tonight, we burn it (but not all of it)

[kantikoy]

WHO: All of Riftwatch is invited
WHAT: A burning of things/ideas for the New Year
WHEN: Mid-Wintermarch (nowish)
WHERE: The Gallows main courtyard
NOTES: Mobius' post inviting one and all to come burn stuff (but no bodies or large fabrics or explosives, s'il vous plait.

It's not exactly raining but it is cold on the island housing the Gallows this night. There's fresh snow on the mountains viewable beyond Kirkwall, and earlier in the week there was even snow in the city proper —typical for this time of year.

The bonfire is in the middle of the courtyard, with some benches and seating pulled far enough away that stray flames shouldn't pose a problem to anyone seated there. Adrasteia is also on hand, with several large barrels of water and buckets placed near every building entrance within sight. Just in case.

Comments

donations box

[kantikoy]

[ There's a box with the words "set me alight" painted in trade on the side of it. For those who wish for things to be burned but don't wish to do it themselves. So go ahead and 'donate' whatever you like to the box; it'll be fed to the bonfire in time before the night is through. ]

donations (to the chantry) box

[kantikoy]

[ There's a second box here that says CHANTRY in huge letters on the side of it, with 'don't set me alight' below. Y'all know what to do. The donations will be inspected though. ]

[thereneverwas]

[a not-insignificant amount of coinage is placed inside by one donor, who casts a wry and perhaps somewhat apologetic smile to anyone who might meet his eyes as he drops it in. call it penance.]

[favoriteanalyst]

[Mobius is on hand to--mostly just to exist, frankly. He was pleased that Adrasteia had been so receptive to the idea, and pleased that the majority of people he'd spoken to were...at least not against it. It's hard to go wrong with a casual party atmosphere and a warm fire on a cold winter night. If it makes even one person feel better to unburden themselves, that'll feel like success.

For his own part, he doesn't have anything he didn't hurriedly pack last minute and drag with him from city to city and thus doesn't have any flammable reminders to get rid of. And he knows that it's all just figurative, to burn a thought away, to render trouble to ash, to start a year truly new. But the idea still exists to help one to move beyond the hurt and to hope for better.

It's very Andrastian, as Astarion had pointed out. That is, admittedly, quite deliberate. He tears a scrap off a sheet of parchment, jots down words. A series of names. He doesn't know the extent of the psychological damage done by demons infesting a snowed-in mansion, but he has some bare and small idea of what one might try to draw forth from him.]

Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.

[It won't banish the doubt or the memory. But it eases something in his shoulders nevertheless to let the edge catch light, to let it be consumed. He watches sparks and ashes both rise and looks contented.

Most of the night he is also contented just by people-watching. There's fun to be had if people have it, if someone brings music or drink. He's not a social butterfly, but he's no wallflower either, willing to say hello and make proper introductions, especially to those whose voices he recognizes from the delightful little crystal. (And he'll take in whatever gossip and advice he catches going around. How else is he to learn about the misfits and fuckups he's decided to align himself with?)]

[thereneverwas]

[After making his donations to both boxes, an especially large individual saunters over to where he's spotted a new face hanging about. Taking a seat on a bench nearby, he tugs a pre-rolled cigarette out of a pocket in his cloak, then leans forward with an avuncular grunt to light it on the smoldering edges of the bonfire.

He straightens back up with a similar sound, then takes a pull from it that stirs a mild bout of coughing. Thumping his free hand against his chest, he waits for it to pass before, finally, clearing his throat and addressing Mobius.]

Haven't seen you before, [he observes, amiably enough, and draws from the cigarette once again as he angles his head to nod a greeting at the mustached newcomer.]

[notathreat]

[Ellie catches his voice, as she makes her slow rounds. She's not quite a wallflower but she's not the center of attention either, and seems far more at ease than she usually is for such parties. Late-night bonfires always have an otherworldly feel.

She pauses, too- when she notices Mobius writing down a short series of lines, and stops a respectful distance back. Too far to properly read.

Ellie waits to be noticed, but then tilts her head to one side. She's younger than most of Riftwatch. Fully an adult, but with freckled fair skin that boasts a fair share of scars. Most of her's covered with a thick winter cloak, and in one hand, she holds a wooden stringed instrument, a dulcimer.

She gestures to his parchment.]

There's a wall. Out in the courtyard. Of memory. Adrasteia put it up a while back. It's a good place to put names.

[Of those lost, she means- because it's obvious.]

[youwonscience]

[Even swathed in an Thedosian cloak, Cosima's never going to read as anything other than a rifter, between the glasses, the boots, the eyeliner she's still getting from somewhere. More than that, her bearing stands out a bit; she makes no effort to draw attention to herself, but after all these years, she doesn't much blend in.

Tonight, she seems muted, if not exactly sad. Her offering is small, and it would be easy to miss, though she doesn't try to hide what she feeds to the bofire. Three sheets of paper, one folded into a triangle, one a series of little mountains, and the last a small hexagon.

Once they're all gone, she watches the firs for a bit, nods, and then makes her way to the refreshments. She's ready to talk now, her smile flickering back into place. Eventually, the party brings her over to Mobius.]

I hear you're the new arrival who's concerned about our morale.

[rebellionyell]

[Dante just happened to be standing there when Mobius uttered his chant, prayer, waxing poetic? Dante didn't know, it was just a matter of coincidence, he didn't really believe that this would make anything go away or change. It wouldn't cleanse or suck out any kind of poisons.

Here he was anyway and what was his offering to said fire? A small bouquet of white lilies wrapped in decorative red paper. They were beautiful open blooms, flawless one might say, and fragrant. He didn't hesitate to toss it into the fire where the petals curled into blackened ashy things quickly enough.]

What he said.

[arkitect]

Do you find that it truly helps?

[It's an idle question, neutral-- not too curious. It doesn't have the tone of someone asking out of hopefulness or for their own use, but rather just... well, either something to bring up or just being nosy about it. Hard to say which.

For his part, he's been here, just not participating. Attending for the sake of it, a bird perched on his shoulder and watching with more interest than he himself seems to show.]

[armd]

(Broke: People-watching. Bespoke: people-helping.)

Oi. (Yeah, Abby's directing that at Mobius. The bonfire needs a good feed, and she's got a rather large piece of old cracked furniture to toss in.) Help me with this.

(It isn't heavy, just awkwardly shaped and splintering. Watch where you put your hands.)

Ellie | OTA

[notathreat]

Ellie's raided the "set me alight" box. Her hands are filled with the dregs of broken furniture, scrap parchment, and a sachet of fragrant herbs that someone thoughtfully set inside.

She slowly feeds the mundane objects to the flames first. Scraps of paper and charcoal and oiled, splintered wood. Threadbare rags, ruined rugs and uniforms, stained with blood.

She holds a book in her hands- a tawdry little romance, the kind of book that she'd never look at twice if she weren't snickering over the pages with a friend. There is a paper bookmark tucked partway through- a small card with a tiny oil painting. A beautiful girl, with a crystal grace in her hair.

Over and over, Ellie runs her fingertips over the edges of the pages, like she's toying with the idea of throwing it in. But she doesn't. Instead she plucks dried herbs and flowers out of the sachet. Tosses them into the fire. They spark and burn and give off a lovely scent.

Next to her lays a wooden stringed instrument, kept within reach.

can't believe i need to make icons for the dog

[armd]

The little round dog that comes snuffling up to her is warm from sitting near the fire, a mabari puppy looking for the good smell recently thrown to the flames. He's brown, a rusty-red sort of brown that makes him look quite auburn in the flickering light of the fire, and he approaches Ellie with a curious look, head tilted.

He isn't shy about greeting her. In fact, he bowls right in to mouth at the sachet, pressing his head in-between her hands.

[lumelume]

"What's it about?"

A gentle voice at her shoulder, a little nod towards the book that won't burn. Mado's manner is soft, reverent, not wanting to speak too loudly at such an occasion.

Re: Ellie | OTA

[sparklequeen]

Glimmer eases up to the firelight, the roaring heat of the bonfire comfort against the winter chill that still pervades the Gallows. She settles down comfortably next to Ellie without asking if she can, confident that her presence is welcome--or that Ellie will tell her off if it isn't. She has her own small box in her hands, made of thin cardboard, easily disposable, and filled with scraps of paper of her own. Letters to her mother she'll never send, another a page full of half-hearted attempts to capture a memory of Bow's smile and Adora's bedhead. Bundles of herbs, meant for one purpose or another that never made it to their destination.

She leans against Ellie not quite able to open her box yet.

"Fire is nice," she says in a quiet voice.

[arkitect]

"Changed your mind? Or was that another's to begin with."

The voice comes from a bit off to the side, where he's settled in just far enough from the fire, a raven on his shoulder keeping a quiet watch. There's nothing in his own hands, though, nor had he put anything in earlier.

adrasteia / open to all

[kantikoy]

Adrasteia is here for a few reasons. Firstly, to ensure that the bonfire doesn't get out of hand and bring the wrath of the Seneschal (and who knows who else) onto her head. Secondly, she's curious to see what Mobius is up to since this was mostly his idea. Thirdly, well. She has a few things to burn. Scraps of fabric, torn pages from books that have fallen apart. These things, along with some scented herbs, are fed one by one to the flames, floated on a small puff of air into the pyre.

She smiles, and the elven mage tucks her arms into her sleeves. This was a good idea.

She spends the rest of the evening offering tea and water to those who have gathered, occasionally singing songs, occasionally tucked into a seat and reading. Come bother her!

[favoriteanalyst]

Oh, she will be bothered. Because this only happened with her help. She seems just a bit lighter for unloading some burdens to the flames, and even singing. Which...he's not sure why that surprises him. Her Warden-ness, maybe?

But she's between things at the moment, offering tea, that he gladly accepts with a polite bow. He can feel the warmth through his gloves. Delightful.

"Thank you." Not for the tea. But also for the tea. "For humoring me and endorsing this idea."

[armd]

Hoping it won't be too bothersome, Abby sidles up. The nature of the burning has left her feeling melancholic and thoughtful, wanting company. She takes the seat beside Adrasteia, trying to keep from craning her neck to have a look at her page.

"What are you reading?"

Damnit, she should have brought her book with her.

loki / rifter, trouble, open to all [will match format]

[icasm]

What has Loki brought to burn?

Nothing, actually. He's brought himself, and some alcohol, to this particular shindig, and that's about all.

Well, no, that's not true. He has a set of folded papers in his pocket and a piece of charcoal; he writes a few things in a language that is not Trade, certainly, as the night dies down and feeds them to the fire. But he's surreptitious about it, not wanting to be seen writing anything down, apparently.

Sometimes the fire has a greenish cast, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes there are figures in the flames, dancing. Sometimes there aren't.

[altusimperius]

Also with nothing to burn, Benedict has simply come to scope out the event, to lurk the sidelines and be ready to abscond if anyone decides to be unpleasant at him.
The odds of it have diminished significantly, but aren't nonzero.

His eye is caught by a strangeness in the flame, and he shuffles nearer to observe that Loki is behind it. A wry look, eyebrows raised at the Rifter in a silent query of 'what are you doing'.

[favoriteanalyst]

There are several items of note when it comes to Loki.

The first, of course, is the drinking. Not unusual by any means, not something Mobius feels the need to comment upon. He doesn't know whether Loki is a casual drinker or if this is his way of dealing with whatever happened to him, both of the above or neither. Not his place. But it is noted.

The second is that sometimes, through magic because how else could it be, the fire has differing colors, and sometimes it appears to have small people having their own fun. While he might not be able to prove outright that it's Loki, these didn't happen before his arrival. He's pretty sure he can occasionally catch Loki making some small gesture at the flames. So long as it is harmless...

Him hiding his particular demons to burn is the most notable. Maybe because Loki's trying to hide it. He'd brought something to write with and something to write on but largely ignores them through the evening. It's when the party, such as it is, seems to wind down into the late of the evening (or is it the early morning?) that Loki seems to find it safe enough to add to the flames.

Maybe it's rude to even have noticed, and ruder still to comment on it. So Mobius doesn't necessarily comment on it. He does, however, come over to Loki and sits by him.

Sylvie Laufeydottir | OTA

[apocalypsegrown]

There's really not many choices she regrets in her long life in a way that she wants to burn to forget it, and with everything that happened with the ghosts and demons those little cuts are way too tender to address. Good and bad, those memories were hers to keep and use how she wanted. So instead Sylvie takes a trip into Kirkwall with a few coin to spend, and comes back for the event with a bag of rather expensive Orlesian Guimauves; popularly called marshmallows on earth.

She was ok with this alternative to burning.

A stick is popped through one as she sits down near the fire, armorless and bundled in layers to keep the cold out as she starts to turn the sweet in the flames. She intends to save a few for a few special people, but she might share the rest if you're nice enough.

[arkitect]

"Somewhat irreverent, is it not? Unless, I suppose, the idea is that one feels haunted by-- whatever these are."

Not that he sounds like he minds that. He's put nothing in the fire either; evidently he's chosen to spend the evening here despite having nothing he cares to burn.

[armd]

"Are those marshmallows?"

She smelt them first. They don't even look like the ones she's found in stores before: either glommed together in plastic or bags of hardened pink and white stones that barely have any flavour at all to them. The one Sylvie is roasting is... fresh??

She is coming to sit. "Where did you get those?"

abby (wags optional)

[armd]

Abby brought letters to throw into the fire, and she sits cross-legged on the stone to glance over them a final time. They're mostly addressed to the people she wished she could have spoken to when she first got here... A few of them are kinda desperate. A particularly saccharine line halfway through a re-read of one makes her wince, and she tosses it carelessly in– and regrets being so hasty, maybe, as she watches the paper curl and burn.

One hand is resting on the belly of a stout mabari war hound puppy lolling at her hip, his legs in the air. He's getting dirt and ash from the fire all over himself, but she doesn't seem to have noticed.

... Anybody near her throwing anything stick-like into the fire is going to get chastised, but only after she manages to hook her fingers into the dog's collar to keep him from trying to fucking fetch it.

[arkitect]

He's lingering nearby, as he's tended to do tonight-- nothing to throw in, himself, just seated near the fire with his elbow propped on one knee, chin resting in his palm. It's hard to miss the puppy rolling around, though, even if his attention's mostly been on the fire and the people surrounding it; he watches him for just a bit, waiting for her to be at what seems like a stopping point or longer pause in disposing of her letters before he speaks up.

"You may end up needing to do more than one sort of cleansing by the time the night's through, you know."

Said with a little nod toward the dog, idly amused.