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. ]

[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]

[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.]

[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.]

[favoriteanalyst]

[Maker's breath, some of these people are...sizeable. Mobius watches (because of course he watches) with some interest at the hulk of man as he puffs at his cigarette and works through his coughing fit. Used to it, a long habit? The tower was meant to stay clean and tidy, but some of his ilk would slip out for something to smoke, usually elfroot, and hope the commanding officer or senior enchanter wouldn't notice.

The thought, unbidden, makes him only blink before he banishes it. A mild smile in return, a nod.]

Relative newcomer. Fresh face. Mobius, [with an offered hand to shake.] Riftwatch get a lot of new people these days?

[thereneverwas]

Relative?

[Barrow's eyes crinkle warmly as he reaches to return the handshake, his grip firm and confident even as the joints of his knuckles give an unhappy little click.]

Sorry, [he mutters through the cigarette, shaking his hand out as he draws it back,] by which I mean. Not a Rifter, I take it?

[favoriteanalyst]

[Older, done a lot of fighting, had a lot of injuries. These are the things that he can't help but decide from what he picks up. The overall picture can change as the details change, but it's nice to try and take in who someone is without them telling a life story.]

Not a Rifter. No glow here. Though I've come to learn that even Thedosians can end up with them. [He hasn't yet decided quite how he feels about it, but...excited, maybe?] You neither, I take it.

[thereneverwas]

Oh, that they can. Plenty of 'em, gets harder and harder to tell who's from around here and who isn't.

[He settles back into position, exhaling a leisurely puff of smoke and bringing the cigarette back to his lips.]

Fereldan, [he confirms with a nod and a sidelong smirk,] name's Barrow.

[favoriteanalyst]

Seems to come to light with a little conversation, but with it being the dead of winter and needing to make sure no fingers fall off, it's harder than ever to tell. Think people might get offended if I just start asking outright?

[thereneverwas]

If someone's a Rifter? [The resulting chuckle is good-naturedly amused, nearly shifting into a cough, but he controls it in time.]

You never know with these folks, though I'd hazard a guess the people who'll get most offended are the Thedosians. With them at least, you can usually tell by the accent.

[He taps the side of his nose as if this is some clever secret.]

[favoriteanalyst]

Normally you'd think so, but I've already talked to Rifters who sound like they came out of Tevinter or have Ferelden blood in them. The ones that always throw me for a loop are the humans who sound like they grew up with dwarves. [americans]

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.

[thereneverwas]

Well... sure.

[Now that he thinks about it, that is often the case. It's a good thing it isn't Barrow's job to tell the difference.]

...s'pose as long as someone's here, I just assume they belong. [It's not a statement of any particular morality: he just can't be bothered.]

What brings you to Riftwatch?

[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.]

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.

[notathreat]

Ellie regards the puppy with widened eyes -- she'd expected to see Noose hanging about, what with food making an appearance here and there, but seeing a Mabari puppy out here is something else.

"Well, hey, little g- ... all right. Just help yourself, I guess."

Ellie picks out a couple of stronger-smelling herbs to show him, and starts smiling in spite of herself. He's drooling all over her fingers.

"Which one d'you want?"

[armd]

Wags isn't so disciplined, and it's a little harder to hold his attention. While Ellie works at getting the herbs out of the packet he sniffs at the dulcimer, and her leg, and then her shoes. And he stays there for a long time.

Her voice alerts him to something new, his head whipping back up immediately. Drool spatters her knee.

He'd like all of them, and so he sits nicely. If Abby were here, she'd call him good for it.

[notathreat]

"Oh my god," Ellie whispers to herself when he happily drools on her knee, and doesn't even bother to pretend she's not completely charmed. She gets out his prize, making an appreciative sound in the back of her throat, soft and gentle.

"Oh, look at you! What a guhboye."

She holds out the herb sachet for him, letting him sniff, and take it if he wants. She holds out her other hand, palm up, an inch or so in front of one of his paws.

"What about it? Huh? Can you shake?"

[armd]

Thanks, he is a very guhboye and he loves to be reminded of that. His tail is going a mile a minute, indictive of his name.

The herb packet is snarfed out of her hand immediately, the true prize, but when he notices her other hand is up–

Well, first he checks it for some other kind of treat by sticking his nose into her cupped palm, and then licking wetly. And then, upon finding nothing, he sits for a second time but impatiently. He doesn't understand the trick, and barks once to let her know he's unimpressed.

[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.

[favoriteanalyst]

[That's the kind of opinion he was hoping for, really. If they're here, they're here for a reason. Is there much point in interrogating? No one wants to come to Kirkwall and hang with the possible-demons on the haunted prison island. Unless they belong there.]

Oh, you know, end of the world slowly encroaching. Figure there might be a better way to stop it than just hacking away at the front lines.

[favoriteanalyst]

Yeah? [He's pretty sure he's passed it and given it a cursory glance before. Of course that was Adrasteia's doing. She's a good kid(?). Mobius gives a short nod, content look not wavering for a moment.] Sounds like a good idea. [He doesn't make any move to add anything to it, though.]

I like to see this as more a letting go of memory. Not forgotten. Just to set it down for a bit.

[Never really gone. Just set it to fire, let the Maker sort it out. Deal with it another day.]

You going to play us some tunes? Unless you're going to-- [With a motion to the fire.] Which I really hope you don't.

[favoriteanalyst]

[Oh yeah. There's some native weirdos, that's for sure, but this one is definitely a Rifter. They would definitely have some shit to unburden, and he notes another offer to the flames. That he doesn't immediately go introduce himself and launch into a hundred questions is, he feels, a sign of restraint.

Honestly, the fact that some people are at least taking the idea to heart warms him. He could see it seeming silly and useless and frivolous, but sometimes a metaphor can help.]

I'm not here to take Warden Adrasteia's place, if anyone's worried. I just had a suggestion. But, [with a mild spread of his hands] you're not wrong, that's me. Mobius the apparent worrywart.

[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.