LOCATION: summer solstice, part 2
FOR: @helltownhqstarters (open)
"No, no, no," the word spilled from her lips like a mantra, twenty times, thirty, on repeat. Scarlett could practically hear the voice from her dreams, see Her face coiling in disgust. Trembling fingers wound tightly in her hair, pulling hard enough that pale blonde strays came out by the roots. "This is not what She wants, this is not how it was meant to be!" Her eyes wide and wild as she dropped her hands, watching those around her scatter, throw themselves into the fire, she turned to the person closest to her, gripping their sleeve. "Do you hear me? Listen to me! This is not the plan! She does not want this. She does not want this."
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the festival had been nothing short of odd, filled with questionable party favors, strange music, and even more peculiar company. you've made yourself at home with it, at least. whether it be due to finding some actual semblance of enjoyment, or from just wanting to see it through since you came all the way out here anyways. you keep checking the time, and slowly β it was moving. second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour. before you knew it, the sun was at its highest at 8:16pm. you notice, like shadows slipping through the night, that the masked hosts have circled around the outskirts of the grounds. how many of them were there ??
they formed a barrier, a wall that could not be broken. no one could leave without pushing past them, and with the way their masks were gleaming with scarlet in the evening summer sun . . . any temptation to try were quickly snuffed. everyone's attention was drawn to the bonfire in the center of the festival that has been roaring since the moment everyone arrived, its flames never dying, fuel in the form of wood, sticks, and planks always being added by folks of all walks of life.
you hear the beat of a drum, from one of the masked musicians, a steady and pulse-resembling beat like that of a large beast's heart. it's loud, it's all-consuming, you feel it in your feet through the earth below you all the way up to your skull. there's some hushed whispers, some quiet murmurs. perhaps this will just be a prayer of some sort and then you could all go homeβ the invitation did mention there would be praying.
from behind the tents that had been pitched in the back comes a figure, and she is walking with some odd and peculiar wooden stilts on her hands. like some kind of animal. the mask she adorns is slightly different than those of the festival-hands, a white one with two sets of large antlers stretching to the heavens, and a closer look reveals it has two faces, with what appears to be smeared handprints ornamenting its front.
on these stilts, she circles the fire, beginning to mutter some kind of prayer as she does so. the festival hands echo her words but . . . you do not recognize the language they speak. their prayers grow louder, and louder, and suddenly the figure stops, as does the chanting.
β welcome to the ππππππ ππππππππ, my divinians. . . β
her voice, despite its thunderous volume, is a melodic song carrying on the breeze as it brushes through the forest. no one speaks as she silences them with her presence, still on her stilts, surveying the crowd that has now gone entirely silent.
β by the acceptance of our invitation, of our gifts, of our offerings and hospitality . . . we officially welcome you into our ceremony. a ceremony of honor. of thanks. of the acknowledgement in the change in equinox and the birthing season of our divine. these coming months, the kin of our saviors will walk these grounds among us . . . and we wish to give them a warm welcome by cleansing this land for their arrival, and purging it of its sin. β
you notice now that masked festival-hands were bringing in these . . . sculptures. they look like wicked scarecrows, recreations of familiar figures you see every so often within the town but . . . not quite. there are three of them, with names carved into their faces; SAMSON HERNANDEZ, RICHARD ORTESKY, and MIGUEL SANTOS DE OLIVEIRA.
before you can process what is happening, before you can make out the fine details of the sculptures, they are being tossed in the fire. the prayer amongst the festival hands has resumed, and they seem to be inching closer and closer . . . closing in, entrapping everyone in a tight herd by the fire that now roared louder as it devoured the sculptures it had been given.
β the divine demands to be fed, it demands sacrifice. . . for all we ask of it, it only requests that we keep these woods and this earth it walks upon clean. . . β
some of the festival-hands words begin to topple over themselves, growing more passionate, some of them swaying with the heartbeat of the drum and the melodic coo of their prayers.
β the divine will save us all . . . and bring back the seven who were stolen from us . . . but for the divine to save us, we must feed it. we must fuel it. we must lay down the holiest of carpets for it to walk upon.β
and then . . . the chanting changed. suddenly, atop the foreign prayer, came the names of the missing bowling alley employees, the name of laurie deana, the name of kayla mcneil . . . prayers and chants mixing until it was too hard to decipher the muttering as anything more than a swell of noise as it crescendoed. as it rocked the trees, pulsed through the dirt, soared like the rising flames of the fire.
and finally, with a final cry for her savior ;
β for YOU, the divine . . . for YOU, the most holy . . . in the name of the divinity of cervus, i give my life to you. i give my sins and my anguish and my blood . . . i give you my life so you may restore breath to those in which it was stolen from !! β
and like she were a goddess of flame herself, the woman walked into the fire, the flames catching the fabric of her robes and igniting the wood of her stilts, enwrapping the antlers and the mask on her face, swallowing her whole as her screams of agony sounded off like a war cry. the crowd around you erupts in panic, and none of the handlers try to stop you from running as they drop to their knees around the fire, throw their necklaces & flower crowns into the raging inferno, or launch themselves into the swell of flames themselves.
all you can hear is the sound of prayer, the sound of sacrifice, the outcry of panic, and that steady beat of the drum as sun β finally β begins to sink back down to the western horizon.
tis not a summer festival without some grand and over the top sacrifice, now is it ??
all you have to do for part two is react . . . it can be an immediate reaction, it can be during the event, it can be days later . . . how is your muse responding to witnessing such a thing ?? did they step forward and offer the gift they had been giving to the flames ?? do they run screaming ??
there is obviously no timelimit on this event: take as long as you wish to wrap up your event threads. the solstice is now over ... but the butterfly has flapped its wings, and helltown, ohio is in for some very cruel awakenings.
LOCATION: summer solstice part 2
FOR: @helltownhqstarters (open)
He had hoped that in all of his stalling and indecisiveness he had missed the prayer, using work as an excuse to show up halfway through the bonfire. He should have known better, he should have listened to his gut and gone home to tuck Hope in, but Uriah figured there was no harm in an hour or two of socializing with old friends. He could not have been more wrong.
Standing with his hands pressed to his temples, wishing he could drown out the sound, trying not to look, Uriah wondered if this was done by the church, if this is what they had stooped to after he had left town and if so, with a sickening feeling he also had to wonder β was his brother among those writing in agony? "What the fuck," he whispered more to himself than anyone around him, turning only to search for the quickest exit, "what the fuck?"
