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The Exiled

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It's the night of the traditional Harvest Festival, when witches from all over the city celebrate the summer harvest and the coming of autumn. But tonight, as the sun sets and the full moon rises, a darker ceremony is underway.

Five witches step out from a wagon cage – a sort of portable prison. Their wrists are bound and each one is wearing a silver choker around their necks. Escorted by two armed Guardians, they emerge from the shadows into the light of the waiting bonfire. In another time, they might have been burned at the stake, but not tonight.

Tonight Sylvia Redbright is waiting by the fire, wand in hand, to banish these witches from the city of London. A silent crowd stands before her. It is this crowd that Sylvia addresses first, her voice strong and clear.

"May the harvest moon be our witness tonight. These five witches have been found guilty of treason. They have made their bed with monsters and murderers, endangered innocent people, and betrayed their own kind. They represent a group of witches who neither share our values nor respect our laws. For that reason, we cast them out."

One by one, the prisoners step forward and hold out their bound wrists. With her wand, Sylvia burns a mark into the back of each prisoner's hand, a stylised 'x'. She declares each prisoner outcast by name, followed by the crowd repeating her words. Abigail is the last to step up.

The mark burns into her skin as Sylvia delivers the damning verdict. "Abigail Widdowson, we cast you out."

The crowd echoes her: "We cast you out."

The brand on each outcast's skin is a magical signature; it will scar but it will not fade. It tells everyone who sees it that this witch has been exiled. As the five prisoners are escorted back into the wagon cage, as they disappear behind the fire and into the shadows, Sylvia thanks the crowd before her for staying to witness justice being done. Finally, she wishes everyone a good night.

The ceremony is done and Circle Midnight will not be seen practising openly in London again.

Notes
The Harvest Festival takes place in Elthorne Park, Hanwell on the evening of 16th September. There is an anti-vampire barrier around the entire park which will last until the full moon sets. It means that no vampire can enter the park unless explicitly invited in by Sylvia herself, which in practice means that Natasha is the only one who will gain entry. There is heavy security around the area, with Guardians monitoring the prisoners and the park exits, and combat-ready witches who will put a stop to any trouble. They know that after the ceremony is the most likely time for an escape attempt, which is why the prisoners are wearing Magic Collars that prevent them from using magic, and why they will each be taken away in different vehicles that will escort them out of the city. Anyone hanging around near the park exits will be swiftly moved on before the prisoners leave the park.

See this month's plotting post for OOC planning/discussion!

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For those who managed to make it inside the park and join the crowd to watch the prisoners being exiled. Note that there is heavy security around the area and that the crowd is dominated by Circle Daybreak witches.

After the ceremony, as the crowd begins to disperse, Sylvia stays a while longer by the fire. She's inundated by a number of young witches eager to receive her blessing as Mother of Witches, then a few senior coven leaders who express their approval that Circle Midnight has finally been eliminated from the city. They're not all gone, Sylvia knows that, and she knows that some witches will practise dark magic on their own whether or not they have a Circle to swear allegiance to, but this is an important step forward.

She'll be around for a few minutes and can be approached, although of course she is well guarded. The look in her eyes is quietly triumphant.

Surrounded by a sea of daybreak witches, Guinevere silently watches the exiling ceremony, hands clenched at her sides. There’s a full moon above her head and a ball of tightly coiled rage burning in her chest. She’s not here to revel in the fall of Circle Midnight and certainly isn’t enjoying herself as she tries to reign in her anger, knowing that lashing out would do her more ill than good.

What she wants is justice. What she needs is closure.

The midnight coven responsible for Leontes’ death has been apprehended. And yet, credible rumours persist regarding the claim that the old woman in custody isn’t the real leader of the coven but merely a willing patsy.

So, here Gwen stands, watching five witches be branded as outcasts, wondering if one of them is the true guilty party. She desperately needs to believe this operation has finally cast down that witch.

After it’s all over, Guinevere hangs around, waiting for her chance to speak with Sylvia Redbright, a woman she knows in a capacity other than Mother of Witches. It takes a while for the crowd to thin, for the stream of witches, young and old, to leave Sylvia alone. When they finally do, Gwen approaches her respectfully.

“Chancellor Redbright, do you have a moment?”

The bonfire is dying down, shadows lengthening over the grass. Sylvia looks up as the young woman approaches and has to take a moment to recognise her out of context.

"Gwen." She puts away her wand and clasps her hands. "Yes, of course."

Her tone is encouraging, prompting Gwen to speak. She hadn't realised that Gwen had attended the ceremony, but there were a few people here from Redbright. Some of them are curious about witch practices and rituals, while others may have been directly affected by the recent troubles in the city. For the most part, her swift action to cut off the Midnight threat has been met with approval.

Gwen nods in appreciation of being granted some of her time.

“I wanted to personally thank you for taking a firm stance, for breaking their alliance before it had a chance to do real damage.” A bitter mix of anger and pain creeps into her voice. “Enough blood has been spilled already.”

Guinevere’s father would probably scoff at her thanking Sylvia Redbright, even for this. The woman is, after all, the reason werewolves have been denied their rightful place on the Night Council for years now. As it stands, he isn’t thrilled about his daughter working for the witch. But he has accepted that Gwen wants to be there for the children and that not everything is about Sylvia. (Although, he thinks perhaps someone should tell that to President Redbright. From his point of view, the blasted woman does her damnedest to make it all about her.)

"Yes," Sylvia agrees, her tone sombre. "It has. I dread to think what might have happened had we not nipped this in the bud."

She can only imagine it would have been a bloodbath. Vampires are powerful enough on their own without magical help.

“I definitely feel safer knowing Harris has lost both his council seat and Midnight allies.”

In the past Guinevere has never had much cause to worry about vampires, despite their longstanding feud with her bloodline. Raymond Harris’ ascension quickly changed that.

“But does the branding spell magically bar them from reentering the city?”

She doesn’t like the thought of exiled midnight witches creeping back into London. It’s doubtful that the majority of those who returned would be doing so with good intentions.

She isn't the only one who feels safer. Many witches have expressed the same sentiment, although of course Harris is still at large. But it's important to feel that they're standing up to him, that he won't be allowed to take over the city.

As for the branding spell... Sylvia shakes her head. "It's an identifying mark, nothing more. But it won't fade. If they do reenter the city, any witch can sense the brand. They'll find it difficult to perform magic without being caught. And if they are caught..." Another, smaller shake of her head. "They'll face our severest penalty."

Which isn't death. The law forbids killing any witch, regardless of what they've done.

Guinevere nods in understanding.

“I see.”

So, the brand is not a barrier but rather a significant deterrent. That’s seems fitting. (And much more forgiving than wolf justice would have been.)

“What about Abigail? Will she remain Maiden of Witches after this?”

Being predisposed by her upbringing to trust authority figures, especially those that enforce the law, Gwen believes the guardians must have done their due diligence to ensure no midnight witch has been exiled without just cause. Conversely, she also believes that those who were misled or fell into Midnight by default will not be dragged down with it now. (That is perhaps a naïve belief and misplaced trust, but there we go.)

All of which is to say she has absolutely no doubt about the culpability of those five witches whose official exile she witnessed tonight, in particular Abigail Widdowson. After all, from what has been said, Circle Midnight as a whole didn’t agree to ally with Islington; that dishonour hangs on Abigail’s shoulders alone.

"For the time being," Sylvia answers, "though in disgrace. There must be portents to foretell the coming of a new Maiden. It may be some time before a suitable candidate is found."

It's one of the few things she can't control, and it's as frustrating now as it was then when all the signs pointed to Abigail as the new Maiden, as if fate had decided to pit her against a woman she could not be more different to for a laugh. The idea of balance has always been prominent in her tradition, but so is the idea of harmony and she knows which one she'd prefer.

Gwen can appreciate that the witch way of choosing a leader is much nicer than the bloody maneuvering done by vampires and wolves. At the same time, she’s not keen on the idea of leaving such an important decision up to the whimsy of an unseen mystical force. Even worse, their method made any ‘mistakes’ so much harder to correct.

“Well, then, I’m glad that you’re still around to provide guidance and stability.”

Guinevere respects the way Chancellor Redbright runs the institute; she’s a good boss. Even though Gwen can’t really speak to the way Sylvia handles her role as Mother of Witches, she wants to believe it’s in a similarly beneficial manner.

Sylvia nods. "Thank you."

Providing guidance and stability is her job, in every capacity, so to hear it from others is always reassuring. In the meantime, the fire is dying down and another witch quietly whispers in her ear that they're packed up and ready to leave. Sylvia pulls on her coat, smiling at Gwen.

"Well, better call it a night."

She'll see Gwen at school in due course. For now, Sylvia is thinking of a hot coffee and bed.

“Of course. Take care, Chancellor.”

With no other reason to stay, Gwen begins to make her way out of the Elthorne Park, which is a far easier task than getting in had been. Before exiting, she turns back to look briefly at the smouldering spot where the ceremony had taken place and then up at the full moon overhead. Both leave her feeling a little unsettled, though for very different reasons.

Finally, she turns away and heads for home. It’s been a long day and will probably be a rough, sleepless night for her.

For those who can only watch from a distance or who are guarding the entrances/exits. Note that anyone trying to get in will be questioned and searched, and that anyone hanging around outside will be moved on before the prisoners leave the park.

Lancelot thinks it darkly fitting that the day began with an enormous thunderstorm.

It had woken him up, and as he'd sat trying to soothe his dog listening to the thunder and watching the flashes of lightning it had rather set his tone for the day.

Uneasy.

He dresses in a reserved, formal way and finds himself ready far too early and trying to keep Lily from getting white fur on his grey suit -- ends up escaping to Starbucks to wire himself on coffee until it's a good time to leave. He's still early, but early enough to help security set up a perimeter rather than being there hours before anyone else. Which means Lancelot is going between circling around all the entrances and exits and helping question and search people. He twitches a smile to anyone he knows, but he'll stop and search them all the same just in case.

Natasha feels a sort of sympathy when she sees Lancelot, looking serious, reserved, just a little twitchier than normal, but a little less comfortable. Even compared to when she saw him about Jean-Claude, he seems just a little out of step with the proceedings. It's subtle, but she thinks she knows him well enough to catch the signs.

And maybe she's prone to see them, because she feels a lot like he looks.

"Hey," she says, drifting nearer him. She might be able to get in, but that doesn't mean she feels welcome. "Duty calls?"

Lancelot expected Natasha to be here, after all helped make all this happen. Yet as he turns and flicks her a smile he realises he isn't sure how she feels about that, nor how he feels about her doing it.

It's one of those awkward, political situations where Lancelot can understand why it was done but still doesn't think it was really the right thing to do, or perhaps just wishes there had been another way.

Then again, perhaps he's just a little bitter. He remembers talking to Sylvia about all this long ago and recommending near enough the opposite.

"I don't think anyone's stupid enough to try something, but... we're keeping a perimeter just in case, running checks. We've upset a few people in the last couple of weeks, better safe than sorry."

Raymond and the vampires, Midnight -- or what's left of them, there's a few people Lancelot can think of who might have a grudge against Sylvia right now.

"I sincerely hope no one is stupid enough to try," Natasha says. Who knows if she'll get her wish on that, though. "If I had my way, we could all let this blow over now."

Not to say she expects everyone to be happy with how things were panning out. There were legitimate reasons to be unhappy. But if she was allowed her dreams, people might put aside their ego for the greater peace and security.

The more she thinks about it, the less she feels optimistic about that.

"I doubt Midnight feel the same way."

Like letting things blow over, that is. They've had their leader captured and her house burnt down. That's hardly a little incident, and he expects it to hurt for a good while.

"It's not so much about what they feel as what they think." She pauses, meeting his eyes. Nodding slightly, she adds, "They're entitled to their feelings. It's an ugly loss, and it's not about them. That doesn't change that cooler heads would see it's not the time for a fight."

She glances off then. "Give everyone a chance to lick their wounds."

Not about them? Lancelot hesitates, guarded, and shoves his hands into his pockets to keep them still -- darts his eyes away from her and scans the proceedings. He lowers his voice to something softer, more cautious.

"How much do you know about Sylvia's history with Circle Midnight?"

Natasha doesn't answer immediately, angling a look at Lancelot that searches his face for the answer to his own question. She knows that kind of question—whether or not he realizes it, that's not the kind of question someone asks because they want the answer. Not to Natasha's ears, anyway.

"Not as much as you think I should," she says two beats late, her own voice low. Her gaze is level, flat as she meets his eyes. "I'm not naive. I know a little. And I can guess more. But at the end of the day... What's happening with Islington is a lot bigger than them."

She's right, on both counts. That he thinks she should know more, and that it's a leading question. He studies her a moment once more, thinking.

"It is bigger than them," he admits, "but Sylvia had a lot of chances to stop it coming to this."

In his opinion. Everyone's always too proud, though. Pride gets in the way of so many things.

"I don't doubt it." Like she said, she's not naive. She knows Sylvia is using this the opportunity to remove a rival to her advantage, and she doesn't doubt she could have done more to prevent it coming to this point. Still... Natasha is nothing if not pragmatic.

She doesn't imagine a woman got to Sylvia's position, with all the influence she has, without playing the game.

None of that means she doesn't value Lancelot's opinion, though. "This may be something we should talk about later."

"Probably," Lancelot answers, but he doesn't sound particularly worried about it. Just resigned. He takes a slow breath in and lets it out in a sigh. "Forgive me if I'm dire company, I didn't sleep very well. Thunder woke me up."

Which is only about half the truth, but Natasha can probably fill in the rest anyway.

Edited 2016-10-01 21:56 (UTC)

"Seems like there's been a lot of storms lately," Natasha say softly, noncommittal. "Can't blame you if it keeps you awake."

She wonders, as she says that, how close she is to losing another friend because the circumstances revealed that she was hard—cold when it came to politics. Her history was what it was. Her skills were what they were.

Can't blame him if he judges.

But she hopes it won't come to that.

"Maybe we can chat about it a little more over dinner. After this blows over, and we've both had the chance to get some sleep."

The offer takes him a little by surprise and he looks up, studies her curiously before flicking a faint smile.

"Better not let me pick the place, I might take you to a froyo shop again."

Which is not exactly dinner, just a sugary dessert or snake. It isn't a no, though, and he does appreciate that she's trying -- even if he isn't entirely sure how to approach that. Natasha is on the outreach team, but the way Sylvia has used the outreach team is this is not... exactly in line with what he imagined their job was.

"Good as that was, I was thinking of something a little less dog friendly." Not because she has a problem with Lily, but it's a lot harder to find a nice restaurant that allows enthusiastic dogs to wait under the table.

"I'll see what I can find—maybe something French?"

But dog friendly places are the best places, Natasha! Doggy enthusiasm is only natural around good friends!

"I'm sure Lily can forgive you just the once," he allows, "French is good. I'm easy on food, honestly."

Not allergic to anything, nor particularly against any type. He isn't picky, anything works.

And it is a breath of fresh air, it's true. Especially by comparison to other, more somber social interactions lately. But sometimes adults want their steak frites.

"I'll send a doggy bag home for her." She gives him a half-hearted smile as she says it.

For the time being though. "Do you need a hand?"

Back to business then, he supposes. He takes a deep breath and glances around the place.

"Well, we'll need to be searching everyone who comes to watch. If you're up for a little frisking I can send you the handsome ones."

... Which. He then inwardly hopes she realises is a joke. Hopefully the Night Council HR department won't be writing him a letter tomorrow.

It gets a smile out of her, so it's a fair chance she gets the joke. Either way, it's clear he's not going to have to sit through any sexual harassment videos next week.

She figures the joking is a good sign.

They're both trying to deal with a situation they don't like.

"Thanks for looking out for me."

"Of course. I became a Guardian to protect and serve the community. That includes you."

He lofts an eyebrow playfully, gestures finally around to another entrance.

"I have Faolan down by the south entrance. Help the others check anyone coming through the north gate, if you don't mind? I'd say let us know if there's any trouble, but I don't doubt we'd hear if before you had a chance."

"I can do that," Natasha says, chin rising slight, lips pursing in something still a bit like a smile. "I'll let you know if anything comes up that I can't handle on my own."

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The Exiled

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