agentlelog | event: a gentle festival

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event: a gentle festival

we're all just working pieces trying to fit somewhere
We wander 'round in circles and we talk in squares

► The OOC plotting post for this event can be found here.

► Direct all questions to the mods at this link.

► All NPCs except for Queen Fayura can be met at this event. Use their top-levels in the plotting post if you'd like a thread with them for this event. For your convenience, you can reach out here: Allairavar, Verim, Loren, Niall, Grejor, and Raya. They may choose to wander into your threads should you not plan anything out with them, too.

PARTY PLANNING
Dawn arrives and brings with it another group of Strangers. Unlike the first group, you wake to a comfortable bed and cheery birdsong. Unlike the second group, you are expected. As you rise, a vase with spring flowers appears on the table beside your bed. Tucked beneath the vase, you find a message of welcome inviting you to join the Queen and her residence for breakfast.

Following directions given by footmen throughout the residence’s winding halls, you make your way toward breakfast, only to find that breakfast is a beautiful disaster.

Maids and footmen rush around you, choreographed by a red haired witch standing on a chair in the middle of the entry hall. She wears an apron and a look of fierce concentration. Beside her, a list floats in the air. Pinned to her hair, her Tiger Eye Jewel flashes and swirls with power. You suspect you should just sneak out, but she’s too observant.

“You there!”

You freeze. Maybe you had a mother with eyes in the back of her head who always knew where you were. Maybe that was a teacher or some other kind of mentor. Regardless, you know this voice. You know this tone. This is a person harried and pressed, and she probably doesn’t care that you haven’t eaten breakfast yet.

“Yes, you! Stranger!”

You turn toward her and abruptly find your arms full of banners. Closer inspection will reveal each flag sewn to the cord bears a different symbol: one for the Guilds (a hexagon with circles at each joint), the Ebon Council (a pair of Jewels side by side), and Fayura’s Court (a strange, spiraling spear against a mountain peak); a sun and a moon; a cloud flush with rain and lightning; and a sprouting plant.

“Make sure those get hung on the eaves outsi—no, I haven’t seen the Lady, Carlisle, but if you—”

A Blood male has distracted her, but you’re left with the distinct impression that if you don’t hang these banners, the Head Housekeeper will hunt you down (you would be correct). Not to worry: you’re not the only Stranger living in the residence, and it takes you little time to locate someone else with an equally bomb-blasted look on their face to help you help the residence prepare for the spring festival! There are flags to be hung, simple breads to be baked, stalls to be built in the Bazaar, and so much more. Your hands work, and so you work.

HOPE BLOOMS ETERNAL
At sundown, the festival begins in earnest: people take to the streets in every section of the city, pouring into the Old Town Bazaar with rosy cheeks and broad smiles. The spring festival will last for the next six days. Three days to celebrate, and three days to work.

All around the city, banners hang from and between homes and businesses. Some fluttering banners bear flags emblazoned with only the Guilds’ symbol or the Council’s or the Court’s, and there are far more Guild banners than any other—a result of the Strangers’ providing support to the Guilds no doubt. But mixed among them are flags bearing both the Queen’s mountain, too, just not as many, and the only place the Council’s flags hang are over Blood homes.

As you make your way through the Bazaar, you hear…

A young landen man: I’ve heard the Queen is going to honor the Earth Mother and Father Sky during planting in a few days, and—
His companion, an older woman: The Blood honor only death and their Darkness. What does she care for our beliefs?

A Blood farmer: …kind of gift. Don’t quite know what to make of a Queen giving anything.
A landen farmer: Anything to help the crops grow. The Guilds mean well, but the land is overworked.

An excited little girl: —ride the unicorn, mommy! There’s a unicorn and a dragon and a centaur and a—

Near the pavilion at the heart of the Bazaar, the landen Guilds have erected technological wonders. A carousel of glittering bronze and metal lights up the night with rainbow colors. Music spills out of it, cheerful and bright as its three rings turn in lazy revolutions. Unicorns and dragons and centaurs and mermaids stand as mounts for the young and old. Nearby, the Elektriline Guild prepares a light show, projecting fantastical shapes in dazzling colors on the sides of buildings and into the night sky itself. Around the park to the south of the Bazaar, the Transport Guild has set up a racing track for unicycles and tricycles.

Booths with games line the streets. Knock down the glass bottles! Throw the ring around the spoke! Win prizes to dazzle your loved ones and delight your children!

While food has certainly been scarce, the bakeries and charcuteries have brought out their best fare at surprisingly reasonable prices. This is a time to celebrate the end of winter and the beginning of spring, and celebrate the city will.

While the Blood dress in nice clothes, the landens bring out costumes. As is tradition, some dress as Father Sky, wearing crowns of gold and flowing robes of white. Others cloak themselves in the vestments of Mother Earth: wearing costumes of green and brown, painting vines over their faces to disguise themselves and crowning themselves in garlands of crocuses and tulips. Whispers through the Bazaar say the Queen is among them, disguised as Mother Earth.

SOWING THE FUTURE
The fourth morning of the festival, the entire city rises with the dawn. Over the past three days, a strange rumor wound its way through Draega: Fayura will join the planting to give a gift unique to the Queens of the Blood.

Members of the Ebon Council and the Guilds organize groups, directing the bodies of the entire city to go to this farm or that as they step out from behind Draega’s tall, protective walls. But before you are dismissed to help till the land or plant grain seeds, you join a larger crowd at a nearby farm. The Blood airwalk, standing above the landen crowds to gain a better view.

At the head of a recently tilled field, Queen Fayura stands with a landen farmer. He grasps his hat, wringing it fiercely in his hands as her Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort stand guard behind her. Dressed in greens and browns, crowned in a garland of crocuses that drips dried stalks of wheat down her hair, she kneels before a bucket. She calls in a knife. When she speaks, she doesn’t raise her voice, but Craft projects it across the assembled onlookers. “Blood sings to blood. This is a gift: freely offered,” she says. “Freely given.” Bright red blood blooms across her palm as she drags the blade through skin. Vanishing the knife, she closes her fist and squeezes, allowing the blood to fall into the bucket of water and mix with it.

Her Consort heals her wound when she holds out her hand, and then he steps back. She rises, picking up the bucket and taking hold of the ladle on the ground beside it. Her voice lifts in song. Though the language is unrecognizable, the melody is beautiful and full of the vibrant hope of spring. She sings as she walks along the furrows, sprinkling bloodied water on the land. Blood and Strangers alike feel the pull of magic as something in the earth itself unfurls, shuddering awake at the call of the Queen’s blood.

For the next three days, nearly every man, woman, and child in Draega assists with the planting. Children do small, simple tasks, and the older children watch over the younger ones. The adults drag plows through the warming land and spread seeds in the furrows the plows create. Queen Fayura visits each field in turn, and planting doesn’t begin until she’s sprinkled her water over the earth. Throughout the day, her vibrant song echoes around the city, and a few Blood girls, too young to yet wear a Jewel, take up the song and hum along with it.

You would do well to help the farmers. You may not have a strong arm or strong back, but there’s planting to be done and people to organize, feed, and care for.

AIR TIME
Whether you catch the news on a Far-caster in the city or you’re spinning the dial on your own device, you’ll hear…

etiquette with evandra and aren
[Evandra's voice is a little bit rough and a little bit husky, the kind of voice that gives bad ideas to young men and headaches to fathers.] …do we make of a Warlord Prince’s reaction to his Queen’s blood?

[Aren, whose voice is typically chipper and bright, sounds today much more seriously than usual.] It’s a dangerous thing. Elemental, you might say. Like a storm. Every Prince is dangerous when his Lady’s blood spills.

[Evandra:] So, are we in danger when the Queen does whatever ritual she’s doing?

[Aren:] No. The Blood put great importance on, well, blood. It’s the memory’s river. Power sings in blood. It carries strength and Craft. I’ve never seen a Queen do anything like this before, but her Princes—and her court—treat it like ceremony. And it probably is.

the weather
[A soft-spoken man’s voice rumbles out of the Far-caster. He’s pleasant to listen to, with a soothing cadence to his voice.] …continued rains with intermittent sunshine over the next few days as the days grow steadily warmer. Remember that rains coming out of Askavi are dangerous to your health, and salves for lesions from exposure can be purchased from the Medicos at…

the news
[Garret speaks at his brisk pace, hurried and harried as though he has too much to say and not enough time to say it.] A new development in the story of the young landen man who shot and killed Councilwoman Vera last month: the Strangers have influenced the Queen to bring together a Tribunal not of other Queens—

[Wilt, as usual, is put upon and nasally.] As though there are many of those to go around.

[Garret, continuing as though Wilt didn’t interrupt him:] —but of the landen man’s peers, both landen and Blood.

[Wilt, sighing:] That’s correct, Garret. It seems this Tribunal of three landens and three Blood will listen to the young man’s account, as well as the stories of other witnesses, and determine a suitable punishment. This will be presented to the Queen, and she will carry out the sentence.

[Garret:] Looking now to the warming weather and what that means for trade with the mercenary settlements outside of Draega—

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"Are you serious?" Now it's his turn to be utterly taken aback by something she's said. He claps a hand over his heart, and speaks in a thoroughly (though teasingly) scandalized tone. "My gods, woman, Fayura hadn't gotten you out of that place fast enough. Political marriages and no fun ever. We're gonna fix this."

Not that Sansa isn't already fixing it, herself, but now Molly is here to be enthusiastic and A Lot.

Sansa laughs in spite of herself. She thinks she's laughed more in this moon than she has in three years, all told, and it feels like something green and tender has broken through the ice. It's still in need of nurturing, though, and not quite ready to stand on its own.

"Yes, I think we should. Spring is something I've been looking forward to for a while. It seems like cheating to have one so soon but I do intend to enjoy it. Should we try some of the food? They have things I've never seen before."

"Absolutely. The lack of candied apples is a travesty and the meat pies are a bit suspect, I'm not gonna lie, but the pastries. My god, the pastries." He kisses the tips of his fingers, and then loops an arm around hers. "Will your strapping and surly bodyguard mind if I steal you for a bit? I don't wanna get tackled today."

Being thrown into the dirt by an overzealous bodyguard is not his idea of a good time today, no thank you.

Sansa isn't certain that she'd describe Bucky as either strapping or surly; he's quiet, yes, but he's not usually in a bad mood around her. As far as strapping goes, Sansa isn't looking at him that way. She just appreciates his steady presence and quiet strength.

"I don't think he'll mind. Let me tell him I have an escort I trust and we can be on our way."

Sansa does just that and makes her way back to Molly, giving him a grin. "He knows where I'm going so we're free to go and taste all the pastries you want."

Molly's opinions on people are suspect at best, due to his habit of making snap judgments. A quiet person with cold eyes is probably just that, but who really knows? He pales in comparison to Sansa's brightness.

He bounces with a childish sort of glee on the balls of his feet when Sansa returns, and in that moment, the fact that his age is nigh impossible to tell at first glance becomes even more difficult. He's giddy in a way few adults really are.

"Excellent. I've had nothing but that gruel they've served in the Queen's Residence, and I am dying for something with a little more substance. And maybe cinnamon."

"Oh, cinnamon. I had that once," Sansa says, remembering the spiciness of it on her tongue. It was something she'd had in the south when she'd gone to King's Landing but she thinks it would have been better suited to the north and the bitter cold there. She grins at Molly again.

"I want to see if there's something lemon flavored. My favorite food in the whole world is lemoncakes," Sansa explains. "And it's hard to get them as far north as I live."

"You know... I don't think I've ever had a lemoncake. You don't get a lot of citrus in the Empire either- that's a coastal thing, I think." His red-void eyes widen considerably, as if the mere idea of making cakes with lemon is something foreign and exciting to him. "We have our quest, then."

He links his arm in hers and points towards the horizon, needlessly theatrical. That's Molly, for you. "Let's charm these bloody sods into providing us with the best sweets in the whole place."

Sansa laughs a bit, a true laugh, and shakes her head. It's almost impossible not to like Molly, even if his appearance might make one do a double take. His irrepressible joy at simple things rubs off on everyone around him and Sansa thinks it's good for her.

"Yes, lemon cakes. I also owe Bucky a drink for winning me a prize at the games so we should be on the hunt for something he might like."

"Oh I'm thinking something heavily alcoholic with a bit of an oak barrel taste for that one." He's taking a shot in the dark here, having looked at Bucky for all of a minute, but in his defense, he also really wants something of that description, himself. "I could be wrong though. Best to get him a variety, and I will happily drink the remainder that doesn't meet with his approval."

He may be suggesting that the two of them go a gratuitous ale stand sweep, but that's definitely a problem for after the pastries, and brings to mind another problem. "Do you drink? I've got a friend who's more of an 'order milk at a pub' type, so I feel like I ought to be asking before I start getting myself soused."

"I have no idea if Bucky even drinks," Sansa confesses. "He's a very good escort and I do hope we might be friends someday but his preferences for many things are a mystery at this juncture. He's kind to me but...he is reserved. I just want to do him kindnesses because he's protected me."

Sansa hasn't felt in danger while in Draega but that's been in part because she's had Bucky as an escort any time she's gone into the rougher parts of town.

"As to what I drink, I do like wine but we drink ale in the North. It's an acquired taste but I've acquired it. Let's see what we can find, shall we?"

"Oh excellent." He'll solve the problem of what Bucky likes later- all Molly has to hear is that he's reserved and mysterious and his interest is piqued. That's always the sort of person one such as he needs to inflict himself upon.

"That makes this easier." And with that, Molly cups one hand around his mouth and calls out, "Oi! Shout if you think you have the finest pastries on this bloody street."

There's a definite pause as everyone tries to process what just happened but it's broken by a woman's voice down the block yelling 'ME! IT'S ME!' before anyone else can interject. "And we have our winner! Come along, then."

Yes, that is how he gets what he wants- by yelling it. Welcome to a strange new way of doing things, Sansa.

Sansa has to laugh. It's not the way she would have done things at all. She'd have gone from stall to stall, politely buying a sample from each vendor, and would have ended up spending the rest of her marks at the one she liked best. Molly's version is a bit more boisterous but possibly wastes less time.

"Well, I suppose we ought to give her the chance to show us what she has," she says, letting herself be pulled along. "I really regret we don't have tieflings in Westeros if they're all like you."

"Oh they're absolutely not... Well, one of them is. Three if you count my parents, but they are sadly no longer with us." His heart hammers in his chest as he approaches the pastry vendor because he knows the situation Jester is in, and he's just brought her up. Even the scent of cinnamon on some of the hot sticky buns the vendor produces makes him feel like her shadow is right here with him- a void that remains unfilled.

"Jester would love you. She loves everyone and everyone loves her. It's almost frightening the kind of power she has." He pays for a bag of the pastries with just a few more marks over the actual price. There's no lemon cakes, but along with the sticky cinnamon buns, there's some garish looking frosted pastries filled with a sweet cream and muffins. Molly buys three of each as if he were intending to buy extra for Jester since her shade is hovering in the air, but either he and Sansa will split them or carry them home or offer them to other people along their way.

"Well, I cannot claim that everyone loves me. There are many people who do not, I assure you of that."

Perhaps Sansa has no enemies here in Draega but she has more than enough in Westeros to make up for it. She is under no illusions that she is safe within the walls of Winterfell; no castle is impregnable and sometimes the greatest enemy can be the one that sleeps within your own keep.

Still, that is not something she wants to think of today. She bites into one of the cinnamon buns, grinning wide when she realizes how good they taste. This had been a good idea.

"Oh, Molly, they're wonderful!"

"I don't believe it for a second." Molly sticks his chin out stubbornly. "And if I did, I doubt those are people worth knowing, anyway." Snotty, jealous people, probably. Not even worth the time to consider their opinions.

He unwraps the paper on one of the cream-filled pastries and takes a bite. Immediately a look of utter euphoria crosses his face. "That wasn't an idle boast. I think she does have the best pastries on this bloody street. Good for her, not underselling herself. We could have had subpar pastries from a loudmouth."

"Yes, they're the sort that just seem to melt in your mouth, aren't they?" Sansa hasn't had anything fresh and sweet like this in Winterfell since before she went south all those years ago. It reminds her of summer days and sweeter times, of a time when she was just a girl with a heart full of dreams.

"So Jester, she was your friend? Do you hope she'll end up here or do you think she's better off staying at home?"

For Sansa's part, she wants her family here so she can selfishly know they're safe but she knows they're needed in Westeros. Desire cannot outweigh need.

She is most definitely not better off staying home, but that's probably not on him to decide. If Fayura keeps her promise then Jester will be safe. "I think she'd feel like she'd never see her mum again if she ended up here, and I wouldn't wish that on her for anything, but gods I'd love to see what she does to this place. She's... Got a special touch."

He'll take her using Thaumaturgy to blow open all the windows in a pub if only he could see her safe and happy again, but he drowns that thought out with more pastry.

"Well, it is my sincere hope to meet her someday since you speak of her in such high esteem," Sansa says. It's something she means, genuinely. She's enjoyed Molly's company and anyone he speaks so highly of must be someone that brings light and life into the world. While Sansa is hardly going to trust everyone out of hand, it is a little easier here knowing this isn't Westeros and the people she's among are working toward a common goal not divided by complicated Westerosi politics.

And, honestly, it's nice to be at a festival celebrating spring and not worrying over how much leather to put on breastplates or how to feed thousands of people for a winter that might last for a decade. Sansa feels decades older than her nineteen years and she has forgotten what it feels like to just be a girl - at least until tonight.

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event: a gentle festival

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