event pt 1 | full moon & litha

[moustre]

Event Log: June, A Midsummer Night's Dream

I. IUNERIL 17TH - THE FULL MOONS The days leading up to the full moons are the same as last month: Monsters are a little itchier and a little easier to agitate, whether they mean to be or not, which becomes increasingly noticeable the day before the full moons. But of particular note is that this may be the second full moons that some arrivals have experienced, and with that comes greater risks, greater agitation, and further reminders to take care of themselves. Weather fair, despite the worries of the city, Monsters will find that the Sisters aren't blocked away by clouds this night. The moons cast their light down on the city, and the pull is strong for even the veteran natives that call the city home. The Coven is offering potions and charms, in an attempt to encourage those without a Bond to ensure that they will be able to keep their wits about them throughout the entire stretch of the Sisters' time in the sky at their fullest. They're always allowed to reject the offer, but it's with a warning: if they let their newfound instincts overtake them, then they might find themselves back in the Coven under worse conditions. But the Sisters rise framed in stark red skies, even as evening falls across Aefenglom, much to the discontent of the city. Streets that are rarely dim are lit up even moreso, now, in the face of this omen, lanterns and candles leading all the way to the Harbor District. Their colors flicker with shades of blue, green, violet - anything to offset the red. Boats that come and go along the river also carry a lantern or two with the same intent, and ships in the harbor are decorated with magical faerylights, strung across hulls, masts, the works. There's no place in the Harbor District untouched by light, with nary a sign of red in the midst of their goods. Tensions are already high, between the humans and Monsters of Aefenglom. It's especially noticeable on this night: full moons already cause everyone to be a little jumpy, but with the red tidings for Litha, they're more on edge than ever. Some blame the new arrivals, though never directly to their face, especially when they don't know who, or what, someone might be. It's always a there-and-gone whisper, it seems like. Gossip. Distrust. Unease. It doesn't lend well to the full moons, but there are still those that want to help. Many will notice that there's already activities and decorations up for Litha, some of them still under construction despite the fast approaching festival. The most notable of all are the hedge mazes that have been constructed, both by hand and with magic to encourage their growth. Behind the festival organizers' backs, a group of people - both man and beast - are offering Monsters a chance to burn off some of their energy by embracing their instincts in a more... constructive manner, with native Witches and Monsters alike prepared to intervene if things get a little too violent. In a sort of mockery of Litha's traditions, they're partnering Monsters up with a willing participant to run the mazes, with a variety of options that they will list. The partner - or partners, if there is a party looking to go in together - can be either Witch or Monster, and the people organizing this won't judge as they inform the interested individuals of their options: a. A-HUNTING WE WILL GO, allowing the Monster to either hunt a small livestock or game animal (a piglet, fowls, rabbits, the like) or to hunt down their partner through the maze they've chosen. This need not end violently, and can become more of a game of hide and seek meets tag. b. EVERYBODY WAS FIGHTING, where one maze in particular has been devoted to a makeshift fight ring at the very heart of it. The organizers hope, somewhat, that by making the Monster(s) in question run the maze first they'll be a little tired out already when reaching the ring. c. UNDER THE PALE MOONLIGHT, because instincts don't always call for violence, the organizers offer a more intimate experience here, whether it's sexual or nonsexual. Maybe you just want a good cuddle..? The organizers emphasize the idea of consent, and will not force anyone against their will into the hedge mazes, no matter which one it is. They also want to make sure that they will step in to help if called upon, in case someone gets a little too overeager. Witches looking to use magic this night will, peculiarly, find that their magic is a little less... cooperative. Many of the Coven Witches speak of how they specifically wait to cast powerful spells on the night of the full moons, to ensure that they have the greatest chances of success with the help of the Sisters. However, Witches of the new arrival persuasion are much weaker on full moons. Their magic is still there, and they can still draw upon it for spells, but they'll have to put greater effort if they want to cast a spell with any significant amount of power. Overexerting oneself while doing this is entirely possible, so it's best to try and find some sort of balance, lest you find yourself exhausted and without a means to defend yourself. We ask that any and all NSFW threads be marked accordingly, or otherwise moved to a locked post on the log community or an entry/inbox on a character journal. Remember to please be excellent to each other, and respect all limits that your threadmates might have, if you explore the more sexual or violent aspects of the offered prompts. If things get OOCly out of hand, please let us know; if things get ICly out of hand, please let Nessie and Mhairi know.

II. LITHA - IUNERIL 21ST TO 23RD Despite what chaos there might have been on the night of the full moons, and the subsequent day after as things began to calm, Litha still arrives as scheduled on Iuneril 21st, as the sun begins to set. The summer solstice reaches its peak the following night, and the festivities wind down the third dusk. While certainly still lively, it isn't as completely festive as Boaltinn, most certainly because of the red skies, and the natives are obviously trying to make the best they can of what they perceive as a poor situation. To say that the natives are on edge would certainly be an understatement. Whatever happened in those hedge mazes is untraceable, now, and everything looks pristine. Faerylights decorate every awning, overhang, and eave, magical and twinkling with colors to offset the red skies. There are no bonfires, this go around, but much like the fires it seems that the lights all lead to the primary area of celebration: in contrast to Boaltinn, Litha is celebrated in the Entertainment, Shopping, and Harbor Districts. Doors to businesses are wide open (with many even having large signs indicating VAMPIRES WELCOME HERE - those that don't make a clear statement), and stalls offering wares and foods and activities alike are set up at nearly every corner alongside preestablished businesses in the market. The harbor is especially lively, with many sailors coming and going as they prepare for setting sail. While ships themselves are always coming and going in the port, Litha is an important time for the more longterm voyages and those meant to carry some significance, and each ship departing is bid farewell with equal fanfare. Fireworks and celebration that is, at least in some part, genuine, but does carry a certain level of enthusiasm that borders on force of will. a. ASKING FOR A LITTLE COMPANY Though all businesses in the Entertainment District open their doors for the festivals of Aefenglom, the brothels of the city in particular are offering a warm welcome this Litha to anyone who might be interested in spending some time with someone - or, multiple someones. They have open rooms for mingling, lounges with floor pillows and low tables where customers can partake in spiced and unspiced drinks alike, where the unspiced are lacking in the potions and near-aphrodisiacs of the spiced drinks. Private rooms are also available for those seeking a more... intimate experience, however one may take that to mean. The brothel workers are more than happy to attend to any interested parties, but also aren't against randomly pairing individuals up, based on their specifications. And, after a little misunderstanding regarding their classes, the Head Madame of the guild has decided that they will be offering chances for individuals to perform at their establishments. She was rather charmed by the mishap, bless your souls, as were the rest of the guild, so the new arrivals have endeared themselves to the brothel workers. Dances, conversation, assorted busking - whatever skills that their quest-takers learned, whether it be of the more sexual nature or not, they'll provide whatever they might need to put on a show and attract or entertain clientele. b. I'M WISHING FOR THE ONE I LOVE Anyone interested in making their way into the Shopping District will find just as many open doors, as well as numerous stalls interspersed where they weren't before. Vendors hawking their wares and goods like always call out with Litha specials, and businesses set up temporary stalls to draw attention to themselves, with promise of greater bargains and products to be found at their main establishment. There are many that sell spiced foods and drinks, with varying degrees of strength depending on how one wants to feel. Others are selling candles and lanterns, offering a magitech version of a lighter at a steal, depending on how much you purchase otherwise. The largest stalls, and the biggest displays at storefronts, are the flowers though. Every single flower shop in Aefenglom has come out full force, practically painting the district in a myriad of non-red colors as they put their stock on full display. They offer deals for those who wish to buy bouquets for a sweetheart or someone they admire, as well as anyone wanting to make flower crowns for those they care for. Each of the seven largest shops are also handing out a single flower for those partaking in festivities to place under their pillow to dream of future partners, the flower they're typically most well known for; this varies from shop to shop, but the up and coming Rose Bush certainly isn't going to let superstition stop them, and are handing out red roses. It's a bold move, but one that causes the tizzy that they were intending it to. And if one is feeling particularly whimsical, they can go to any well at night, looking into the depths in a bid to see their future spouse and true love within. Perhaps making an offering of a flower would bring good luck..? Just don't linger for too long, as there's a rumor that someone is pushing unfamiliar faces into the well, likely targeting those they think are new arrivals. c. GET LOST WITH ME Though the Harbor District has some bleedover from the Shopping District in terms of festivities, their streets and warehouses are where the most room is available for the hedge mazes. Some are sprawling as they fill the streets and alleys, spilling into the towering buildings that have been empty to load the contents onto waiting ships. They create their own environments, with flowers from the flower shops blooming in the rows and creating archways at entrances and exits. Some are enchanted to seem neverending, although there always is an exit, if one can only figure out the puzzle. Each maze has a different method to its madness, and arrangements that those running them have decided on. (Some faces may seem familiar, to those that encountered them on the full moons; they'll feign otherwise, focused only on the now and refusing to draw attention to any recognition.) Some mazes send in the partners together, randomly selected and tasked with figuring out how to reach the end of the maze together. Others will send the partners in from different ends, with the instructions to find one another, whether in the center of the maze or in its winding path. Another variety offers something reminiscent of the hide and seek meets tag game, tasking one as the hunter and the other as the hunted, a game of pursuit meant to replicate the "playing hard to get" variety of courtship. There's no restrictions on how many times one can enter the maze, as it allows one to forge many bonds - and possibly Bonds - and replicates the process of finding your true love. Or, loves; no one here is going to judge anyone. They certainly won't judge, either, if participants opt to take a swig of something for luck in love before they go in. However, some mazes have been tampered with: rather than opening out into somewhere safe on the street or in a building, they empty out unaware participants into the port itself. Hopefully you know how to swim. Once again, we ask that if any threads take on a NSFW nature that they be marked as such, or otherwise moved to a locked post in the log community or an entry/inbox in a character journal.

Welcome to the event log, part I! While mingling on the log itself is highly encouraged, feel free to make your own logs; take the prompts offered and go wild, go crazy, go stupid, have fun. As ever, if your character is getting into any Shenanigans, let the mods know, and if you have any questions about the log, ask them here!

Comments

[haillenarte]

What are you — oh...

[his spine is tender, and the pressure hurts, but relief comes easy to his tense muscles, and francel doesn’t mind this kind of attention, not at all. his wings flex, then droop; his shoulders cringe, then sag, as he wills himself to relax. it wouldn’t do to slap aymeric hard in his handsome face with the reflexive flap of a half-formed wing, after all.

he can’t help but grip the seat beneath him, though — knuckles white beneath translucent skin — and his toes curl against the hardwood floor despite himself.]

[civicbooty]

[ He's not quite massaging — he's just pressing experimentally, moving down Francel's back and carefully around his wings, waiting to be stopped. When he gets well past where he presumes the damage must be, somewhere under the surface, straining Francel's inadequate muscles against the new weight of his wings, he has to stoop to reach. His breath stirs Francel's hair, which is obvious enough even to him that he's forced to cover the sudden pause of his hands with an easy question: ]

None thus far?

[haillenarte]

I — I don't quite understand your...

[francel doesn't know how to respond. the truth is that all of aymeric's touches have hurt, to some degree, but strangely, and for reasons francel himself cannot articulate, he has enjoyed it. he has enjoyed being poked and prodded like some sort of plump karakul to be sent to the market.

he doesn't know why. when he tries to justify it, he comes up only with old memories: when he was a boy of seven summers, young and sickly with a cough that persisted through many weeks, his mother commissioned the services of a chirurgeon from the knights hospitalier to examine his lungs, and the man treated him with kindness, ruffled his hair before he left. by the time he had seen thirteen, fourteen summers, no one so much as batted an eye when he fell ill, and if he spent the day abed, coughing and weak in his arms, even the house haillenarte servants would forget to call him down for dinner to eat with everyone else.]

It's nothing like a... like a torn ligament or a sprain, Aymeric. This pain is more elusive. It hurts deep in my bones; it comes and goes. I'm... not certain you can find it in this way.

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric makes a sound low in his throat: acknowledgement and dismissal. Francel gives up too easily.

Deep in my bones, he said.

Aymeric straightens again, lays his hands between Francel's misshapen wings, and summons his better healing spell — he's gone beyond the very first he learned. The witches mentioned that it might be effective to trade their own glyphs and phrases for familiar ones, from home, so he thinks, as he has been lately, of scripture. He doesn't believe the way the Church wants him to; he hasn't for a long time — but he believes in the sentiment, in the grace, Halone's mercy.

His lips move silently over a passage he's read a thousand times. His spell surges through Francel, an aimless, clumsy cascade of magic, hunting for something to fix. ]

[haillenarte]

[this sudden, artless rush of magic might be overwhelming to an ordinary person, or another witch — but to a hungry dragon, it feels like rich ambrosia, coursing through his veins, clarifying his every sensation. it mends nothing because there is nothing to mend, but greedily consumed, it stops the root cause of francel's chronic pain, which is that his body is trying fruitlessly to utilize magic he does not have to continue producing his pinions and plumes.

for now, at least, francel feels fixed. gingerly, he flaps his wings.]

...They do not ache as they did before. I... I feel better.

[a celebratory you did it! is vaguely implied in his voice, but francel lacks the hope to voice such thoughts aloud.]

[civicbooty]

[ He feels it, like an echo — the barest whisper of relief.

The weight and warm pressure of Aymeric's hands vanishes, but he lingers there, on a curious whim, and traces the tip of his finger over one of Francel's horns, following the curve. ]

Can you feel this?

[haillenarte]

[their dinner must be warm by now, but francel is loath to remind aymeric of it — he tells himself it is because he does not wish to give the lord commander any cause for offense when tonight was supposed to be a peaceful night.]

Not... precisely. They are not appendages with sensation, like the wings, but I feel the movement of your finger as a... as a sort of vibration through my head.

[he might have said skull, but it feels suddenly unpleasant to acknowledge the components of his body.]

I believe the Au Ra of the Far East use their horns to hear, but... these seem more like antlers, or perhaps the horns of an ox.

[civicbooty]

The horns of a dragon?

[ The humor in his voice is casual — which gives no indication of what he means by it when he splays his fingers around the base of Francel's spiny horns and presses down in small repetitive circles.

It's nothing, really. The chirurgeons have done the same for him, on a handful of occasions — when several times he slept so little that the light from the windows in the Congregation seemed to pulse and sear, and when he was recovering in the infirmary from that nearly-successful assassination, and took unexpectedly badly to something they'd given him for the pain. ]

[haillenarte]

[at first, francel says nothing, trying to puzzle out what aymeric meant by that — some sort of queer jest? — but then the lord commander's fingers tap against his temple, around the base of his horns. francel blinks. aymeric's gentle touches pulse behind his ear, against the side of his skull. it feels good. it makes francel feel a little drowsy, and too content.

this isn't like him, francel thinks. he has grown accustomed to thinking of aymeric as distant, uncaring, a little cold. the aymeric that exists as a construct in his mind would pull away, remember the oven, take them through their meal, and go to bed. the aymeric he knows cares for nothing save ishgard, his vision of ishgard, and no one else's. he cares for francel, though only out of obligation, out of duty. he needs francel to live because an ishgardian who longs for death in his newfound time of peace would indicate a personal failing.

and yet — the more that francel thinks about it, the more he realizes that this idea of aymeric being cold and distant has never been true. aymeric has always been kind to him, within reason. it was aymeric who first offered their bond, aymeric who held him through the messy business of cutting his wings free from his own body.

why had he been so convinced that he needed to hate aymeric?]

...Did some good fortune visit you today? You seem in high spirits.

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric's fingers pause. ]

Do I?

[ Of course Francel would think so — he's never done this before, unprompted. The sight of Francel going about the mundane business of cooking while wrapped in a bedsheet, no self-consciousness, was strikingly, foolishly pleasant. It was like he'd begun to accept himself; think of himself as normal, even when it was no longer possible to pretend nothing was happening to him.

To explain would probably be patronizing.

Aymeric pulls away, remembering the oven. ]

Not in particular, though I suppose it must be a sort of good fortune to know that these spells I've been learning are of some use.

[haillenarte]

[francel remains seated, allowing aymeric to remove their dinner from the oven — it does not seem like a task for two men, and he has noticed in himself lately a certain aversion to fire. nothing that would stop him from cooking or eating hot foods, certainly, but enough that he would sooner let someone else handle tasks like these.]

...You always manage to be of use, Aymeric. All that you do is in some way practical.

[this could be another of francel’s pointed and critical remarks, if not for the fact that the young lord lowers his eyes and says:]

...Would that I were more like you.

[civicbooty]

[ You are a great help to me, Aymeric nearly says. Instead he sets Francel's dishes back on the table silently.

It isn't true, not really: the bond is a great help. Francel himself is, in theory, of no consequence — he could be replaced by anyone.

Aymeric serves them both while he's standing, Francel first and then himself, lips pursed mildly. ]

I realize, of course, that you mislike going about with your wings as they are — but if you begin to feel more at ease, there are things you might accomplish, if you like. Reading, principally. We should know more of the city's history.

[haillenarte]

[is that all? francel thinks, and then — then the disappointment swallows him.

he did research the history of the city, at least during the brief month he worked for undermael college, and he could say as much, if only it mattered. the problem is that aymeric would suggest this at all. is reading, truly, all he can be trusted with? should he have tried harder? come up with something more substantial than the shallow factoids he walked away with?

and then, on the flip side — wasn't he already doing enough?

but he wasn't, francel realizes suddenly — he wasn't doing enough. the housekeeping, this meal — none of it matters to aymeric, not in the way that progress would matter. this, as a gesture, has been inconsequential. this was foolish. why had he dared to expect anything else?

the warrior of light would do more, francel thinks, bitterly, and then his heart feels brittle in his chest.

he says nothing, though his fingers reach out and touch his fork.]

[civicbooty]

[ He knows Francel well enough by now to read that silence.

He sits down across the table, ignoring his food, gaze sharp on Francel's expression.

It's never occurred to him to wonder if Francel had hoped to be a knight. Now that he thinks on it, of the house of Haillenarte's five children, only Francel has no accomplishments to his name: even Laniaitte de Haillenarte was a knight, for all that Camp Cloudtop was an outpost of the least consequence.

Still: led by a knight or no, Skyfire Locks is vital to the trade route — and even after the peace accord, it remains much more dangerous than Laniaitte's post.

He wonders if Francel knows this. ]

There are other tasks you would prefer, I take it.

[haillenarte]

No, I... I looked into it. When I —

[he tries to keep his mind sharp, his thoughts focused on the conversation, his hands steady, everything normal — but his voice breaks on into it, and he's already lost the battle. he feels as though he is drowning, but he can't pull himself out of the water. his vision swims as he looks over the gratin, as close to dzemael-style as he could get it; the salad, drizzled with a vinaigrette of his own recipe; the boeuf bourguignon that simmered slowly over the stove since mid-afternoon. there is a small platter of meringues still on the counter, he knows — hidden beneath an innocuous pot lid, a surprise dessert. it will all taste like nothing in his mouth.

pointless, he thinks. this was all pointless.

he hasn't changed. he only convinced himself that he did. he remains, as always, the boy only six summers old, the little lord francel who once timidly proffered a plateful of dessert and thought that the only price of friendship.

francel's swifter, this time. he catches his tears before they fall, then rises from the table, his eyes hidden behind his hand.]

...Excuse me.

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric is standing in a split second, blocking his path.

It might be kinder to let him run, in some ways — but he can feel it, the twinge of phantom distress that sits uneasily on the surface of his own calm like an oil. Francel, he knows, won't be able to shrug it off alone.

He steps in, reaching brazenly for Francel's waist. ]

[haillenarte]

N-No —

[francel despairs visibly and audibly; plainly, he does not wish to be seen or cornered, and indeed, in many ways it would be kinder to let him go. but it would also be cruel to allow him to face his demons alone — a battle he is sure to lose — and he tries to pull away even as a sob is threatening to claw its way up his throat.

but the motion is weak, and his pulse beats faster as he finds his waist encircled by aymeric’s arm, quickening with — what? fear, or something else?]

Please, leave me be. Please! Just sit and eat. It was for you. It was...

[civicbooty]

I shall stay if you do.

[ They're standing too close, he knows. This is untenable — all of this. Francel can't separate himself from a need to be comforted; he can't see that it's temporary, something to lean on only when necessary and then step past, letting it go.

He still lays his other hand on the side of Francel's neck. ]

We can speak of all this some other time.

[haillenarte]

...It was for you...

[francel quiets for a time, sobbing silently, his cheeks and nose a splotchy red, stained with tears despite his best efforts to wipe his face clean. perhaps there is something wrong with him, beyond the monster changes. if haurchefant's death drove him mad — but then he is so docile, so normal, when he is not like this.

it was just dinner, he thinks, hopelessly. you couldn't even manage dinner.]

...Let me go.

[his voice is soft and broken, crackling quietly, when he musters the breath to speak again. and yet, he does not move to tear himself away from aymeric's embrace.]

I... I won't do this again. I know I've been a fool — I do nothing right — nothing well — and I don't, I don't want pity anymore —

[civicbooty]

[ He brings his other hand up to mirror the first, holding Francel where he is, looking keenly at him. ]

I'll not sit here alone. [ His voice is gentle, but not enough to invite argument. ] No one here is accusing you of doing nothing well but yourself.

[ For emphasis, perhaps foolishly, he brings one hand up to cup Francel's cheek.

He wouldn't like for their positions to be reversed — being a witch is too expedient to give up — but Francel, he thinks, would have dealt with it much more easily, and he would have done the same, if he'd been the dragon.

He lets go, fingertips sliding along Francel's skin, and turns to the table. He picks up his chair and sets it down next to Francel's rather than across from it, and begins to shuffle the dishes to accommodate the change. ]

[haillenarte]

[francel's heart is all in pieces, glass shards in mismatched shapes and colors; a strange mixture of misery and merriment seizes him. on the one hand, he is terrified, half-convinced that he has to disappear. on the other, aymeric has held him, touched him, and that — that —

why does that make him feel so happy? even haurchefant never touched his face so tenderly...

francel sinks into a chair, cradling his horns in his palms, his head held low. he might not be entirely aware of it, but his wings, still only half-formed, curve around him protectively. he looks as though he is trying to hide in himself. the effect might be more charming if his wings were not so scraggly and skeletal.

his thoughts are jumbled, twisted. he didn't want this. he hadn't wanted things to turn out this way — him crying, aymeric dispassionately patient, as always. he hadn't been arrogant enough to expect anything like love, or praise. but he'd wanted aymeric to be happy, to be pleased to find an elegant ishgardian dinner waiting for him in this house they've been forced to call their home, and — and maybe that was francel's first mistake.

the only thing he can think to say is this, miserably:]

...I made... meringues.

[he laughs mirthlessly; it's punctuated by a hiccup.]

I don't know why. You probably don't even like them.

[civicbooty]

I do like them.

[ He props his chin in his hand, elbow resting on the edge of the table, and makes no attempt to hide his amusement. It's been a month, and Francel has already, from somewhere, learned these mannerisms — gripping his horns, the timid motion of his wings. ]

I like all of this.

[ Ah, he thinks — this is what was missing.

Leaning inches too far over the corner of the table, so pointedly close that Francel will almost have to look up, he lays a warm, faintly callused hand on his arm. ]

Thank you.

[haillenarte]

[indeed, if aymeric were further away, francel would attempt to ignore him — but his face is so close that francel must look up. the young lord's eyes gleam with tears, glossy and glimmering in the flickering candlelight.]

...You needn't lie to me...

[his gaze drops. he seems marginally calmer now, however, with his shoulders stooped and his wings trying to shield his heart from further hurts — only moments earlier, he might well have worked himself into a panicked frenzy.]

You needn't... say these things for my sake. It's all right. All of this was wasted effort. You would have been happier if I'd done something else...

[civicbooty]

Oh?

[ He straightens again, starts to cut into the contents of his plate as if to disprove all of it at once, casting Francel a cajoling smile. ]

Are you the arbiter of my tastes? Shall I call you Your Excellency? Where do I prefer to sleep tonight, Your Excellency?

[ It's a deliberate and careful: the levity in it is calculated; and the intonation falls just enough to make it serious.

It's a gamble, but it's brought Francel out of his moods before. ]

[haillenarte]

[francel scowls, but he colors faintly, too, which is generally a good sign, or at least a sign that he has come out of the bottomless pit of his own self-hatred. he tugs awkwardly at the hem of his sheet-shirt, trying to get it to fall into his lap just right.]

S-Stop that at once! I'm no Excellency!

[but his wings fall back by some ilms, and he looks as though he's come out of hiding in plain sight.]