."

She understood a little, her reaction had been similar with the death of her family. There's a degree of hesitation to Alice before she speaks to Abby again, in a low voice, "I just wanted to lend my support."

"Lend your support," Abigail repeats in a low voice, as if considering those words. Her pale eyes shift to the side to take in Alice a little closer. She presses her lips together a little, and her tone is just a little off kilter when she speaks again. "To whom?"

She sounds, she realises, not unlike Sylvia. But, right now, she can't care. There's too much at stake. Everything is at risk now.

And a new player? Has to be regarded very, very carefully.

"To others like me," Scrutiny of a newcomer was a little expected, but it didn't make it any less irritating for Alice. Her irritation seemed to be compounded by touch; she stiffs as she's pulled away, almost tempted to jerk her shoulder away from her. Despite having limited politics, Alice knew that wouldn't play over well. She settles herself, crossing her arms firmly, and glances off to the side to make sure no one can see either oen of them.

"Circle Midnight." Alice adds softly, "Circle Daybreak turned their back on my family -- why should I sit and watch it happen again?"

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!))

It seems like a long time ago that she'd wanted to be part of Circle Daybreak. Now, she's glad she wasn't there, wasn't associated with them. It's dangerous, yes, to stand so firmly for Circle Midnight, but, especially after her meeting with Sylvia, she needs to be here. She needs to hold her head up and smile like she really believes in the purpose of this festival.

She's here for unity and peace.

Even if everyone here knows it's a lie.

If she's aware of being watched, she at least pretends not to notice. Still, her eyes dart around every so often. Of course, that could be her being very aware that she's Midnight and surrounded by Daybreak with the blood on her hands.

After a time, Childermass gets the idea that she may be on to him. If not on to him, then at least perhaps a little jumpy. And it would not do for him to continue lurking on a young girl who is so obviously uncomfortable, no matter who she is or what she is there representing.

And so it is after a long space of time of observation of her behavior, her character, her dealings with the crowd around her, that Childermass steps up to her side, cool as can be. Leaning over the wares laid out before her on the table, poking at them slightly, although when he speaks, it is quite clear that he is addressing her, in his own rough, Yorkshire sort of way.

"You're looking rather grim, for a lady at a festival." He turns to glance down at her, before continuing to say, "A penny for your thoughts?"

"Both Circles have lost loved ones." It's easy to say as she offered a bowed her head in greeting. She's in mourning for her Circle, but she can acknowledge that others have lost, too. "It's a shame that such losses happened so near what should be a happy time."

A time for peace. Which had made the negotiations between herself and Sylvia even more tense. But all the more vital.

Childermass nods in response to her words. He was not there at either battle, he was not involved himself. Norrell had not given him the order on such things -- Norrell frowned on them, just like he frowned on almost everything, and thus Childermass had stayed well away. He wasn't about to give up his life for anyone else's cause. But he does feel remorse for them. It's hard not to, with all these memorials about.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he says, honestly meaning the words as well. Perhaps his words should be noticeable -- 'your' -- implying they are not his. Implying that he recognizes her for her faction? Or implying that he considers himself outside of both of them? It's hard to tell, with the look on his face, but it's up to her whether that matters, in the end.

"Thank you," she murmured softly, bowing her head.

There were funerals to pay for, visits to be made. Every Midnight witch who died, now, was her responsibility. Some had asked her to step up, to stand for all of them, and she'd accepted. If others wished to challenge her for the position or stand apart from those who came to her, she wouldn't blame them. But, for now, she stood alone. A single public figure for the entirety of Circle Midnight.

"We all have much to mourn."

(no subject)

knowstheworld - 2015-10-17 17:14 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

acrookedchild - 2015-10-18 05:21 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

knowstheworld - 2015-10-23 01:34 (UTC) - Expand

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.

With every public event, Abigail has become more and more the perfect image of a Widdowson. Pale skin, draped in black. The air of tragedy... Well, she knew it well. Especially in the face of the recent deaths of her sisters. So, when she hears that remark, her head turns just a bit.

Her dark red lips quirk into something that doesn't quite look like a smile. It's something darker, and her pale eyes are strangely hard.

"You'd be disappointed if I were anything less."

He sniffs in disgust at the answer, glances back to meet her eyes for a second before looking away and taking a sip of his drink.

"I do not see why you have come here," he says finally. "This ritual is for peace and unity but you--" There's a restrained, angry sort of tension on that last word. One that seems barely contained, but contained it is. He twitches fractionally, takes a breath and refuses to look at her still. "You should not be here."

"Sylvia Redbright is the Mother of all Witches. At least in name."

It's a bit of a sharp reply, but it allows her to vent some of her frustrations over the last couple of weeks. The struggle at Barnet, especially with the loss... And then her interview with Sylvia.

"Therefore, Circle Midnight are as much her daughters as Circle Daybreak. We have every right to be here."

No. No, they didn't. But like Hell Abigail was going to let that stop her, let it make her run scared. If she didn't stand firm now, she would look like she was hiding. She refused to give Sylvia or anyone that satisfaction.

"Children who attack their mothers should be disowned."

It's a dismissive, snide sort of answer -- as if he disregards not only any rights she believes she has, but her as well. Who does she think she is, after all? To come here, to call Sylvia the Mother of all Witches after what their Circle did?

Norrell has never particularly understood women, does not agree with Sylvia on all things either. Perhaps it is because they tend towards being so very emotional and delicate, they are simply incomprehensible to him. It is why there should be more men on the Night Council, in his opinion.

The reply comes almost immediately. Quiet fury laces every word, and her back draws up even straighter. Her cause is a just one so far as Abigail is concerned. She had no qualms with Redbright until the expansion into Barnet. When that left Midnight witches dead or forcibly displaced without recourse? It went too far.

"And mothers who let their children die deserve to be in prison."

no subject

ritual

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

ritual

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Ritual

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject