Ever-bright Flame: 54 PA

Around the time of the Winter Solstice, the Aeran Kin take the Long Night to remember the friends and lovers they left behind in Larandor. Every light in the city is doused save the Ever Burning Flame atop the lighthouse. The Wavespeaker and priests then light a single torch from it and carry it back to the waiting crowds below. From that torch, a bonfire is lit.

The Aeran Kin then make sacrificial offerings to the flame- sometimes items, sometimes words written on paper with remembrances. Prayers are offered for those left behind and a hope Aereth can guide them to safety. The Aeran then light a lantern from the bonfire and bring the light back to their homes to rekindle their hearthflames.

With Winter in full swing, Aereth's High Priest Tykalos Alcaldia has seen fit to hold the festival once again, in the year of 54 PA. Those seeking to assist in preparations and hosting are encouraged to reach out to him in person or by messenger.

Date

Dec. 27, 2019, 9:30 a.m.

Hosted By

Tykalos Vindal

Participants

Lucie Nalaea

Organizations

Aeran Priesthood of Aereth Alcaldia Marindur Nerea Reymar

Location

The Whispering Tides - Lorawin - Lorawin Harbor - Lighthouse

Largesse Level

Grand

Log


Jetsam the eelhound, A bat named Wayne, a puddle named Bloop leave, following Nalaea.

Over the course of the night, the lights of Lorawin had winked out, one by one, till finally the harbor was cast in darkness. The only light to be seen came from the great fire atop the lighthouse and the softer glow of the stars overhead, left to guide errant and seaward souls home to port. Now, as the sun rises over the horizon, setting sky and sea to a brilliant and crimson red, the elves of Aeran have gathered before and within the lighthouse. Food and drink have been provisioned, a bonfire stacked and yet unlit -- Cold seeps in on this dreary winter morning.

Jetsam the eelhound, A bat named Wayne, a puddle named Bloop arrive, following Nalaea.

For once, as the Aeran arrive to the celebration, Tykalos isn't smiling, or even smirking. He's not frowning, either, to be fair: Expression as placid as those red-tinged waves as he scans the list in his hands, standing near the lighthouse flame, likely a step or two away from Vindal, at least, if not any other of Aereth's priesthood who may have arrived early.

As elves gather around the unlit bonfire, up at the top of the lighthouse, near the Ever-Burning Flame, the Wave Whisperer stands looking into the fire seeming to be lost in his thoughts, or perhaps prayers. Until finally, he looks toward Tykalos and the other priests gathered around the flames. "It is time," he says, sounding just a little _too_ serious. He reaches into the barrel full of torches and pulls several out, passing them to each of the priests gathered, and then putting his into the flame and offering it to them to light theirs from.

Where others might be dressed for the occasion, Lucy is dressed for warmth. Her figure is bundled up heavily in a leather coat lined with fur and fuzzy mittens on her hands. It doesn't help that her long mane is wet into a dark oil slick of color from a recent, if freezing swim. She closes upon the edges of the bonfire, rocking onto the balls of her feet as she shivers. Shoulders drag up to stuff her chin further into her collar. She gives her head a light shake to the side to let her locks tumble freely towards the warmth of the fire as if to dry herself out before looking over to the voice that lifts.

As she had to return from Thelos and some time in the Ambassador's Hall, Nalaea is just a few minutes behind the others of the priesthood. She's wearing her robes, at least, as opposed to her usual leather gear. Just don't mind the fact that it's a bit wrinkled and likely put on in a rush. She joins Tykalos and her cousin by the fire, brushing the fabric smooth before accepting one of the torches.

The scroll is rolled up, hidden away in Tykalos' robes so that he can accept the torch from Vindal. Nalaea's arrival is greeted with a grin and a wink, however fleeting. He says nothing, however: The Wave Whisperer is given an encouraging nod, and then Tykalos simply waits and watches from his position among the priesthood. His part, here, is kept to one of somber silence.

Lucie's mitten clad hands remain stuffed in her pockets though a bit of fluff from the wrists sticks out. Her form seems to shimmy as rubs her knuckles together through layers of fabric. She watches the priesthood move, eyes the torches as they are lit and finally begins to relax as the fireside begins to warm one side of her. She turns upon the ball of one foot to swivel and switch her toasted side for the chilled.

Triton the Eelhound have been dismissed.

Vindal finishes passing out torches, offering his cousin a warm smile, and the High Priest a somber nod. Then he turns to lead them all down the many steps to the base of the lighthouse and around the bonfire that's been prepared, spaced out evenly to light it efficiently. But before the torches are set to the kindling, he turns to all those gathered. "Aerans, we gather here today to remember those we have lost and those who were left behind." He holds his torch up high, and his voice rises up, loud as if calling out to somebody quite distant. "Lady Aereth! As you, in your love for us, showed us the way to this land of wonder, please guide those elves we have loved and lost through the troubled waters they now face and back to the wheel." Then he looks to the others, nods, and lowers his torch to the edge of the bonfire, setting it alight.

Perhaps Lucy has only been imagining it was lit in her head. She is an odd bird that turns herself about in from of the stacks of wood. As someone gives her a look she mouths 'wha?' before promptly perking up as the real fire is about to start!

The bonfire had been built from driftwood, stained with salt and darkened by the sea. The torch need only brush the side of it, and it erupts into flame. At once, the cold of the winter morn is chased from the area, a warm glow suffusing the surroundings. Black smoke lazily spirals to the heavens, circled by a flock of gulls. Borrowing from its fuel, it smells of the salt and sea.

There's a smile flashed back at Tykalos and a nod for Vindal as Nalaea finds her place with the others. She balances her torch carefully once it's lit from Vindal's and ultimately follows him down to the bonfire. She waits in silence as Aereth is entreated and takes a marginal step back from the rush of flames. She does give a bit of a shudder as the sudden heat chases away the cold. And then, it's a few steps to the side to make room for those that would come light the torches for their homes.

Tykalos is barefoot. The lighthouse is cold. A shiver runs through him as Vindal sets off down the steps, again when that prayer is spoken, and a third time as the bonfire is lit. Once the Wave Whisperer has said his piece, the High Priest steps forward to stand at his side. He does not light his own torch yet, but he does favor the gathering with a lop-sided and affable grin. "As the flames of our Hearth are lit once more, we ask you now to provide an offering to the flames that our Lady of the Waves may know our gratitude for her guidance. That she may be reminded of those loved ones we have lost, please speak their name and recall some fond memory as you light a torch to bring home."

(OOC)The scene set/room mood is now set to: No expenses have been spared in providing food and drink for the Aeran sailors in attendance. Salted fish and kelp-wrapped somethings, sourced from Tasty Petithir's Fish Stand, are on offer alongside the perennial favorite of seafolk everywhere: Ale and what might be rum. That, provided by the Silent Siren Inn.

A great bonfire burns merrily, just outside the lighthouse.

Vindal takes a few steps back from the flames, offering a nod and a smile toward Tykalos' words as he steps back from the bonfire to watch the others' remember their loved ones and light their torches. It falls to him to watch the flames as they burn down.

Lucie reaches a hand up to drag a few damp strands from her face though it's a torrid affair with fingers bound in wool. As the priesthood descends and their torches are set she steps back from her antsy little dance looking somewhat guilty. Her shoulder drag further up to hide her cheeks until only her eyes peep over the high collar flipped up from her coat. Dark eyes train upon the High Priest himself as the man speaks. She digs her other hand around in her pocket, drawing out a folded and somewhat crumpled paper.

When the time comes she steps forward, extending it out to the flames before letting go for it to drift down and curdle in fire. "For Klaus, who was larger than as growing up and used to get stuck in port holes chasing me out of snooping around ship cabins. Which was always an amusing sight to see how red his face would get. Not certain what happened to him after the ships set sail for this land and I pray to Aereth that he might yet find a way to these shores."

From within her robes, Nalaea surfaces with something. It's the same thing she's used every year since they reached these shores. A length of rigging rope that has been unbound and reknotted intricately. Without the gloves she often wears, the intricate tattoos going from the backs of her hands and up her forearms partway is visible. She hesitates only briefly by the bonfire; giving people a chance to make their offerings before she steps up with her own. She's quiet for a time -- saying her piece in silence -- before tossing the rope in and stepping back once more.

Tykalos remains silent, head bowed in prayer as Lucie and the others make their offerings and remember the lost. As he, too, is waiting until after the others have approached the flames, his own offering does not come until some time after Nalaea's. The scroll from earlier is retrieved from within his robes, and gently fed to the flames. "For those who may have no one left to speak for them," he recites. "That they, too, might find their way back to kinder shores." As the parchment blackens and curls, those close enough may see that it bears a list of names: Ships which have not been seen in 54 years, since the Third Migration. With his blanket statement done, he turns to Vindal.

Vindal reaches into his robes and pulls out a rolled up piece of parchment. "My mother Nerida was an elf who I can only aspire to emulate," he says, loudly, so that all might hear him. "She didn't make it to the ships, and I've felt her absence acutely ever since. May Aereth guide her soul through the troubled waters of the old world to the wheel, so that she may be reborn amongst us in this, the home of the gods." He tosses the parchment on the flames, a flare of light marking its consumption, and then steps back to watch as others make their sacrifices and carry torches home.

Watching as the Aerans filter out, back to home and hearth, Tykalos sidles up next to Vindal, hands clasped behind his back and offering a broad smile to anyone who passes them by. "Would you like a drink, Wave Whisperer?" he asks. "You're going to be here a while."


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