undergrounds | The Maiden Anointed [semi-closed] [majorly backdated to March 1]

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The Maiden Anointed [semi-closed] [majorly backdated to March 1]

"For five years, I have been the Maiden of Witches," Katherine Terrance, the former holder of the title, said with a soft smile. There might even have been some pride in it, though she was trying to hide that. After all, no one was supposed to be pleased that someone from Circle Midnight had been meant for this position. "Now, the time has come to step down and let another take my place."

Beside her stood Abigail Widdowson, dressed in a modest white dress that made her look remarkably more pale, almost like she was dressed for her own burial. The impression wasn't lost on her, either.

They were deep in Daybreak territory, overlooking the Thames from Wandsworth. The building was meant for ceremonies like this and large gatherings of a group of covens. Now, it was for this, with all witches invited to witness the making of a new Maiden, as she was to serve both Circles. To stand for all of them.

"I was told when I took the role that I would know when the time had come to step down, and I was told that I would know who to hand this mantle to. You are never given more than you can bear, the Maiden before me said. Now, I pass those words on to you."

Abigail knelt down on a pale blue pillow and bowed her head politely.

"I ask three questions of you," Katherine said with all due solemnity.

"I will answer," replied Abigail.

"Will you serve as the Maiden of Circle Midnight?"

"I shall."

"Will you serve as the Maiden of Circle Daybreak?"

"I shall."

"Will you serve as the Maiden of all Witches?"

"I shall."

"Then let it be known, that you, Abigail Widdowson, stand as Maiden of Witches. Part of the trinity that holds together all our sisters: the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. From this day on, you are an example to us all. And you will be watched."

Katherine picked up a small silver urn and poured a few drops of the scented oil onto Abigail's forehead. She bowed her head, then, and rose of her own power. Katherine offered no hand, and Abigail sought none. She stood straight, took a deep breath, then nodded to Katherine. The former Maiden responded by bowing her head to kiss the spot on Abigail's head where the oil was placed before she stepped away. Then, Abigail took the few steps down from the dais.

Under her own volition, she'd have scurried away. But she had cause to mingle. So, she would.

(Open to all witches!)

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Well, it was certainly his first time seeing something like this. New to the London society, but no stranger to ritual, the ceremony had something of a calming effect... not least of all because the new swear-in wasn't a slave to light magic and its pedantic teachings.

He'd come to view it less because he believed in authority, and more because he believed in symbolic power, and the effect that could have on hearts and minds. To that end, he was very curious about the new Maiden; Abigail, was it?

He'd wait in the wings, mostly to watch her behaviour and that of those around her, introducing himself to anyone who stopped to stare for long enough, or whom he'd accidentally make eye contact with. And certainly to congratulate Abigail, if the chance presented itself quietly enough.

Elizabeth stands and watches the proceedings amidst a clutch of Daybreak witches, their expressions ranging from stony-faced to outright sour in some cases. She, however, appears to be one of the only Daybreak witches who seems satisfied and respectful of what's happening. She could hardly call Abigail a friend yet, but while they didn't see eye-to-eye on certain things her guidance was what the community would look to her for. That's what Elizabeth is holding onto, at least.

She looks away briefly from the ceremony, and meets eyes with a witch she hasn't seen before. Elizabeth smiles at him, wondering if they had met on that whirlwind boat trip when she was still just a candidate for Maiden, or if he could be new to London.

When their eyes met, he'd be sure to cant his head after an awkward moment of staring (his eyesight being such that it required an extra beat to be sure that she had caught his glance), in a calm greeting. He preferred, certainly, not to make too much noise about which side of the controversy he stood on... but there was no use in having moved to London to study if he planned on refusing any sort of guidance or camaraderie.

To that end, he reached back into those old world manners of growing up and made his way over, half-bowing in hello once he was close enough.

"...Did you enjoy the ceremony?"

Elizabeth's smile grows a little wider in recognition of the greeting, but then her focus goes back to the ceremony before Norrell or Childermass can snap at her for letting her attention wander-- not that they cared for Abigail, but it was probably the principle of the thing or something aggravating and pompous.

Once it's over, Elizabeth is, again, on the fringes of the Daybreak crowd, obviously watching to see when it would be a good time to give Abigail a brief congratulations and then flee the scene. Plenty of time for her to be approached, given Abigail was predictably swarmed after the rite was over.

"I liked that it was straightforward, not a whole lot of gesturing and pontificating?" Elizabeth offers with a grin. "But I suppose we as a collective are all for getting straight to the point, streamlining these kinds of rituals, right?" At least, her experience had been that there wasn't a lot of flourish going on. Practical magic, so to speak.

"Is there usually?" A bit of a surprise arch to his brow. He was relatively new to the rituals surrounding magic in specific, and while he had no issue with pomposity or pontification, there was something just a little bit absurd about doing it with such a mismatched crowd. But then, perhaps there was the charm. Traditions did bring people together, after all.

"Modern times do call for quicker measures, I've noticed." Agreed, taking another brief look around the room. "I'm unsure if this is meant to be a show of unity, or an expression of power." Admitted.

"In my extremely limited experience? Not at all," she says with a quiet laugh. "But I hadn't been part of a community until... about six months ago, so your mileage may vary when it comes to asking me about things." Elizabeth is, to some extent, still navigating her way through the ins and outs of the magical world and its ins and outs.

It's a keen observation though, and one Elizabeth can actually comment on having been thrown into this mess of Daybreak versus Midnight. "Both and neither, I imagine. If anything, gatherings like this indicate where lines are drawn, and while the Maiden acts as one of our highest points of guidance, she is only as powerful as her own magic and own advice is."

"Then, I'm afraid you have me beat by about six months." With a strained smile.

She had a considerate way of speaking, he noted, more thoughtful than most. He didn't suspect witch populations were terribly more intelligent than the general human populace. Each group would have its sampling of fools and philosophers, after all. It made him feel slightly easier to be speaking with someone who, at very least, was measured in what she said, and fair.

"I only wonder that meetings like become the excuse for drawing more lines..." Gave, before he'd tilt his head, saying more blandly, "Where are my manners. Henry Winter. Nice to meet you."

...huh. Elizabeth had been almost certain that she'd claimed the title of Most Likely to Embarrass Herself Due to Extensive Isolation While Growing Up, but perhaps there's someone even newer to this than she is. She hopes they don't share similar circumstances, but apparently she's not as unique as she thought she was. It's oddly comforting.

"Oh, where are mine? Elizabeth DeWitt," she says, holding out her hand. "Nice to meet you, too."

It might turn out that they had more in common than previously suspected, even if they'd taken that experience and transformed it into two very different routes along the magical path. Henry didn't worry about embarrassment in social settings merely because he didn't indulge enough or care for the codes and signals insofar as to actually feel embarrassment.

Taking her hand in a light shake, then, careful not to squeeze.

"Are you from this city originally?"

"Me? Oh, no," she laughs. "Virginia. I'm not picking up too much of the accent, am I? Easy way to get beat up coming out of a pub. I'm guessing you're new in town if all this isn't very familiar?"

And if the constant drawing of lines had to be remarked on, that's kind of a hint for Elizabeth too. Even six months in, Elizabeth already feels inundated with the politics.

"Quite honestly, I wonder if anyone does. Everyone seems to speak with a different amalgamation of tones here. In fact, during the American Revolution, everyone spoke English similarly. It became fragmented when the gentry in London and Southern England began speaking non-rhotic English, to distinguish themselves from commoners. With the trickle down effect came a number of new and unusual accents throughout the British Empire, especially when you factor in the inclusion of the Irish and Scottish rhotic dialects. Only New York and Boston shifted to the British Received Pronunciation, and mauled it anyway. I'm afraid neither you, from Virginia, nor I from Missouri, stand much of a chance of fitting in, lingually." Case and point of a lack of social awareness or sense of mortification: he felt entirely at his ease to ramble at her, not batting an eye that it might bore.

"Though I'd be very surprised if anyone decided to beat you up coming out of a pub." Gave, with a lilt of brows, almost concern. "I don't suppose that's a trouble you run into often?"

"I moved here last month. I haven't bothered to settle into the politics yet; they bore me."

Bless Elizabeth, she listened. It sounded a lot like Norrell's rambling about various acts and treatises and revisions and historic drift, but by God, she's prepared to absorb what he's saying even though she'll probably never use it again. ...Well, who knew, really-- the need to know something always popped up at the most random times.

Once he's done, Elizabeth is still smiling and not looking at all put off. But she's just not sure what to say to all of that...

"Oh, no, not usually," she says, waving off the concern with a laugh and a wave. No, trouble didn't usually find her-- but she's starting to develop a habit of going after it herself. "But I imagine if I sound like I'm making fun of the wrong person, even unintentionally, there's not much to deter them. Visually, at least."

Beneath her small build though, she could pack quite a wallop if she had to.

"I can't imagine why you wouldn't dive right in, it's so scintillating." She makes a sweeping gesture, indicating the witches sizing each other up behind carefully neutral expressions. "You think it's just a British thing, or do you think American circles behave this way too?"

"Visually, I would hope there was much to deter them." Whatever gender politics of the day might argue, it still was scraping the bottom of the barrel to hit a woman, in Henry's book. He supposed that another woman doing so would be less of an outrage, but then, he'd met very few women who had a penchant for lashing out in quite the way men (himself included) did.

A soft puff of a laugh.

"I believe it must be British. They do love the parade-and-circus aspect to their politics. Americans are more interested in sheer power, and the plays for that are better conducted in back rooms than out in the open, with the 'rabble'." Being new here, it was a bit of a shock that everyone- no matter how unimportant, in the scheme- had been invited to 'witness greatness', or whatever this display was meant for.

"...Ahh," Elizabeth tilts her head and smirks knowingly. "You're in the Wouldn't Hit a Girl Club." A good club to be in, probably, but in her opinion it's cute more than it is reassuring. From what she's experienced, if someone wanted to hurt a woman, wanted to hurt her in particular, they would (and had). Being female never created a protective shroud around her, and she imagines it never will. She has her own abilities for that, now.

This entire conversation has taken a bit of a dark turn, though. Elizabeth never thought of Comstock's circle as being included in what she'd blanket-referred to as 'American circles'. It had been somewhat comforting to think of him as a deranged outlier and his followers as deluded beyond all hope but small in number. But Henry made a good point-- power. That had been the motivation for her imprisonment, it was the motivator at this particular gathering, and across the sea it's the same if not less... careful.

She manages to respond with a huffed laugh of her own and a shrug. "Honestly I think I prefer the rabble."

"I suppose it depends on what the girl or woman was doing, but, no." Agreed, with a slight quirk of his head sideways. "I don't see the chivalry in hitting women. Not because they are weak... but because it marks that the man who does so is." To give into violent urges over civilisation... well, he'd been guilty, of course, but he agreed that those urges ought to be largely dictated and controlled by civilisation. It was what made the Greeks so interesting to him, the blend of both. Women, as he had known them, had largely been more attuned and intelligent than men; he spared a thought for Camilla, here; and men violent towards them were merely pitifully trying to subjugate that intelligence.

Sparing another pause here, before agreeing, "Sometimes, so do I." It felt freeing, to be among 'rabble'. It was like peering in through a window to a more colourful world.

"I don't see the smarts in it, because in some cases the lady has no compunctions about hitting back." Or setting them on fire, in her case, but she probably wouldn't do that again. If she could help it. ...Control is hard sometimes, alright. "But yes, you're right. Anybody who feels they can attack someone in a seemingly weaker position than them is asking for trouble."

Are her eyes drifting to Norrell? Maybe.

"But mostly you stick to the intellectual, soft-spoken crowd? Like this one?" Elizabeth smiles-- nothing wrong with either of them. She herself tended to lean towards the rabble side, mostly because of Booker, maybe because she's just naturally outspoken and emotionally inclined. But there have been many evenings where she'd been content to sit with her books and read quietly.

"Good afternoon," Abigail said when he drew near enough. Whether he'd been intending on greeting her or not, she will happily take advantage of the opportunity. After all, the entire reason for her doing this was to meet more of the community. It was a matter of opportunity, making herself available and trying to gain a little more influence. Even if she had to be careful about showing the latter.

"Abigail Widdowson. A pleasure to meet you."

He'd place a hand out at her greeting, giving a single, slow respectful nod of hello. The catchphrase around here seemed to indeed be 'community', but as far as he had always been concerned, hierarchies existed for a reason-- and ought to be treated with respect, if not care.

"Henry Winter. A pleasure. Congratulations on your new post." A somewhat stilted look around the room, with its generous atmosphere; half the onlookers smug, the other half stewing. "You showed grace in the face of adversity.

"Adversity?" Abgiail offers with a smile. "I don't know what you mean. Everyone here is perfectly friendly."

Her lips quirk a little more, and her eyes flicker just a bit. Because they both know just what most of the people in this room think about her. But, then again, she's a Widdowson. She's used to being watched. Constantly.

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The Maiden Anointed [semi-closed] [majorly backdated to March 1]

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