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Gone But Not Forgotten

The last day of October has many meanings, as does almost every holiday. For a Widdowson, Samhain means one of two things, it not both.

Samhain might be a time to tap into the powerful magic that has bled into the walls of Geap Manor, centuries of darkness, sacrifice, and rituals mean to increase the abilities of those who walked these halls. It might also be a time to remember the dead, as the Widdowson line is filled with those who left the world earlier than they perhaps should have.

Abigail Widdowson has embraced the latter.

A great deal of the supernatural community is in mourning. Between the fae's attack on Croyden, the battle in Barnet between the circles, the Blood Moon, and the Islington 'recruitment drive' there are many dead who would otherwise be alive. Which is why Abigail has opened her home on Samhain to all those who wish to remember the ones lost.

(Headings will be provided but feel free to make your own! The whole of the supernatural community has been invited, again with the warning that hostilities will not be tolerated.)

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There are no decorations for Geap Manor.

This is, after all, not 'Halloween.' This is a sombre evening, and it must look the part. Which doesn't take much alteration.

Only a few rooms are open. The foyer, main hall, two bathrooms, dining room, and ballroom are all easily accessible.

If one might wander, they will find every other door is locked. A simple black rope has been tied from the bannister of the main stairway to a notch on the wall to block it off. It can be gone past, of course, but, well...

Curiosity killed the cat.

For her part, Abigail waits at the door, welcoming every arrival and offering to take their coat.

She looks the part of a proper Widdowson, something she grows into more and more every day. Tall and pale and blonde, draped in black and with a solemn expression, she could pass for any generation of women born to the Widdowson name.

"Thank you for coming," she murmurs. "I will caution you against violence or the use of any magic within these walls. The house has its own ways of punishment."

Simply intentionally creepy? Perhaps in the spirit of the Halloween she isn't celebrating? Or something darker? A true warning?

Unlike the previous public event, tonight there are no open plates of food. Everyone is invited to sit down together at the long tables in the dining room. Abigail herself does not take the head of the great table (flanked by two smaller ones that, admittedly, crowd the room a little). Instead, she sits not at the immediate right hand of the table but one seat further down.

The head of the table bears a name card, as do the seats to either side of it.

'Maurice Richard Widdowson' is written on the card on the middle while 'Susanne Winifred Sanders Widdowson' is to his left and 'Maurice Carlton Widdowson' is at his right.

Abigail herself serves every plate. Hired staff wheel carts with the rich food around, but it is she who cuts into every dish and portions it out before pouring each guest's choice of drink. She will happily take a few moments to speak to them as she makes her way around.

At the head of the main table, she puts a small amount of every dish and each kind of wine onto the plates and into the glasses of the three vacant seats. Only once that is done does she return to her place and raise her glass.

"A toast," she says, "to those we have lost. May they rest easy. And to those we have not. May they remain safe."

Then, she sits at her place, and the eating may begin.

There will be no dancing tonight.

Instead, more tables fill the ballroom. There are cards at each place on all but the last, small, circular table.

Every card has the name of someone who has died in the supernatural community since last Samhain. On the back of each card is an emblem that ties to the cause of death, including illness, accident, age, and crimes unrelated to the supernatural community. At the head of the table was the eldest of the witch community, a woman who had died of old age. Down the right side of that table were the Daybreak witches who'd lost their lives in conflict within the community. On the left were their Midnight sisters. From there, on the left, it went to those lost during the Blood Moon. On the right were vampires killed by hunters.

The other two long tables were for those who had died in other ways.

The last table had only on card in its center. It read 'For all those regretably unnamed here'. No matter how thorough Abigail might wish to be, she knew the possibility of missing someone was far too high.

After dinner, when guests have been invited to mingle in the great hall, Abigail makes frequent visits to the room where the memorial is set. For her part, she leaves a lily on each plate. At the sight of someone else, she does her best to offer a small, sad smile.

"If you'd care to leave a gift, they will all be taken to the graves tonight."

Jackson really shouldn't be here. He is Daybreak by classification, even if he avoided the scuffle between the circles. A coward, someone would call him. Smart, is what he'd retort. His allegiance is founded on benefit and convenience, but in thiscase, it's inconvenient.

Because he likes Abigail, likes her enough to give a damn whether she came out of all of this unscathed.

Jackson stands by one of the tables, thumbing one of the cards idly. He's been watching Abigail converse with one of her sisters, waiting for the appropriate time to interrupt. Eventually, that conversation ends, and Jackson steps forward and slips out a comment, quietly hoping that their allegiances may not have soured their relationship.

After what's happened, he can't blame her.

"It's strange. Some of these people... I've had them in my dead room. Lain out and cut open. But somehow, just seeing their names-- it's even more tragic. You think: 'This is all we got left of 'em. Just a name.'" Jackson looks up at Abigail, wearing a sad smile. "I'm glad you ain't on one of these."

Abigail gave a small, sad smile. It was good, at least, to see him. His name hadn't crossed her desk as she was writing the cards out, but that didn't mean he hadn't just slipped through the cracks. Still, being glad to see him didn't really outweigh what had happened.

"As long as someone's name is remembered, their presence can be felt. It's the ones who aren't--" She makes a small motion to the smallest table "--who make me saddest. And I hope, even though I know I'm wrong, that none of them are my fault."

Because the deaths in Barnet were her fault, ultimately. She chose to lead that assault. She chose to meet with Sylvia after, so the exposure of her coven following it was her fault, too. Those deaths were her responsibility.

"It's a goddamn waste. All of this." he shakes his head, gesturing to the cards. "I wish I could say I didn't get it-- but the whole history of the world is about dividing ourselves into creeds and factions and types, and seeking out reasons to fight."

He gives her a quick scan-over. A physician's check. A friend's concern. She looks good-- on the outside, at least.

On the inside-- well, that isn't his field.

"And I'd tell you it wasn't your fault, but how do I know? I was a coward. The Detective Inspector offered me a case in the North, and I happily agreed. I went away, while everyone else gave a damn."

Is he guilty? Maybe a tiny bit.

The exhaustion likely still shows, but any injuries sustained during Barnet have healed well enough. Other wounds aren't quite so quick to be gone, but those don't show. They aren't on her body. Some will never heal. The deep cut that Sylvia made entirely personal... That won't heal. That will scar, twisted and fierce. She can already feel it. Something sharper inside her.

"You and I both know that if you did tell me that, you'd be a liar. It was my decision to go against Barnet, and my coven followed."

And yet, somehow... more had come to her. Members of Circle Midnight had approached her, other covens willing to call her in charge. To make her High Priestess. Which she couldn't say for certain whether it was better or worse for them that they had. Still--

"Have you heard? About Midnight having a High Priestess?"

She wasn't sure how quickly that kind of thing went around.

"You didn't force them to follow you, Abigail. If they're out there fighting with you, they made that choice for themselves," He meets her eyes, pinning her down. His words are spoken softly. "To say you drove them out there, to put that onus on yourself, that ain't fair to them."

It's one of the truest things Jackson's ever said. But he has no reason to be duplicitous around Abigail.

"I haven't. What about it?"

Abigail sighs, bowing her head a bit. She called on them, and they answered. It was her fault for calling to them. For asking them to even consider getting into that fight. Still, they had chosen to fight.

"I was approached by a few other covens after Barnet... I stand for all of Midnight now. All those willing to make themselves known."

That's right. She had called on them, and they had made the decision to get involved. Free will, agency, and all that crap. Jackson's been to war, and everyone he's been on the field with have all had reasons for being out there: Maybe they had no other career path, or they wanted to follow in the ways of their forefathers, or they wanted to combat the enemy, or in Jackson's case, they wanted to run away.

"I still say-- those are some damn big pantaloons for a little girl." He says it with a smile, not intending to insult her. "But they chose you."

Jackson steps closer to her, lowering his voice. "Back when I was a kid, if we'd had a leader like you... maybe I'd be open to circles."

It's not concern for eavesdropping that drives his secrecy, but a discomfort with being candid.

"I'm the first Widdowson in five generations to join a coven," Abigail muttered, smiling just a bit. Because it seemed so unreal. All she'd wanted was to study at Redbright, to set herself apart from her family's past. Now... Now, she was embracing it. "Apparently, I can't do anything small."

A soft, almost worried laugh left her.

"But there's a truce right now. Midnight and Daybreak."

"Hey, as long as it's what you want, kid." Because if it's not, then Abigail will drive the whole coven into the ground-- she'll grow to hate it, to hate the people involved, and it'll be a lasting hate, to carry with her. Jackson should know.

He gives a firm squeeze of her shoulder, which is as comforting as Jackson gets.

"Is there? Well, that makes my job easier."

"Missus Redbright and I came to an understanding."

It was all she could say, really. After all, anything said here might well get back to Redbright. Maybe not from Jackson. He doesn't seem the type. But they aren't entirely alone, and walls can always have ears.

"So, yes. The Circles are, for now, at a truce."

"When you say understanding, I take it that you're being liberal," he says, as he makes quick, idle work of stacking the cards into a deck. "She seems the type of dame to drive a hard deal."

It's true. She's smart for being cautious, and Jackson's a fool for being so loose-lipped, but part of being Homer Jackson is being careless and brazen. When you're forced to deal with something you want no part in -- in this case, turf wars -- one tends to make a joke of it.

"What are the terms?"

"Non-aggression on both sides." Of course, there's more to it than that, but it's all that's worth saying about it. For now. "It's safer for both sides."

Mostly for Sylvia, but it would keep the Midnight girls somewhat safe. If she connected Daybreak to any harm that came to them, she would unleash Hell upon them.

"I don't trust her." Short, to the point. Perhaps it casts a dark light on Jackson's character that he disdains an individual that he, in a sense, follows, as a member of Daybreak. "Brightred comes off like the kinda person who'd tear the sky down before giving up on her principles."

Jackson leans closer to Abigail, whispering into the shell of her ear. "What I'm sayin' is keep both eyes open. Your whole truce might evaporate before you know it."

At his whisper, Abigail turns her head toward him a bit. Her voice is barely above a murmur. Definitely meant not to be overheard by anyone else.

"She brought a vampire into our negotiations. I do not trust her in the slightest."

And that wasn't even the worst thing that had been done to her that night. But she couldn't say anything about that. Not here. She didn't dare mention it aloud.

Jackson immediately stiffens upon hearing the word vampire. He goes quiet for a beat, eyes sweeping across Abigail. Though Jackson doesn't know enough to draw more than an assumption, he knows very well how dangerous and volatile vampires can be.

"Why?" Or more importantly. "Was the vampire there to threaten you?"

Edited 2015-10-31 08:24 (UTC)

Abigail offers only a nod.

She wants to leave it at that, just make it something remarked upon but not otherwise a focus of attention. But mentioning it brings back the memories. Seeing the fangs, feeling the hold, the hands on her, her mouth being forced open. She shudders visibly and closes her eyes tight to keep tears from falling.

It takes several seconds before she can stand up straight and open her eyes, though she knows she still looks ready to cry. When she can finally swallow the lump in her throat, she only says, "An ace up her sleeve, you could say."

Alice had nothing to say regarding the vampires killed by hunters. She kept her rage towards vampires to herself, best as she could. Dressed in black, she stood near the table, with eyes unsurprisingly fixated on 'For all those regrettably unnamed here', her heart sinking. But instead of lamenting on the card, Alice circled around, looking for those she knew or have spoken to, even a little.

Kenzi, hopefully, since Alice didn't know anyone else, and kept to herself largely.

Alice was weaker now, from when she first appeared at the fall festival, wobbling around and counting the tables left there in mourning.

"I feel like I'm forgetting something," She mutters to herself, quietly rummaging through her bags. Oh. That was right, she was coming here, in hopes of speaking to other witches about potions, things to conjure her memories. As weeks past, Alice was finding herself forgetting little things and it was becoming alarming. She slid through her fellow witches, nearly pacing around. So it was a little odd.

There are places to sit and carts to refill drinks, but the general attitude of the room leaves little room for revelry. Instead, it is a time for quiet conversations and serious contemplation. A place for those who wish to to talk amongst themselves.

Abigail has made no pretences of entertainment. Those who wish to after the dinner may leave as they choose, but there is the opportunity to reach out to others in the community.

At the sight of someone's empty glass, Abigail is happy to approach with a bit of a smile and motion to it. "May I?"

She is the hostess and, therefore, at the service of her guests. Especially tonight. This is a tribute to those lost.

Abigail also makes it a point to float from one collection of people to another to express her gratitude of their coming. When she sees someone leaving, she will go to say farewell.

"Please", Nancy nearly begs as she holds her glass out to Abby. Tonight is hard- miserably hard, in fact, and the only way to go through it is, as anyone would expect from Nancy, drunk. But she's not an energetic drunk, tonight she's lethargic, keeping to herself.

There are so many names, and she wishes she could remember them all. So she's studying each placard, so when Abigail finds her, it's in front of the empty table. Somehow, standing here, seeing the names of those lost in the past year, brings something she'd never really spent much time thinking about home: her own mother. She didn't even know her name. Just that she had been a witch, summoned a fae, and paid the price of her first-born, and, likely, her life. God forbid she knew who her biological father was. But when it came to him, she didn't even have a thought to spare him. Her father, as much as she hated to admit it, was the man who had raised her, as awful and hurtful as he was. Even if he had taken her from her mother, taken her mother from her.

The second her glass is filled, she's drinking it again, her shoulders hunched, and her face pale, set off by the black dress she'd worn for the occasion. It only seemed right: they were witches, it was Samhain, and it was, for all intents and purposes, a funeral.

"You could be at an actual party."

It's a soft comment, though not any real admonition. Instead, it's a manner of conversation. A grim acknowledgement that this is not going to be a fun or festive night. It's a memorial. And, unlike Redbright did at the Harvest Festival, not just for their own. Samhain is a time of reflection and respect, to honour those who were no longer among the living.

But Abby is grateful for the friends here. The people she can still lean on, even after she was forced to betray them. It helped that they knew the specific circumstances, but she still felt she could have done more.

"Thank you, Nancy. For coming."

"I could be taking the boys trick-or-treating," she responded, taking a long drink. It was amazing that such a small body could hold such amounts of liquor- just ask Kenzi, she'd been drinking all day- but that's what happened when you had far too long to practice.

Honestly, she didn't want to deal with screaming prepubescent boys and their candy. Let them go on their own, they were certainly old enough. And she didn't want to be anywhere near Fagin tonight, of all nights.

"Don't thank me, least I can do," she mutters, at long last turning to look at the blonde. Yes, Abby had betrayed them. But she'd been forced to, and she hadn't known much about Nancy at all, in the first place, anyway. She'd paid the piper. And now, Nancy was still here. "We're sisters." Bound in blood, and all of... this.

She hadn't signed on for this, when she'd joined the coven. Not in the least. But she'd wanted to be safe, herself, her friends. She had so, so few places left to call safe, and Geap Manor, ironically, was becoming one of them. What Redbright had done was awful, the way she had twisted and turned everything to try to paint them as the bad guys. All they had wanted was freedom. And how many had lost their lives? How many had Redbright downed herself?

Fuck that god-damned bitch. That cunt. The very thought had Nancy taking another drink. "You're a bloody saint," she informed Abby pointedly. "I'll nominate you, next council or whatever. You're more capable than that damned bint."

"Oh, God. Don't even talk to me about something like that." Yet, in a way, it makes Abby smile. Simply the absurdity of the idea. A Widdowson at the top of the Night Council? First off, far too many people wouldn't let that stand. Second... Well. There might have been something in those pale eyes. Some little flicker of a woman she had yet to become. Because... just maybe...

Not for a few years, no, but if it were possible...

"Let me adjust to just having Midnight answer to me first, huh?"

Because she did stand as their High Priestess now. The covens who were willing to come forward had all turned to her. It was daunting, but it was also a small victory in light of the loss at Barnet. And the humiliation of her meeting with Sylvia Redbright. Now, it was merely a waiting game. At the very least, they were safe. The truce was nothing more than an impasse, but it bought them time.

That smile- it was good to see, and Nancy had to let her own lips echo Abby's. It was good to see a smile around now and then. And that flicker- whatever it was, Nancy wasn't sure if it was good, or not. But she wouldn't say anything. Not tonight.

"Yeah, let's start with that," she said, raising her glass towards Abby. "You're the right woman for this job- make no mistake." No one else she'd rather have had take the reigns.

She paused for a moment. "It's awful to say, but there's a silver lining in this. Midnight's more united than ever."

Abby raised her own glass and tapped the rim of Nancy's with hers.

"We were scattered, separated... but they're starting to show themselves. Member by member, coven by coven." She made herself smile a little more. Because it was a step in the right direction. "We just have to keep them together and keep our heads up."

Nancy smiles, and it's a strange one. It wobbles and shifts, hardly reaching her eyes, but her eyes are dark and dangerous. She drinks. "Redbright gave us a common enemy." And few things united people like hate, unfortunately.

But they were at a stand-still. Fine. She could accept it. She didn't want to fight, she didn't want politics. She wanted to be safe. Even drunk.

Abigail raised her glass in a silent toast to the last statement before she drank. That was the one good thing about their failing in Enfield. It had established them as a force to be reckoned with. Sylvia Redbright was a clear opponent, and that let them have a cause to rally behind.

But... that was the easy part.

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Gone But Not Forgotten

Around the Manor

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Dinner

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Ballroom

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ballroom

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The Great Hall

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