Open The Harvest Festival

[Poison]

Fall 55, 512 AV

Contrary to what one might believe, the Harvest Festival – the biggest festival of the year, apart from the Morning of the Moths maybe – didn’t have anything to do with agriculture, although the Symenestra maintained a few small fields in the wilderness above Kalinor. Notok was when those Symenestra that had left for the surface in previous seasons to look for surrogates returned. The festival always took place in early fall, before the snow began to fall and made travel even more dangerous than it already was. Every Harvester, no matter where he or she had gone, tried to be home by then and present their surrogates to their families, secretly hoping that they would win a prize with her.

The surrogates, different kinds of humans and Kelvic for the most part, were often smuggled into Kalinor, their faces hidden under cloaks and then locked away so that nobody would be able to see them before the big beauty contest. While they were hidden, they received all kinds of beauty treatments and only ate the best food, and precious silk gowns were made for them. The women dreaded – and in some cases actually welcomed – the day when they would be put on display in front of a few hundred venomous Symenestra.

In the meantime a gigantic feast took place in the gathering hall where the usual furniture had been replaced with rows upon rows of tables and chairs. Everybody, from small children to old people, had been helping with the meals that were served. The cooks had been up since before dawn. There were different kind of soups, sweets, vegetables and of course the ever popular Bruka, a blood based stew. The people of Kalinor had the choice between at least a dozen different beverages.

The Harvesters did of course receive seats in the center of the hall so that everybody could see them. They were the guests of honor. Even those that had only gone on a gleaning rather than bringing back surrogates received special treatment.Their contribution to Kalinor was just as valuable, although they would of course not participate in the contests that took place during the festival.

The Harvesters that had returned to Kalinor this year had faced much greater danger than those that had gone to the surface before, with the terrible djed storm and the events following it, and thus they received even more attention than they normally would. Those that remained behind had done everything they could to make the city beautiful for their return. All the houses had been cleaned and repaired and decorated, and the thick ropes that connected them had been washed.

In the gathering hall itself garlands of silk and precious gems that shimmered in a multitude of different colors decorated the walls. The tapestries that had been made for the Morning of the Moths still hung there as well. For the duration of the festival at least Kalinor was the most beautiful city in Mizahar.

[Nessaisa Protea]

Nessaisa got a rare treat for the day of the Harvest Festival: the day off. She had of course helped with the festival before the day it came about, and had cleaned not only her own house but her Uncle's, but her family knew she had been working hard and needed a break. So they had insisted she just spend the day relaxing and hopefully get to see her little brother again. She arrived early for the festival and watched people coming in over her lunch.

She watched the Harvesters, one by one, as they came in the doors. She sat alone for the most part, away from the center of the hall. At some points her uncle sat with her for a few minutes, or her aunt. Sometimes someone she knew came by to say hello and ask about her brother. More often people came to say hello to her uncle. Nessaisa was quite content with this. She wasn't a big social person, and kept admiring the decorations, leftovers from The Morning of the Moths.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Notok had become an affair of professional instead of social interest. It was the first time Duvalyon would see some of his new patients. For roughly the next year they would be marooned in one another's company and he would learn their eating habits, their physical scars, their favorite swears, and the sharp frailties that made the mosaic of their fears. They would come to hate him, and he would daily remind himself of the blood he was serving while in their company. For now, he was one more pale face in a crowd of Widows. The surrogate's scorn and fear would have no special distinction for him. It would be spread indiscriminately over every gray head in the Clade. He could be comfortably anonymous as he appraised them. While the official judges would look for attractive manifestations of health and fertility, Hellebore would try to discern the hidden thorns and tender petals. If he knew where to apply force and where to creep lightly, his work would be simpler. Duvalyon ate as an afterthought, always fond of bruka. It was better than last year's, but lacked the strong flavor of the stuff in his childhood. The Notok's batch had to appeal to a broader palate. Unlike the rest of the room, the medic had a small section of imported wadj in his hands and a narrow stylus. He tried to be discrete, recognizing himself for the bore he'd become. It was a festival. He was supposed to be enjoying himself, not preparing to dissect living patients.

[Nissabella Rose]

Filled with conflicting emotions, Nissabella shuddered as she entered the Gathering Hall, trailing after her parents and older brother's family, to partake in the festival of Notok. Her face reflected her internal contradiction, her eyes bright as she admired the splendor of the fresh-scrubbed, beautifully decorated hall but her jaw clenched so tightly that her teeth fairly ground together. While part of her gloried in the grandeur and merriment of Notok, the part of her that opposed the Harvest despised the celebrations as pretty trappings covering up the rotten, barbaric practice of surrogacy at their heart. If Nissabella let herself dwell on the subject, she came to despise even herself for enjoying the feasting and revelry at all. As it sometimes did, the thought crossed her mind that life was easier before she joined the Esterians. If she'd never started sympathizing with the surrogates, she could have enjoyed the festival with a full and untroubled heart. Fiercely, Nissabella thrust the thought from her mind. No woman chose the Esterians' path for pleasure, least of all she. She was wholeheartedly grateful that this year her brother Valdys was not among the harvesters being honored. Three years ago, he had gone abroad and obtained a human surrogate for his wife, and now their son toddled between them, a beautiful child even to Nissabella's eyes. Next year, perhaps, Valdys would carry out another harvest. This year at least, though, she would not have to sing his praises aloud while screaming at him in her heart. "Oh! Oh!" cried out Valdys' wife Sennora with a happy gasp, interrupting Nissabella's thoughts. "There's Veladros! My youngest cousin on my father's side, back from his first harvest." Of course, Nissabella reflected, that doesn't mean no one in the family was out harvesting. Following her pointing finger, they all turned and spotted a gangly youth with the same cinereal hair and garnet eyes as she had. Sennora beamed pleasedly and gushed, "We simply must go over! We must say hello and congratulate him. Come along, everyone." Nissabella went rigid at the thought of having to applaud that gawky stranger for managing to kidnap an innocent woman and bring her back to Kalinor to die. Last year, at least, she hadn't had to endure that. She cast frantically in her mind for an excuse and searched the crowd for anyone she recognized who might wave at her and provide her with a way out. She simply could not go over there and pour flattery upon the harvesters' heads. As the rest of her immediate family trooped dutifully toward the center of the hall to greet Sennora's cousin, Nissabella instead dropped back discreetly when she was sure no one was watching her. She let herself become isolated in the crowd and slowly moved away. Now and then, she paused to converse briefly with a friend or neighbor, but mostly she circulated gradually toward the edges of the gathering hall, trying to reconcile her divided heart.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"I saw you perform last winter I believe." The voice directed towards Nissabella was a compliment to the viscosity of Symenos. "In one of the more somber aerial pieces." The voice's owner was on the outskirts of the celebration, unaccompanied but indifferent to the fact. His claret colored eyes lifted briefly from a piece of wadj he was making neat notations on. The page now held the names of the harvesters he could recall and recognize with mention of any previous surrogates they had secured. It was always helpful to see the patterns and parallels. A hunter tended to gravitate towards prey he had practice with. "Rose, yes?" They had likely shared classes at Menes Madras with either each other or their siblings. Due to the constant introduction of new blood and its subtle influence on features, it was difficult to perfectly follow familial traits. One often had to rely on pure memory and context to connect relations. Despite being somewhat prominent in the setting (everyone got sick at some point or another), Duvalyon never expected any but his small circle to remember his name. It wasn't out of pride that he failed to introduce himself, merely distraction. "It was very good, if memory serves. Had to be if I bothered to recall it and you."

[Ivedrin Hesperis]

Super placeholder alert!This isn't finished, but I'm dropping it in here as a placeholder so I don't miss the festival. I'll add the rest in a few hours when I get back from work. Thanks for your forbearance and patience!

“Who? What? Sweet gods!” The morning before the Notok harvest festival, Ivedrin Hesperis found himself abruptly awakened by an undimmed opalgloam to the face. It was, he soon found, clenched between his sister-in-law's fingers. He groaned, wondering blearily – as he stuffed his face under a pillow - just what he had done to warrant such torment. “Get up! Get up!” When accosting him with light failed to roust him, she began to tear away his blankets one by one, until he was left huddling under one thin sheet. “You're coming with me!” “What? Where?” Sitting up, he blinked in surprise, suddenly comprehending that this could be an emergency. “Jasniya, has something happened?” “No,” she replied, red eyes gleaming like coal fires in the opalgloam's light. “We are cooking.” * * * Jasniya offered no further explanation to her brother-in-law as she shoved him into an alcove to dress. Nor did she reveal any details as they stalked along the webbed silk strands that served as roads in Kalinor. Ivedrin could only follow her in silence and hope to Viratas that he'd buttoned his shirt through all the right holes. By the time they reached the kitchens adjacent to the gathering hall, the sun still had not risen on the slopes above Kalinor. Despite this, the place was already swarming with Symenestra; groups of helpers had clustered around various preparation tables, while others hustled between stations, hurriedly stoking hearth fires or retrieving ingredients. Overlapping waves of squabbling and gossip in creeping Symenos rose in cacophony, underpinned by the percussion of clanging pots and knives. Smoke and the savory aroma of nascent bruka bloomed everywhere. In the heart of the room, two matrons from the Orchid web directed the chaos with the grim discipline of field commanders, barking orders and shoving along wayward charges. They waved over Ivedrin and Jasniya when they appeared in the entryway. “Good to see you, Mabdaya!” They greeted Jasniya with fanged smiles that momentarily softened their sternness. “Oh, and Versda Hesperis, too.” Their smiles did not fade as they addressed him, but Ivedrin could see a certain calculation in their expressions – the kind of look a merchant might wear when appraising an unexpected curiosity. “Good morning to you both, Mabdas Orchid,” he replied. A mixture of polite wariness and exhaustion touched his salutation; it was far too early in the morning for this particular turn of conversation. “I have been meaning to talk to you,” one of them began. “I wanted to thank you for tutoring my grandson Davos in his letters. He was so behind, but you should see him now – he's even started his own book! They'll be snapping him up at the Cribellum in no time. We couldn't be more pleased.” “So you really must join our web at the feast tonight,” the other continued, swiftly joining her sister in a flanking maneuver. “Maybe for dessert. The boy will want to tell you all about it! And we have the loveliest niece -” “That's very kind,” Jasniya interrupted, “but that bruka isn't going to cook itself. How can we help?” “Tubers!” Someone cried from a distant table. “Tubers,” the Orchid matrons agreed. Their previous air of command descending, they traded scolding looks at Jasniya and sent the Hesperises on their way. Ivedrin paused only to wave an apology over his shoulder. He could still feel the weight of their stares on his back when he reached an opposing stone counter stacked with unpeeled tubers. “My hero,” he breathed, offering his sister-in-law a grateful smile. Jasniya, however, ignored him, already inspecting their kitchen space. She stood for long moment amid the bowls and pots, tubers and mashers, collecting stillness in a cloak around herself. “How am I going to make it?” she finally whispered. “One step at a time,” he murmured in reassurance, understanding that she did not mean the bruka. “And first things first.” Patting her shoulder, he proceeded to hang two nearby aprons around their necks. Thinking about the day ahead, he did not tell her that he was wondering the same thing himself.

[Poison]

Nessaisa would eventually notice the entrance of Silenva Hyacinth, the daughter of the ruling couple. She came into the Gathering Hall on the arm of a man, a member of the Ochya. The young woman was as beautiful as ever. Diamonds decorated her shimmering black hair that she wore in a complicated updo, and her lips were a deep red. The most noticeable thing was her dress though: It was the dress that Nessaisa had made for her a few seasons prior.

As she saw Nessaisa, she smiled. „Avadon!“ she exclaimed and pulled the man who seemed to be fairly disinterested in anything but Silenva (and especially her cleavage) over to the weaver. „Did I already tell you about Nessaisa Protea? She made my dress. I need to ask her to make another one for me. I don’t have enough to wear.“

Avadon murmurred something incomprehensible. Frustrated because he didn’t share her interest in fashion, Silenva pushed him away. „I knew I shouldn’t have asked you to accompagny me to the festival. You are an idiot, and you bore me, in bed and outside of it. Next time I’ll be with Avarys Anthurium or even that animator. At least he’s creative.“

Avadon glanced at the beautiful woman, sighed, but didn’t say anything. She might seem like any other young woman right now, but she could be quite angry and downright cruel if she wanted to.

Silenva didn’t even look at him anymore, but sat down next to Nessaisa and murmurred, „I wonder what kind of surrogates they’ve brought back this time. I’ve heard that one of the Harvesters went as far as Ahnatep. If I decide not to follow in my mother’s footsteps, the surrogate of my daughters will be an Eypharian. Nothing less will be good enough for them.“

While Silenva and her latest male companion had argued, her parents had already sat down at the head of the table. The ruling couple itself would be present at the feast, a rare occasion and a great honor for the Harvesters.

While Nessaisa was facing Silenva, Duvalyon was in the vicinity of one of his colleagues, Alassa Datura, a doctor who had an unfortunate fascination for dead people. Next to her was her brother, one of the returning Harvesters. „The human I brought back has already given birth“, he just informed her proudly. „To twins, no less. Unfortunately they didn’t survive because they didn’t have a proper doctor, but I have no doubt that her next child will live. I told her that I would make her forget the pain and give her what she wants the most, if she only comes with me …“

Everybody was there. Daratur Violet, the priest of Viratas and his assistant Sarya who had recently received her first mark from Viratas sat at one of the tables. Some of the other guests openly wondered if the two were together. The priest had never been seen in the company of other women.

Vass Vervein of the Ochya had come as well. He was looking rather indifferent as usual. The man had probably never smiled in his life. Next to him was Laudavyn Aconite. Avarys Anthurium, the owner of the Weft and Warp, had come in the company of his cousin (and lover, some rumours claimed), but as he approached his table, he cast a brief glance in the direction of Nissabella and Duvalyon.

Even Selaria Anice who had been Moth Queen before Nissabella, was there. The young woman seemed to have mostly recovered from the assassination attempt, but she was painfully thin, and her skin was grey. Sometimes she had to rely on her mother who was next to her for support. Her brother was one of the returning Harvesters, and she wanted to be there when he presented his surrogate.

Some even claimed to have seen the ghost of Sanairas Larkspur, who had been Kalinor’s most talented mage before she had overgiven and died. When she had still been alive, her biggest wish had been a child of her own. If ghosts could go on a Harvest, she would without a doubt do so.

The majority of the people in the Gathering Hall (apart from Silenva’s rejected boytoy and the occasional Esterian) were in a good mood. This was an occasion to celebrate! Their loved ones had returned safely, there was food to be had, and they couldn’t wait for when the contest would finally begin!

OOCDuvalyon, the surrogates aren’t there yet. They are being prepared while the feast takes place. I will set the scene and give you the opportunity to talk to each other if you want to, and afterwards something will happen (but no assassination attempt this time).

[Nissabella Rose]

Nissabella's sallow cheeks flushed with pleasure and she couldn't help smiling at the charming thought that someone had picked her out among Kalinor's many dancers and remembered her for her talent. The few brief comments proved just enough to nudge her thoughts from gloomy brooding toward girlish curiosity. Which aerial piece does he mean? she wondered involuntarily, unable to restrain a small outpouring of vanity. How can he recall something all the way back in winter? Was it that good? She turned toward her interlocutor with these questions on her lips, only to catch full sight of him as the pale glow of an opalgloam fell on his features. Nissabella froze, her jaw hanging slightly open. She could actually feel the color draining from her cheeks as recognition set in. "Dovna H-Hellebore, isn't it?" she quavered uncomfortably. "I didn't know you were an admirer of aerial dance." In lieu of a first name, all Nissabella knew of him was that he worked at the Place of Purging; now and then she had seen him coming and going from the infirmary in the mornings and evenings. And she remembered going to the Purging herself in the spring with a sprained ankle and encountering this man in a corridor as she limped toward the examination room. She had known him immediately for a medic. So harsh and cold his face had been, like a winter wind, and his eyes were the same color as the bloody rags overflowing his claw-tipped hands. She longed to lash him with sharp words, to pepper him with painful questions and piercing criticisms. If she were braver, she would. He was a medic at the Purging, the one who sliced into the surrogate's body as she lay dying to retrieve the venomous Symenestra infant within her entrails. He deserved every last condemnation and reproach that she could devise. But it seemed he was also something of an aerial dance aficianado, which Nissabella would never have expected from someone like that. And she, coward that she was, had her career to think of. Hating her own spinelessness, Nissabella held herself still and tried to be gracious. "I am of the Rose Web, yes. Nissabella Rose." She folded her hands together, refusing even the slightest contact with a man who served as one of Kalinor's medics. "Thank you for your kind words, Dovna. I'm flattered that you remember me." Her eyes drifted to the scrap of writing material in his hand. "Are you taking notes, Dovna?" she asked, her voice cooling. "Even on the first day of the festival? Do you enjoy your…work so much?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"I am," he said with a smile that seemed more comma than expression. The dancer's looks hinted at a profound surprise. Odd, he never imagined himself being perceived as uncultured among his peers. While Duvalyon could be cruel, he was rarely rude. A few acquaintances passed in the midst of his conversation and he acknowledged them with a subtle nod of his head. Almost everyone in Kalinor was an acquaintance of some sort. The small population and emphasis on community ensured it, making it frustratingly impossible to hide. Rather that than the large glittering cities where it was easy to step over strangers in the road, Duvalyon reasoned. The subtle shift in Nisabella's voice hitched on his ear. Either she found his lack of festive spirit distasteful or his work. Despite being in the heart of Symenestra culture, the latter group could surface. He had attempted to avoid them for most of his adult life, knowing he was a totem of everything they loathed. If she was an Esterian, there would be some pleasure in making her endure his company in a polite manner. If she wasn't, he had the chance to talk to a pretty girl. Duvalyon folded the wadj around the utensil and hid his observations in a convenient fold of his apparel. Nisabella was pretty enough to garner his full attention, and memory told him she was exceptionally lithe. "You have caught me, Endala," he began lightly, as if oblivious to her scorn. "Call my father Dovna, I'm Duvalyon. And yes. I am dedicated to my work. Family trade and all." His father had been the head physician for all his generation's lives. "Thankfully, I enjoy being a medic. I would have been violently pitched out of the Hellebore Web if I made any noises about being a weaver." Duvalyon wasn't lively by any stretch, but his voice had some color and humor once it found itself. "As a child I was dragged to aerial dance by my grandparents. I eventually came to like it and attend whenever able. The Purging has me keep strange bells, so it's not always possible." There was no sign of insincerity in his explanation. "Can you tell me anything about upcoming productions?"

[Nissabella Rose]

"It's too bad you had to be a medic instead," Nissabella blurted out without thinking. Her eyes were still fixed, not upon Duvalyon's face, but on the folds of clothing into which he had tucked away his pen and paper, and her mind had drifted far from their current plane of conversation. It was bad enough that he worked at the Place of Purging at all, but the fact that his devotion ran so deep that he was still working in the midst of the biggest festival of the year made Nissabella shudder. There was something sinister and ghastly about a man who found his work fascinating enough to bring along to a feast, considering how that work involved keeping helpless, captive women alive just long enough to die horribly giving birth to lethal, venomous children forcibly implanted inside them. What could he be writing about, anyway? As she continued staring distractedly in the general direction of Duvalyon's hands, raised voices from another conversation reached her ears. "The human I brought back…" "I have no doubt that her next child will live…" "What she wants most, if she only comes with me…" Nissabella blinked rapidly as the connection formed in her mind. Of course a medic would be taking notes during Notok. He was preparing and studying ahead for the new batch of surrogates! Instinctively, the dancer tried to back away from Duvalyon. There was no way she could remain in the company of someone with such vile designs in mind. Only, as she attempted to flee, she nearly trod on the toes of another Symenestra couple pushing forward toward the center of the hall, and other eager feastgoers closed in around her and Duvalyon with the same goal in mind. With a sinkling feeling, she looked around herself and realized that there was no getting away from the ruby-eyed medic with the pleasant smile. In the back of her mind, Nissabella couldn't help wondering how many dozens of other women had experienced the same unsettling thought when facing Duvalyon Hellebore. Twisting to avoid getting jostled further, Nissabella turned back toward the medic and offered a weak smile. If he had been expecting grace and litheness out of her, he certainly wasn't seeing it thus far. "I do apologize," she faltered. "I seem to be stumbling a lot today, over my feet and my words alike. It must be all the excitement getting to me, making me talk and act so strangely." She mentally reviewed the words she'd blurted out a moment ago and blushed furiously. How could she shrug them off without giving away her private emotions or allegiances? "What I meant to say just now was that it's too bad that your work as a medic keeps you from enjoying aerial dance as much as you'd like. Every year it seems like our audiences are growing smaller. It's somewhat worrying, I admit. When I was a little girl, I fell in love with aerial dance at first sight and couldn't wait to see more performances and productions every season, but it seems like fewer and fewer people feel that way nowadays about our art." His question about productions gave her pause for a moment. "I'm only a chorus dancer, so I'm afraid I'm not privy to Dance Mistress Curare's thoughts. I have no idea about any upcoming performances. For my part, I'm still too worn out from the fall production earlier this season to even think about new recitals or shows." Thinking back to that unforgettable production, starring an escaping Kelvic surrogate and the harvester who fell in love with her, Nissabella couldn't help smiling a little more vividly. "Were you fortunate enough to view that production, Dov- I mean…Duvalyon? I played a small role as one of the surrogates, but of course the true star of the show was Avarys Anthurium." She tilted her head toward the medic, her golden eyes dancing with an inner mirth that possessed the faintest edge of malice. "I'd love to hear your thoughts about his performance, and the production in general. Did you enjoy it?"