Harvest Festival

Harvest Festival

Postby Tolleson » Fri Oct 28, 2016 7:56 am

((Everyone is welcome to participate in whatever capacity they’d like until NOVEMBER 13th, wrapping up with an open channel event that evening (if it helps, I plan to be there 4pm MST / 6pm EST / 11pm UTC). In-world none of what is posted here takes effect until that day… I’m taking creative license and making it a new moon. Because spooky.))


Up to this day fliers have increasingly appeared throughout town, posted at all the posting places, boards, and halls, in the taverns and shops. Perhaps one was even slipped under your door as the day drew near. It is an invitation to the annual harvest festival, but more than that an evening to celebrate a good summer, a nearly quiet year, a relatively long period without excessive damage, dragons, or blight.

In the days leading up to the event tailors, shops, and even street vendors see greater profit as excited whispers come to a climax. On the morning of the festival, outside the city wall, tents rise upon the lawn of the Broken Dagger. Barrels of beer are rolled out, tables erected, space is cleared and festooned for dancing and contest. And as the sun passes into the afternoon sky the scent of roasting meats, corn, nuts, and sweet baked treats reaches back to the city to pull residents forth.

Denoting the path that leads to the Dagger, each post in the fence that lines the road is a bundle of flowers, heads of wheat, held with a bow of ribbon in varying color. When the trees clear you can see set upon the lawn two large canopies, several dozen large tables and benches, a slightly raised, wooden platform for dancing, and a field with an armoury rack and targets. By mid-afternoon the children of the laborers are already play, stick swords brandished. The farmers with the largest pumpkins, bakers with their pies, and quilters begin lay out their best work for view.
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Re: Harvest Festival

Postby Niabh » Fri Oct 28, 2016 3:38 pm

Amid the laborers, a lanky lad with pimples and a bare wisp of a moustache trundled out of the Dagger, bearing a tray of yellow and orange cakes filled with pinkish paste, their tops sprinkled with a crust of sugar crystals. He set the tray upon the table, rubbed the side of his itching face upon the shoulder of his drab tunic, and began to transfer them from the wooden platter to a more-festive white one already laid out.

Beside him, a hefty dame thunked down a plate of meat pies with satisfaction, then gave the young man a skeptical gaze. "I hope you washed them hands," she grouched. "Where'd you come from, anyways?"

"Yonder." A sullen jerk of the thumb toward the kitchen door.

The good dame rolled her eyes. "Before that, ninny."

The boy moved aside the last cake, brushed the crumbs from his hands, and glowered at her. "What, you got a warrant out? Me master sent me up from town to help with the festival. I'd just as soon go home if I'm not wanted."

"Don't be pert." She continued to look at him, squinting her narrow green eyes until it was a wonder she could see anything at all. "You just keep your nose clean, jack-me-lad." The gaze dropped to his hands, which he was currently wiping on the sides of his baggy leggings. "And your hands clean, for that matter."

Nudging him aside with a heavy hip, she began rearranging the cakes he had just set out. The young man raised both hands in surrender and stepped back, leaving her to it. Old bat. Now he had another name to juggle: Jack.

On the way back to the kitchens, he paused to straighten a bow on the front stairwell, which had carelessly been knocked crooked, before he slouched back inside. The kernels tumbled out of a stalk of dried wheat, rolling away to be lost amid the grass...only to rise in a little swirling eddy before scattering to the air and zipping away. They lost themselves quickly in the other decorations, clinging to garlands and trimmings, blinking softly in the dimming evening. Fireflies--big ones, bright as candles--illuminated some of the darker corners of the festival grounds.

A few minutes later, Niabh banged out the back door, dressed in her brown serving smock under a long clean apron, a white cloth covering her dark frizzy curls, and staggering under an overladen basket of apples. She only just made it to the long wooden trough. With relief, she tipped the basket into the water. The apples bounced to the bottom, swam, then bobbed to the surface like golden islands.
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Re: Harvest Festival

Postby Treadwell » Sat Oct 29, 2016 3:56 am

This morning, at the Treadwell home:

"I have to go, Dearest! I'm one of the judges for the pie contest!"

"Then you must remember to only have a couple bites of each, Aloisius, and not so much as to keep the other judges from having enough! And step aside. You are at least wearing something sensible. Here."

And now to the present.

In the early afternoon hours, the Treadwell carriage comes rolling lazily to the lawn of the Broken Dagger. After it stops, around comes Treadwell's old butler, Gregory, to open the side door and help his employer out to the grass. To Alice, "something sensible" had proven to be something suitably rustic and casual; the Lord Steward wears his brown boots, coveralls, and overworked suspenders with a long-sleeved, dull orange shirt under the shade of his floppy brown hat. Upon taking a moment to find his footing and settle himself with his cane, Aloisius watches the butler climb back onto the carriage and lead Arnold the horse lazily onward to the stables.

The multitude of scents and splendid aromas hit the portly pie-taster all at once; the belly rummmmbles, lightly quivering in anticipation. "Ahhh, 'tis a holiday given over to giving thanks for a bountiful harvest, hm hm!" Treadwell gives a sly slip of a grin as a thought crosses his mind. Of course Myrken would have a splendid harvest! Praise Tubbius! Thus, onward he toddles, his rolling gait carrying him slowly along the yard. A brief exchange of coin earns him a roasted ear of corn, and with such delight in hand, he settles onto his usual bench on the Dagger's porch, there to sit and watch the setting up of the tables and booths while he enjoys his snack and awaits the judging of delicious pies.
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium
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Re: Harvest Festival

Postby Jirai » Sat Oct 29, 2016 4:44 pm

A festival was a marvelous thing, a chance to show off one's skills and goods. A chance to make money.

Oddly enough, given the person in question, making money was not what she was planning to do tonight.

Oh, it was entirely likely that she'd come home with a purse somewhat heavier than it had been, for if an opportunity should present itself, who was she to sneer and turn aside? And with crowds like this, there would be opportunity in plenty. But she did not set out, this evening, to create such opportunities as she so often did.

Tonight was for fun.

Her skirts were scarlet, and the expensive fabric slipped fluidly beneath fingers as she smoothed the dress out one last time. This was not an outfit designed to hide one's figure, but to display it to advantage. Similarly, golden hair had been left loose to tumble down past her shoulders, save for the few small braids that kept strands clear of her face. All together, it left her looking nothing like her normal self - except for the eyes. The eyes were the same, bright blue and dancing with a rakish glint as she set off for the canopies and stalls and dancing square.

Tonight was, indeed, for fun.
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Re: Harvest Festival (Tennant)

Postby Tolleson » Tue Nov 01, 2016 1:42 pm

Tennant may well have resembled the lanky teenaged laborer at some point, he was certainly lean enough. Though his complexion showed no signs of acne scarring and if there was ever awkwardness it had long since passed. The door the kitchen swung open and closed with an endless parade; timing it just right he danced though without so much as a graze. Over one shoulder he carried a medium-sized barrel and with his free hand he gave a pat to the passing boy. “Chin up, the nights yet begun!”


Once in the yard there is much to see, a good many people already enjoying the fruits of their labors, the afternoon archery contest in it’s final rounds as the light turns golden. As stately carriages pull up the drive, and a flash of scarlet skirts catch his eye, the thought of a fruitful night also passes through his mind; but only due to overzealous tipping from drunk and amicable patrons. Practically the entire town has come with an amicable atmosphere and coin padded pockets. Petty thieving, while certainly lucrative, lacked some panache not to mention seemed personally crass, given his hand in the planning of the event. And as a noticeably over-burdened carriage arrives with Treadwell, it seemed best to be on good behavior. Well, at least keep up appearances.


“Ah, lad,” he turned back to catch the teenager, nearly returned to the kitchen. “Go lead the Lord Steward to view the pies, he ought to be the last judge and can announce the winners when the lamps light.” The slumping shoulders shrug as he nods and turns to go instead to the front porch. “Best cut the slices for him,” he laughed, calling after the boy.


Indeed, the fat fireflies only just began to light the multicolor sky and small candles in jars being set along the path as dusk drew near. There is a sly, grinning glance given as he passed the apple bobbing station. “You didn’t have to carry all those by yourself,” he calls out, not that with only one free hand he was in much of a position to help. He too wore a crisp apron, but by the clean, crisp, and patch-free clothes he wore beneath it looked as if he planned to remove it before the night was out.
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Re: Harvest Festival

Postby Niabh » Tue Nov 01, 2016 2:51 pm

Pausing beside the trough, the little dark girl turned in a half-circle and studied each station in turn. Food, fire, decorations...was there something she'd neglected? There wasn't much she could do about the games. A pretty thing sprang by, dressed in a scarlet skirt Niabh instantly admired so much that she caught only a glimpse of the face above it before the girl was lost to the crowds. Who was that? Did she know her? She turned her head to follow her, only to catch sight of someone she absolutely recognized. Ah gods, Treadwell too. Fingers at her lips, she glanced at the unlit fire. The corner of her mouth pressed in tight, a sly expression. Well. In the First Days, all the fire-rites ended with someone being roasted. If it happened, she'd call it the gods demanding their due and deal with it.

She was so deep in consideration that Tennant slipping up behind her made her jump a little; for once, Niabh had hoped to slither out from under his eye before he noticed her. "I'll take care of the pies," she offered quickly. "You'll get nothing out of that one."

This was nothing more than the truth: Tennant would get nothing out of Jack because Jack had effectively ceased to exist in the time it had taken her to duck around a corner and shift glams. She'd been planning to shift again and take care of orders before Tennant approached. Now all her grand cleverness had left her in a position where she would have to discourse directly with the Lord Steward. Clearly there was such a thing as being so sharp you cut yourself. But, she concluded more cheerfully, this would give her ample opportunity to get her fingers in a few more pies...so to speak.

To put off the interaction for a moment longer, Niabh picked up her empty basket and looked up at the much-taller Tennant. "You've done us all proud, sir," she said. "Everything looks lovely."
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Re: Harvest Festival (Tennant)

Postby Tolleson » Wed Nov 02, 2016 10:33 am

He might not have recalled the boy’s face but seeing a stranger was not unusual given the volume of temporary staff and helpers that had descended upon the Dagger for the event. Appearing none-the-wiser about the shifting teen, he had either let his guard down or chose not to show that he recalled a recent conversation about shifting or glamouring. His personal history with another, similar, such creature would make him weary now that he knew, but not any better able to identify when such a talent was used.

“Of course it does,” he offered in mocking reply; embodying smug, self-satisfaction with a puffed up chest and coy grin. He knew as well as she did, obviously, it had taken nothing short of a small army to make the arrangements, build, decorate, not to mention supply, cook, and distribute the food.

He paused, shifting his weight under the small barrel on his shoulder and looking at her as if assessing the situation, where she was helping... to dump apples of all things. Not that his silence said, I wonder what she’s done to the apples? But it didn’t not suggest it either.

Rather, it is only a raised brow and a measured smile that he offers on that matter. “The help is appreciated, though don’t let our Lord Steward keep you.” Treadwell did have a habit of talking, at length, to anyone who gave him space enough to speak.

“As I recall we’ve a debt to settle on the floor,” his head gestured towards the dance floor where a fiddler played and others of her ensemble began to tune their instruments. At that he turned as if to leave, headed for a small tent far from the tourney fields, well beyond the building and crowds.
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Re: Harvest Festival

Postby Treadwell » Wed Nov 02, 2016 12:55 pm

A roasted ear of corn is a tasty enough snack, overall, though it only serves to start an appetite off properly. A light toss of corncob onto trash heap later, Lord Steward Treadwell is on his feet. In the near distance, a fiddle is starting, and, though he is hardly mobile enough to dance much, he does find enjoyment in the squeaky, enthusiastic music. Thus, with one hand on his cane, one hand on his thigh, and a gurgle in his tummy, Aloisius Horatio Treadwell takes a couple careful, slow steps off the porch, letting ears enjoy a fiddle and nose sniffingly work out the direction to cooling pies, waiting to be eaten--err, judged. Polite and toddling steps take him around the slowly growing crowd; hand moves from thigh to strap of coveralls, thumb playing at a button there (nicely polished and shined just like its twin on the other side of his chest) as he plods toward waiting tables and waiting sweets.

Fingers drum lightly atop the handle of his walking cane. Surely he could, perhaps, sneak just a little of one of these pies before judging begins properly? Beady little eyes squint and study, blinking wetly at the folks around. No, such secrecy would not be possible in this crowd; this is a public space, not his kitchen at home where he is as often as not caught by butler or wife indulging in morsels that were meant to wait a while longer.

And so Treadwell lets slip a whuff of a sigh, merely being content to look, to sniff, but not to touch just yet.
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium
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Re: Harvest Festival

Postby Niabh » Thu Nov 03, 2016 10:49 am

"So we do," she replied to Tennant. "And I would be glad to settle it, but alas, there are guests, and hospitality must come first." Resting the empty basket against her hip, she turned the full force of her dimples upon him, dark eyes sparkling and cheeks glowing with the lamplight, with just enough glam to turn a gormless country boy to butter. She had all confidence that Tennant was made of sterner stuff, but she let the gaze linger. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the pie-contest table and let out a long, put-upon sigh. "You do leave the ladies with the dirty work, don't you?" Her free hand waved at him. "Off with you. I can manage him."

She started away toward the pies, easing around Treadwell's bulky back to put the table between herself and him. The table was laden with a double row of pies that steamed in the chill night air. The heavenly aroma of spices and warm fruit was enough to make even Niabh's mouth water, though early this evening she would have sworn she was too excited to eat. She inhaled deeply, then sighed in pleasure. "Just a moment, please, sir."

She took up a knife by the very end of its wooden handle, her fingers as far away from the blade as she could manage without dropping the damn thing. The knife's point dangled at an awkward angle over an apple-raisin pie already drooling amber syrup through its vents as she measured with her eyes, trying to determine how big a slice was needed for a mere sample. Steeling herself, she took a firmer grip on the handle, sawed out a slim wedge of pie, and levered it out and onto a plate.

"There you are, sir." She set the plate before Treadwell, then picked up a towel and gingerly wiped her blade before drawing the next pie toward her. "You start on that and I'll get the rest ready."

The knife's tip plunged into the center of the second pie, and a gout of thick, dark-red liquid bubbled up from the cut in the crust. Niabh let out a horrified squeal and jerked her upper body back just as the liquid spurted up in a fountain to the level of her eyes. Maroon gobbets splattered the tops of the other pies and the front of her apron, and stains as big as poppies bloomed on on the crisp lawn tablecloth.

Frozen to the spot, eyes round and horrified, she clapped her hands to her mouth until she felt the warm liquid bouncing off the backs of her knuckles. She danced out of range of the spray.
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Re: Harvest Festival

Postby Treadwell » Thu Nov 03, 2016 11:47 am

And, look! Service! Treadwell's baggy face lights up a little as Niabh approaches, taking up a knife and motioning at the two rows of pies. Into a chair much too snug does he worm his ample girth, uncomfortably settling into place while sinking into his natural posture for eating: somewhat reclining, allowing the belly more than its share of room, while pudgy arms do their work of drawing food to mouth. A mug of water, for cleansing after each piece of pie is eaten, gets pulled a little closer.

Then she hands him the first slice, a slim wedge, but gooey with apples and raisins and syrup. The stomach burbles in expectation, and fat little fingers take up fork and knife. This is a man who rarely takes time to savor his meals, instead being a glutton through and through, but, tonight, per the requests of those organizing the festival, Aloisius actually makes sure to not hurry through the sweet, delicious morsels.

Thus, he is only halfway through this first slice when that second pie is cut into, sending forth its crimson burst. Fluffy brows jerk up in surprise--no pie ought do that!--and all he manages to exclaim in the moment ensuing is, "By Tubbius's great gut!" while he uses his hands and utensils to cover the pie he's eating from the red downpour.
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium
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Re: Harvest Festival (Genny)

Postby Tolleson » Fri Nov 04, 2016 11:27 am

A man of sturdy build and a neatly trimmed beard emerged from a modest carriage, dusted off his trousers, and surveyed the scene of the Dagger’s bustling lawn, golden in the light of imminent dusk. With a wide smile he turned back and held out his hand, offered to a woman that would follow. Even as they came from the road and the dust clung to their clothes, they look well-dressed. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, his elbow held as stiff as the ornate brocade vest he wore over an almost as crisp white shirt.

Before the carriage moved away to make room for another, a brown haired boy climbed down from the driver’s seat, taking a box with him and leaving an elderly man at the reigns. This young man is also smartly dressed, though he’s already un-tucked his shirt and has patches of dirt on the knees of his pants.

“Daryl,” the man called back, “hurry to the judges tent, then fetch yourself a sweet and some wine for me and the lady.” He held out several coins that were soon plucked by the young teen as he caught up and jogged ahead, into the crowd.

“You needn’t stay the entire time,” the thin, red-haired woman said, addressing the man at her side as her eyes followed the young man now run off.

“And miss a chance to see you dance,” he laughed with amicable mockery. In reply she offered a small smile and raised brow as if to suggest he was delusional to think she’d even try.

“It looks to be a fine diversion; after our business I fully intend to enjoy myself,” he amended his reason just in case he had struck a nerve. A jolly, but somewhat sly smile, was almost lost beneath his whiskers but the full meaning showed in his eyes as he watched the serving girls and primped party-goers pass.

Ahead, the young Daryl ran to the tent where the pie contest was already underway and began to unpack an immaculate blueberry creation in the spot reserved for Miss Genevieve Tolleson. It is enormous, with narrow strips of flaky crust, meticulously placed; they created an intricate lattice top, perfectly golden brown, still warm, and beautifully contrasted by the rich, purple filling below. It wasn’t until he was sliding the box away that he noticed the spurting pie several entries away, bleeding all over the pie-cutter. While his eyes go wide, the expression is far from horrified. Almost immediately he lets escape an enormous, surprised laugh that continues longer than truly appropriate, physically forcing himself to stifle it with his hands over taut lips.
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Re: Harvest Festival

Postby Jirai » Fri Nov 04, 2016 3:32 pm

It is a trick that the girl has always known - that the right clothes can draw the eye, distract from the face, make one not immediately recognizable. It is a trick that she has used almost every day of her life and today is no different. A chameleon - if only she knew what that was.

The dance floor had been her goal, but less than determined feet slowed, distracted by any number of things. In the end, she is not so far away when the second pie is cut and the startled sounds from onlookers draws the attention of those bright blue eyes. Curious, she drifts closer.
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Re: Harvest Festival

Postby Niabh » Sat Nov 05, 2016 2:57 pm

The gout had fanned out to splatter Treadwell, the backs of Niabh's arms when she raised them to spare her face, and the tops of several neighboring pies, as if the original pie was out to sabotage the competition. Niabh stared down in horror at the spreading mess before she slammed down the knife. "Done. I am done." Her voice trembled as if on the verge of tears.

Sticky hands held away from her torso, the girl swept around the table and stormed off, head down so that her curls curtained her face on either side and concealed her face. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the girl in red...and this time got a good look at the face above the gown. Her eyebrows went up, and for a moment, she very nearly gave herself away by laughing with delight. Perhaps she should have been looking in front of her; in the half-heartbeat of distraction, she very nearly collided with Daryl.

Her dark eyes fixed with annoyance on the laughing young man; for a moment, she looked as if she might smack him for his impertinence. The irritation melted into a slow, crafty smile before one hand lifted slowly to her mouth and her tongue uncurled, catlike, to lick a long red runnel from the back of her wrist. Her nose wrinkled, and she smacked her lips at the unexpected tartness. "Rhubarb." Without warning she thrust the back of her hand at his chin, as if offering it up for a kiss. "Want some?"
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Re: Harvest Festival

Postby Tolleson » Sat Nov 05, 2016 6:26 pm

A flash of the dark eyes is enough to shut him up and turn his cheeks red. But Daryl stood still then, dumbfoundedly holding the empty wooden crate from whence the pie came. He watched the pie-cutter lick herself and near. When her wrist came towards him unexpectedly his face recoiled several inches. After realizing that she wasn’t trying to start a fight, he leaned back and put his face close to her hand. His nose wrinkled as he sniffed the remainder of the Rhubarb goo. Apparently she wasn’t alone in disliking it.

His embarrassed posture showed, shifting the crate to one hand as he nervously slid his free hand under hers, held it near and gave a small peck of a kiss. He avoided planting his lips in the pie filling, instead getting a crimson dab on his cheek. At least he knew proper decorum, to some extent.

“Uh, apologies miss… m’lady…”

After he got the words out though he her her free and snapped his hand back, stepping backward until he accidentally bumped the table that held several contestant’s pies.

Another moment later the well-to-do pair with whom the boy arrived, presumably his parents, slid up quietly beside the pie contest tent. Though the tall redheaded woman, very obviously related to Tennant, didn’t seem quite old enough to be Daryl’s mother.
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Re: Harvest Festival

Postby Treadwell » Sun Nov 06, 2016 8:46 am

"Mmph mmph!" And thus is Treadwell splattered by, apparently, a gout of rhubarb. Recovery takes a moment, a few seconds of putting it all together and coming to his senses. In short order, though, a pudgy finger dips into the stuff and brings it to first nose for the scenting, then tongue for the tasting. Mulling it over comes before a shrugging of the shoulders. Then, to feet and cane he hefts, nodding as he steps away from the table of pies.

Aloisius ambles across grass and into tavern, making for the kitchen whether the staff like it or not; he has splotches of pie filling to clean from cheek and beard and sleeve. Thus is a pot of water sought--and poured if needed!--and a rag found for careful cleaning, as well as he can manage for now. The pies on the table outside must wait a few minutes more before the Lord Steward returns and settles himself again into his chair. He takes up the carving knife with his own plump hand, very carefully slicing into the next of the pies--and ensuring he carves himself a slice large enough for proper tasting.
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