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Post by Lucas Chevalier on Jul 2, 2021 3:02:23 GMT -8
[CW] Reflections on death and dying.
There was a time in the Gravewight’s life when summer brought him boundless joy. The sun readily welcomed the exuberance of youth because the energy brought life to the sun and in turn the Sun would bless children with a special kind of magic; uninhibited imagination. When a child was allowed to freely roam the shore much like he did along the shores of Lake Ontario, the light of day gave life to the child’s imagination.
These days, the sun didn’t stay with him. While he could still feel the heat on his skin, the warmth of it’s rays never stayed with him. The sun wasn’t going to waste it’s nourishing light on the dead. Even on a day like Litha, the sun kept it’s distance from him. He raised one of his hands in front of his face, squinting his eyes as he watched the rays of light pass through the spaces between his fingers.
His other hand was holding onto a beer bottle that was full of condensation. The refreshing taste had dulled under the oppressive heat of the sun. Still, he sipped on it until he reached the bottom of the bottle. With a sigh, he dropped his hand to his side, and set the drink off to the side. He had wasted enough time avoiding the valley of sacrifice. It was time to face the sun even if it wanted nothing to do with him.
The last time he walked through his valley he had been blinded by the intensity of ephemeral energy from all ghosts that had been collected. It was strange to see life flourish where so much death once laid. It still felt strange for him to be walking along life when he had given himself to death and Necropolis had imprinted death upon him.
But here he was, underneath the same sun as everyone else who was alive in this world, staring down at the altar that demanded the strength of victory from all those who approached it.
What enemy had he vanquished?
Himself.
Or at least part of himself. Lucas dug inside of his shorts pocket, pulling out a bottle of empty prescription pills. The prescription information had been erased with white out. In its place he had scribbled in a date and time. Then he crouched down in front of the altar while he placed the bottle on it.
“No matter how great the victory is, death comes for all of us. Our enemies, those that we love, everything one day will come to pass. The wards will fall and even the sun will disappear into the sky.”
He reached inside of his pocket once more to pull out a copper coin that had a skull inscribed in it. The skull inscription looked worn out, the lines were smoothed over likely from him rubbing his thumb over it. Written on the coin was the phrase “Memento Mori”. He tossed the coin next to the bottle. Afterwards, he took out a matching coin that had “Memento Vivere” inscribed on it.
“Remember you have to die...but remember you have to live. I forgot about living because I gave in my darker thoughts. I’ve always been my own worst enemy. I’ve undermined myself because of my concept of how one needs to live their life. If I wasn’t hitting certain milestones then I wasn’t living. If Death was coming for me anyway, why prolong it when I could just go ahead and meet him?”
He shook his head, looking up towards the sky by placing one of his hands over his eyes to shield them from the brutal glare.
“Summer...I offer you my victory over myself. I already know how to die, it is time for me to learn how to live. We fight so that we can live to be ourselves. We fight so that our grief has meaning to it. I will continue to defeat my doubt so that I can find that meaning. That way, when Death comes again, if the wards fall, if the sun gives out to an empty sky, I will know that I have lived my life in a way that meant something to me and neither Death nor the Gentry nor anyone else will be able to take that from me.”
Lucas dropped his hand and blinked his eyes a couple of times. When he reached up, he felt tears on the corner of his eyes. Whether it was from looking at the sun or his own grief manifesting, he supposed it didn’t matter. He had never properly grieved his own passing. A sad, sympathetic smile tugged at his lips as he reflected on his younger self while looking at the bottle.
“Goodbye, my friend. I will find peace for the both of us.”
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Post by Kai Rose on Jul 2, 2021 23:07:47 GMT -8
Hail the sun! Hail the Solstice! Hail, Summer!
At the foot of the effigy, Kai Rose stood to attention, a short-sleeved shirt covering armor and topping a pair of cargo pants suggestive of combat readiness. In one hand was a small box. On her back, Summer's light burned with pure energy in the form of a bow.
Kneeling, she placed the gifts before the representation of Summer.
A piece of War's shrapnel, caught in her vest, to commemorate the conflict survived.
A dog's tooth, taken from the early fallen during the Revenant Crisis.
A lantern, to burn away the shadows over the many lies they had ended to uncover and disrupt dark truths.
A wooden-crafted stag, for the Sunset Prince standing tall despite two thwarted attempts to kill him.
A horseshoe, to salute the home front victory that honored their fallen dead.
She stood to attention, produced the bow, and presented arms to the effigy. There was something familiar about it, ceremonial drill she was sure she knew from somewhere else...
"Victory over the enemy without. Victory over the enemy within. For the reasons we fight today, and for our glorious purpose of tomorrow. Summer, I honor you with my triumphs of the year."
She took a pace back, presented arms once more, then replaced the weapon on her back and returned to the party.
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on Jul 3, 2021 17:13:56 GMT -8
Momentos were fleeting, and thus a simple sacrifice was made if only for appeasement. It didn’t matter much if it was one of the few well deserved trophies of the last year, only that the Wyrd was appeased. Without pomp or circumstance the suspiciously thin offering was made and the Chatelaine retreated back to obscurity.
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Ivory
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Pres 4 (Regal) - SL 1 (Noble) Fairest Hunterheart
Posts: 588 
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Post by Ivory on Jul 3, 2021 18:37:49 GMT -8
The Passing of Spring was always an interesting feeling for the Pale Dragon. It meant the end of Spring's Bargain and the possibility of more problematic troubles, yet for Vegas some semblance of sanctuary remained due to the wards. Ivory, herself, was no stranger to occult, but had done little in the way of inquiry regarding their nature and the Dragon of Spring had no reason to insofar as she was concerned. What she did understand was that the rituals of each coronation were tied to these protections.
As such, Ivory had not come merely out of obligation, but out of duty and traveled first to the effigy meant for Spring courtiers, pausing only to listen to the roiling thunder above and look upon darkened clouds. In her hand was a single rifle cartridge, held loosely in her fingers. To those in the know, the meaning was likely clear. The Victory symbolized within had been the one Ivory achieved over Maria Melnyk's men. A bullet had been fired and death or further maiming all but promised if not for Ivory's weaving of the Wyrd. Thus, did Ivory attain victory not through force of arms or intimidation, but through Deceit. It was a victory all the same.
It was a victory that had wrought an important lesson. Ivory had long sought protection for herself and her family, but the incident proved to her that she was more capable than she had believed.
Riley it seemed was also present at the pools, but, given the public nature of the event, the Pale Dragon simply granted her a small nod and smile, though a certain sad look lay in her gaze. The Fairest felt for the Darkling's circumstances, wrought as they were by the machinations of another in her motley, but Ivory was not in a position to help them. Associating with Afterparty could be detrimental to Ivory's own burgeoning ties with Summer until an apology had been rendered. Until then Ivory was best served by caution.
The Pale Dragon knelt, reaching out and allowing the cartridge to roll quietly from her hand and into the pool. So it was that Ivory returned to the crowd, leaving the Darkling to their reverie. The sacrifice given, Ivory seemed possessive of some peace as she floated through the masses.
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Post by Krakenbox on Jul 3, 2021 23:52:27 GMT -8
The Moth stopped several feet away from the Hazel Tree. Their eyes trace its roots that laced their way through a pool, wrapped in the emerald green of the algae. Their gaze pauses at the dead animals overtaken by brambles and plant life. They take a deep breath before reaching into their purse and kneel before the pool.
What was a victory?
In their hand was a small mirror, cracked and broken. It was a small symbol, a reminder of the desert, of Leviathan. Riley had doubts in their mind about the events of those days. Could they say they helped 'defeat' Levithan? Or had they just set in motion a series of events that led to the death within their community?
Riley looked down at the cracked reflection of their face before shaking the feeling off and dipping it into the pool of the hazel tree. Lastly, they pulled a small silver lipstick case from their purse. It was a bright crimson, mostly worn and used, a part of themself from an early time. It didn't represent any enemy defeated, but personal victories, growth, and challenges they overcame. They were more than just wins; they were "fuck you's" to the fae, moments that Riley proved they could move on, exist, have life no matter what had happened.
Perhaps the wyrd would accept one of these sacrifices. Stepping back from the pool, the Moth dusted off their hand, took a breath before looking out across the field.
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Post by Wayland on Jul 4, 2021 21:36:19 GMT -8
Could her part in policing the Revenant Crisis be called a victory? Perhaps, in a sense. In the sense that she did what she could. She fought and dismantled the spirits’ meat puppets. She kept other Freeholders safe. She tried to keep civilians safe. She didn’t always succeed. She looks down at the keycard in her hand. It belongs to a hospice center, in Summerlin. Where Lucas finally proved he could banish the enemy. Where they saved some, and lost a few. It doesn’t feel like a victory. But The Enemy didn’t win that day. Her second offering, the round Viking-style shield of timber and steel she used to defend herself during the crisis, shows the marks of the damage done to it. The crushed bitemark of a dog’s jaws. The boards that are loose from the slamming of undead bodies. She slots the keycard into the space between one wooden slat and the shield’s steel boss. Then she hefts the shield and sets it down against the pillar. |
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Firebringer
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Elemental Ifrit, Presence 3 (Intimidating)
Posts: 634
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Post by Firebringer on Jul 6, 2021 17:16:45 GMT -8
Fire walks up to the pillar and feels a familiar pull and push, threatening to knock her down. She goes on the defensive for a moment, as if ready to battle, but after a split second, she realizes it is the aura radiating from the pillar. Beautiful, bloody hand reaching up to the sky.
I am not weak.
So many situations have tested her strength. Every one of them meant to bring her down, to crush her spirit. They've all certainly come close, perhaps some closer than others. Victories have been bittersweet. They never do quite feel like true victories, do they?
Fire reaches into her pack and produces three items: a bullet fragment, a clump of desert dirt, and a hairbrush.
The bullet - it may not have been too profoundly related to the Others, but a sign of the Victory of solidarity, protecting a member of the Freehold from being clearly kidnaped, much like the Others have done to so many of us. It's related.
The desert nearly killed her and the rest of her party. She still will not admit it out loud, but she knows the group would have perished in the desert had she not been as skilled a survivalist as she was. The desert tried to kill her and she snatched her life and the life of others back.
Finally there is the brush. There are frizzy bunches of red hair in the bristles - the very last remnants untainted by the Hags of the Hedge. If she were to call anything Victory against the Enemy, it was that situation. She holds the brush close to herself for a moment, a whisper to remind herself why it is a Victory, why she wears her hairless head at public events, because it didn't break her. "It matters not how strait the gate..." A smile.
Hopefully it is enough.
She gives a bit of a reverent nod, whispering under her breath, reminding herself as she lets it all go, "I am not weak."
From there, she rejoins the party back to Riley's side.
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Post by Blaze on Jul 9, 2021 15:22:36 GMT -8
For years now, any notion of victory Blaze had was inextricably tied to bitterness - before, during and even after her Durance she was only allowed to call a day 'good' because some guy couldn't. She only got to get back home, or at least to safety, because someone was robbed of that possibility - watching his life burnt to ash, made to cower in fear or killed by a silent bullet. So it was again this time.
Part of containing the recent sudden outbreak of ghost activity, Blaze was running behind the scenes, doing damage control as the occultists and exorcists took care of the root of the problem. Meanwhile, the Elemental burned away the evidence ordinary humans collected, knowingly or not. Like this kid, barely out of his teens, who fancied himself an occult blogger and a seeker of truth. He was going around with a Kirlian camera, collecting witness statements and getting in the way of hauntings. It took a lot of effort to wrest the physical materials from him, and even more to mess with his dreams and steer him away from it. Was that victory? In a tactical sense, certainly, but it had that bitter aura of loss that accompanied blaze like a loyal dog. She told herself that if it wasn't done, a lot more people would have suffered. That it was for the greater good.
Greater good. Just like old times.
She places a puch of ashes - the burnt notes and photographs she's taken from her victim - at the feet of the stone altar. Blaze squeezes her eyes shut, filtering out the pleading, burning figures - that only made it worse, making her see familiar faces. The offering is made in silence, and within minutes the Torrent is gone, moving among her Lost compatriots.
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Eis
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Posts: 189
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Post by Eis on Jul 10, 2021 13:43:40 GMT -8
Just as her arrival at Litha, her visit to the altar will be quick and private. She'd made sure of it, waiting until no others are around to make her approach. She'd had to give very little thought into honoring this tradition. She already knew where he victories lay. Everyone's story of Durance and escape is different - granted. But of all the stories she's heard from others, there is a very common element.
Loss.
It makes perfect sense, and she faulted no one for it. Having the people and places you cared about most taken from you by an imposter would be difficult for anyone. But, perhaps, that's how complete her victory was. What did she have left when she returned to her previous life? Nothing. A home, yes. But she's since found another. A name? Of course. But she'd found a solution for that as well; 'Ellen Granby' is just a memory, and 'Rebecca Goodman' has her own life. And what of the thing that took her place, after she was taken? What did it inherit? Ellen's ex husband was long gone. Her daughter... deceased. She didn't even have many close friends before.
Her victory over Them had been all but assured upon her arrival to Las Vegas. The wards protect them all, and while she may not be foolish enough to think that makes everything safe, she has yet to truly feel Their presence. So victory, then. Yes? Easy. In her hands, she carries a book. 'The Halloween Tree', by Ray Bradbury. It had been a gift. She'd read it already, of course, but the person who'd gifted it to her had stopped answering her phone. Eis honestly hadn't seen her in a long time, and she feared the worst. Well... serves her right for giving a shit, doesn't it? No matter...
Getting her mind back on track, she places the book on the altar. A gift from a... person she'd grown soft over. Which she never would have met, had she not moved to Las Vegas. Every piece of her new life is a victory over Them, and this is no different. Wordlessly, she turns from the altar and makes her way back to the crowds.
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Post by Rowan on Jul 28, 2021 15:02:04 GMT -8
He gave the Summers a wide berth. Actually, he gave most people lots of space. The biggest reason was the big ass wooden pannel he was carrying in his hands. It was covered with a tarp and looked weathered. Also, he kind of felt like no one liked him.
He walked to the apple tree, looking disgustingly and the insects gnawing at the roots. Rowan had always deeply believed in what Autumn stood for, evidenced by his quickly growing Mantle. He'd done in a year what some couldn't do in five. There was pride to be had in that, but the sight of the alter soured his mood.
He knelt in the black puss, and put down three things.
The first was a small empty glass bottle, its contents long dried up. His first involvement in Freehold affairs at the behest of another Courtier. Rose Water.
A small pouch of dirt that smelled like a swamp. It was all that remained after Rowan had been done cleaning up the Hedge swamp from his clothes. The Hunting Party.
Lastly, the wood plank. He pulled off the tarp to reveal the mouldy grain. He wanted to look away, but he forced his gaze to keep steady. When most talked about the Enemy, they thought of an outside force. Something objectively evil that needed to be stopped for everyone's safety. Not all Enemies were so clear cut.
Rowan stood up from the muck and turned around. There wasn't anything to say. He left behind the words that once meant the world to him, but had betrayed him.
"-WHERE IS SAF-"
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