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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.

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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!)

[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.

Edited 2015-09-20 02:22 (UTC)

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]

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

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[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?

[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.

I am. [She doesn't look at Skip, but she recognizes her voice. She can't really say much else- what else is there to say, anyway?

Redbright had caused the death of these people. Inadvertently, sure. But it was still Redbright's fault, and Nancy wouldn't forget it. Nor would she forgive.

She glanced up at Skip, eyes flashing.]

It's disgusting. This show. [She gestures]

"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."

[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.

What d'ya mean?

[Skip usually gives politics a wide berth. Lots of important people arguing while real problems get ignored. But this... This is a lot closer to home. Especially this month. Because she can't help but be scared of what's coming for her family.

Part of her wishes she was back in Munster, even if she knows her father and brothers can protect themselves. But she's supposed to be here, so she'll stay.]

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.

[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]

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.

Edited 2015-09-21 23:06 (UTC)

"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."

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."

She'll be among friends. That's what matters most to Abby as she enters the back room of the bar. She doesn't even say anything before she goes to a chair and slumps down. Her hands run through her hair, and she bows her head. It's an exhausted, defeated position she's been keeping herself away from ever since they had to retreat from Barnet.

But she's among friends. So, she can let their losses show.

She doesn't even have the spirit to have a drink in hand right now or to raise a glass to the toast. Instead, she just sits.

All of this. [She gestures, her fingernails painted a dark navy. Midnight blue. A true midnight blue.] Redbright doesn't care. She doesn't care about Midnight witches. If she really bloody cared about us, she wouldn't have taken Barnet back from us in the first place.

[Here she was, being open about the fact that she was a Midnight witch. A rarity- she only told Lance because of that damned curse- but anger brought that out in her. Anger. No, no, it was something more than that, something far more complicated.]

[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.]

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."

[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.]

[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.]

[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?

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Harvest Festival

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Mourning

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Midnight Memorial

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