undergrounds | 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!)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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

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