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Lilian Rook     It's a day too late to be celebrating Halloween. Lilian Rook insists that this is the correct date, because Halloween is a bastard Romanization of a perfectly good celebration that was itself bastardized by consumerist modernity. She has, in fact, been prepared to persistently argue about this, and then insist that someone see for themselves, if they've managed to interrupt her in the process of actually inviting them.

    It is vaguely suggested to wear a 'guise'. Specifically, not a 'costume'. Something one wouldn't be immediately recognized in, but not dressing up 'as something else'. It is also, however, tacitly optional, because the plausibility of much of anything making trouble in particular for anyone invited is slim to none. Likewise, it's suggested people ditch the devil of addictive distracting electronic devices, for the sake of 'tradition' and 'getting the full experience', and also 'don't be that loser texting in a corner at a party'.

    Following the correct sequence of gate-to-gate coordinates drops one into the unmistakable 'literally breathing in magic' atmosphere of the colloquially termed 'Phantom Circle', beyond the strict bounds of the physical Earth, in this case to a nexus of 'artisinal' circles built around a confluence of countryside roads that appear to be utterly ancient, white and green from bleaching sun and verdant growth.

    Under a blanket of stars of the sort that can only be seen without a single artificial light, your directions are to follow a seemingly arbitrary assortment of minor landmarks along one of those roads, taking turns and measuring steps at blank signs, mossy cairns, mysterious pools and overgrown trees eating the path, bearing no signage and making no conciliations to the conveniences of GPS. And yet doing so makes it a remarkably short trip, wooded tracts between moonlit hills and small, glistening lakes disappearing in minutes, sometimes as soon as where you'd come from disappears around the bend.

    The destination is unmistakable, and a party it seems to be, of a certain nature, that being the most classical kind. Thickly green and black woods scatter and give way to fields of vivid red, violet, blue, and nearly black flowers, and those to a shallow creek that spirals around the base of a tall hill, in an unnatural triple bend, requiring crossing the same stream three times, likely by way of stone bridges covered under arches of intertwined trees. Tall, standing stones were erected along the boundary at some point, like a very wide and scattered sort of Stonehenge, before it all fell over, and an enormous bonfire rages at the top of the hill, painting the whole hillside bright gold, the grass only taking on the silver of the surreally large and low-hanging moon again at its base. You can hear music from a ways off, carrying well from afar, played loudly on woodwinds and drums, with the sound of fiddle-approximate strings mixed in.
Lilian Rook     Compared to a previous party some were invited to, the difference is night and day, both literally and metaphorically. The number of people gathered is about the same, but there isn't a suit or cocktail dress to be seen. The culture and ethnicity of the gathering is extremely homogeneous., but the cast is of all ages. Not one of them exists in proximity to a wine glass or appetizer of any variety. You'd be hard pressed to even find a watch tucked in a pocket, never mind worn on a wrist.

    The predominant form of dress is largely based on age and sex, universally of relatively simple make, if fine tailoring, based in blacks for adults and whites for youth, bright colours given to sashes and hems, collars and gloves, and adorned with fur linings, leather fastenings, bronze buttons, and occasional dried flowers and odd iron jewelry. A slight majority of the people present have worn partial masks of many varieties, or taken up semi-translucent veils or deep hoods, some merely having streaked faces with ash, while others have put on extremely involved headgear involving antlers and floral wreaths. It isn't immediately clear why a narrow minority haven't, but it doesn't seem terribly important at the moment.

    What's more notable is that, if you aren't the only outsiders here; if you were to guess less conservatively, you might not even be the only Multiversals, given a trio of young men, an old woman, and a pair of girls not quite fitting in despite attempting the same manner of dress, hanging around the areas it's easier to mingle while doing nothing.
Lilian Rook     Given that it's already in full swing, there are a number of significant features. A raised crag provides an elevated position for a troupe of masked musicians to do their thing. There doesn't appear to be any gaps to delineate one song from the other; they all blend into each other without ceasing, almost unnoticeable until a strong new melody hits. Several heavy tables have been lugged all the way up here to provide an extensive banquet spread of apparently self-serve food, constantly being replaced by small, rotating teams of cooks, stripping down the carcasses of freshly slaughtered animals over smaller, stone fires, which are used for grilling and stewing all kinds of vegetables you're only mostly familiar with, and occasionally decanting sealed ceramics of drinks and chilled sweets. It's constantly disappearing as fast as it's set out, mostly due to hungry teens.

    The bonfire itself is tremendous in size and heat, surrounded with meters of white sand to keep it from igniting grass by mere proximity. An enormous apple tree of some absurd age manages to hang over it at such a height that none of its blossoms catch fire, though every apple on it is purest white. A sister hazel tree faces its opposite, creating a ceiling of gold-painted leaves over the sand. A number of people, primarily youths, are going around it placing marked stones in circles, collecting bonfire ash as part of the process. A small group of black-clad adults have taken up piecing out the skeletons of butchered animals, carving writing on the bones, and winding together thickly bound torches of herbs and fans of crows feathers.

    Further outside the clearing, a number of young women in masks are taking excess portions of food, small precious stones, bottles of who-knows-what, and pocket-sized handicrafts, tying braids of flowers over small shrines to which they are piled, some marked by wooden, horned or antlered effigies, and others being stone crosses upon which candles are lit. Predominantly, though not exclusively, men are engaged in starting games on a third side, apart from the music and the food, some appearing to involve carved dice and hand-painted cards by unknown rules for the elders, while the younger ones upon them are setting up pitches for the noble parts of throwing heavy objects, wrestling each other, jumping over things, and obnoxiously obstacle-strewn races up and down the hillside. Whatever the parts involving apples and ropes and lit torches play, it's probably something stupid and liable to burn your face.

    The fourth side is dedicated to two things in particular. Beyond a screen of heavily gnarled flowering vines, a council of elders appears to have been drawn around a solid stone table, equally overgrown, discussing something around a number of candles and occult objects. Closer to the bonfire, men and women of 'prime' ages are gathering up around a bared stone circle covered in layers of engravings and ancient green and red stains, surrounded by smaller standing stones, around each of which are piled heaps of old shields and flags, each pile bearing a different emblem. Two of the stacks look as if nobody has touched them in years, climbing flowers having started to grow over them. Not one of them is wearing a guise of any sort, and all of them are wearing a similar pendant.
Lilian Rook     There's nobody to recognize from the previous party, for those who'd been there. There are plenty of 'generically Hollywood attractive but probably secretly very old' individuals, but also just plain 'actually old people', as well as 'actually just children'. The outsider young men are with the rest in the games area, the old woman hovering over the elders with all the pagan handicrafts, and the twin girls currently appear to be bothering around the musicians asking when dancing starts. Lilian is identifiable at the circle of shields being set up, generally being with people roughly her age or somewhat older. For the couple who might recognize them, her sister appears to be with another young lady harvesting the grand trees, and her brother with the stones nearby.

    For those as sensitive as to notice, the bottom of the hill is also rife with inexplicable lights, movements, and sounds neither bestial nor human. Glimpses of glittering eyes and half-shadowed faces can occasionally be seen in the trees, or between dark crags, but seldom linger in one place for long. They won't approach any closer then a widely spaced ring of planted weapons around the midpoint of the hill, largely swords and spears. Some of them are old and overgrown, but most appear to be newly placed. Night Mist numbers amongst them, facing the bridges, which is an excruciatingly rare occasion Lilian doesn't have it on her.
Gawain Picking a 'guise' was difficult for Gawain, but he did it. Over a casual shirt and jeans is a nice black robe, hood, and the most expensive Party City eye mask possible that he clearly bought last minute. The knight is still very obviously Gawain because of that doofy smile and the fact he's going to introduce himself as Gawain if asked.

The masked knight straightens his hood and robe, moves over to make sure that Lilian is fine with him separating to go party with people, and then immediately Gets Into Gear. Knights party. This is their /jam/. Meet random people! Mingle! Play games! Eat weird stuff!

The games getting set up attract Gawain's attention immediately, as he heads over to the men STARTING GAMES. There's something endearing about the fact that they're playing with torches and therefore going to hurt themselves, because it reminds him of the games they used to play in Camelot.

Looking for the most approachable of the younger OUTSIDER men, Gawain steps up. "Hello there! Any of these games still open? Have you heard yet if they're in tribute to the holiday, or just for fun?" He seems, honestly, like a kinda clueless but still puppy-dog-eager young man himself, trying to bond with the outsiders so that they can all have a fun night together, hopefully.
Tamamo     Wearing a 'guise,' something she does not usually wear, but 'not as something else,' Tamamo has followed these instructions exactly. Some notably different articles include: loose cloth in a close approximation of pants; belt-like bands of thick gold worked with a simple design, from which hang tiny, braided ropes; hoop earrings connected by further braided strands; and a many-pointed symbol of, clearly, a sun. It's bright, in white, gold, and accents of pale green.

    In short, Tamamo no Mae has arrived in the guise of Amaterasu, though this specific outfit may not be recognizably familiar to local traditions. With her most distinctive (and inhuman) features still apparent, this disguise is as nominal as any change of wardrobe could be.

    The magic-rich air is, to her, something like oxygen-rich would be to another. It's a pleasant atmosphere in which to relax, one not sparing to her, but generous in the energy it imparts to her step. She need take no particular measures to ensure good health while spending a day or night in this place, as much as it can be too harmful to some, whether slowly or quickly. It's enough to remind her of certain, much older lands, as well as some never trod by even the distant ancestors of any present.

    With her arrival, there are a number of things that catch her attention, but her first thought of joining to peer at the vine-grown pile, strengthened by the sight of Lilian there, is set to the side as she instead heads toward the trees. To the apple tree, in particular, she takes a walk, a little less stately and more spritely than she'd moved in her large robes at the formal party. And to Lilian's sister, recognizable, but only for the one school occasion, Tamamo gradually turns, curving the path her feet take. Perhaps she'll observe a little longer, before asking as to the fruit.
Doctor Strange      The Sorcerer Supreme is here, but dressed as he is, he doesn't seem himself. He seems to wear the guise of a man trying hard to hang onto his youth. His greyed temples are dyed over with intentionally cheap product, his attire a flashy but ill-fitting three piece suit in steel gray, with an equally flashy (borderline tacky) orange tie in a very loud pattern. He's without his cell phone, evidently agreeing with the sentiment, though anyone with a sense for such things will detect the power of a discreet artifact.

     Arbitrary directions are highly, highly familiar to him, and it is with minimal grumbling that he completes the necessary rituals to arrive at the party. On his way through the stone arches, there is zero grumbling. This is because, of all the places to have a party for this particular occasion, 'reminescent of Stonehenge' is a very good look. He's even managed to go from his usual frown to a more interested one.

     The sound of music would inevitably draw him, were it not for the raging bonfire. The party itself is really, really easy to find, once you're in the neighborhood. He approaches it on foot, and heads immediately for the BANQUET SPREAD upon catching the scent. What's this kind of party without good food, after all?

     He helps himself to some vegetable stew, cradling a bowl and waiting to see who else shows up. Food helps with small talk.
Strawberry Princess      In her magical girl persona, Strawberry Princess is a surprisingly intimidating pastel superhero, blending traditional Golden Age aesthetics with a frilly mahou flair. In her mundane mien, she looks like your depressed neighbor walking to the mailbox at 7 AM. This occasion demands that she stretch herself to find a third option, and she doesn't quite succeed.

     A strip of black fabric is wound around her eyes several times like a blindfold, hiding both them and- mostly- the awful scar that runs from her cheekbone deep into her scalp. (Somehow it doesn't seem to impair her vision any.) Slung over her back is a long, thin mahogany box, like an instrument case for an undiscovered species of woodwind. Hidden inside, of course, is her wand- its timer gutters between 00:00 and 00:01 like a dying candle, the intense magical atmosphere managing to infuse it with a dull glimmer of life even with its reactor cold.

     Someone at the Project must've tried to dress her and failed halfway through, because she's wearing a decent white button-up shirt and dark slacks for once in her life, but not any kind of jacket to complete it. The sleeves are rolled up to her elbows so as not to irritate the sunburned-pink skin of her lower arms, and she's still wearing comfortably broken-in sneakers rather than anything appropriate. The full effect is sufficiently out-of-character to render her startlingly opaque to recognition, but there are still enough clues in her alarming stretched-height and that signature awkward demeanor: her back slouched under an invisible weight, the corners of her mouth drawn into a shape that could be precursor to a chagrined smile or a grimace equally, her hair slightly frizzy from an overzealous coarse brushing.

     "Soup," she says to Strange, wading out of the shadows to approach him. She's got some pulled meats held between a bun she cut into halves herself- even in a place as grand as this, she's managed to contrive a prosaic sandwich. "You're at soup, is where you are."
Doctor Strange      Strange puts his hands behind his back, tilting his head confusedly at Strawberry Princess, bewildered by what appears to be a soccer mom from the late 2000s, but stretched really tall and blindfolded for some reason. It isn't until he notices the distinct posture and that concerningly ambiguous smile-cringe of hers that he realizes who it is.

     "I'm right here," says an Illusory Strange behind her, eyes glowing like coals. He's gone into thin air a moment later, leaving only Soup Strange.

     Slurp. "That's incredible," he says, nodding at her sandwich. "Did you make that here? Did they let you?"
Arthur Lowell >Arthur: Don guise.

    Arthur begrudgingly de-equips his many, many trappings of modernity. His phone. His Nintendo DS. Even his sunglasses -- they don't make for much of a "guise", after all. Instead, he sticks to his God Hood in its more traditional format. A God Hood most frequently will interact, in some way, with what the essence of the Class is. For the Mage, it is obscuring the mouth; the hood is bunched up so thoroughly around his lower face that it makes a sort of complete wrap up past the bridge of the nose, and it's all a little more obscured by the hood that only just lets his eyes peek out. That messy mane of hair peeks out only a little. The black and white might be a bit of a faux pas, and yet...

    Well, its meaning isn't *wrong*.

>Arthur: Never stop being a gamer

    Well, he wasn't planning on it, but still, thanks. He's here for some dice and some cards more than he's here for any wrestling or sports. Of course, his participation is going to be light; he's got ears on, and he's going to be focused on picking up how the party is flowing over time. But each person he knows, which is literally every outsider here, receives that patented coolkid handshake (though, of course, Strawberry Princess gets a lighter version designed to not irritate the sunburns). It's a round he makes through, it seems, literally all the Party Quadrants.
Lilian Rook     The three recognize Gawain as one of their own quickly, though none of them are very visually identifiable either. Because he is Gawain, he draws nothing but smiles on approach, and they each take turns shaking his hand.

    A European-looking man whose baggy, fluffy sleeve slips to reveal strongman arms grips his forearm and introduces himself as "Klaus of Catarina!" then gives him a slap on the back. A slightly thinner man with facial shadow gives him a brisk shake with heavy leather gloves, introducing himself as "Chris Dalton, Protectorate relations.". The third has more of a 'snow tan' and solid build and a bright red jade bracelet around his wrist when he clasps Gawain's hand, bowing forward slightly. "Anneke Song. Of nowhere in particular!" Gawain can sense he's giving him a wink under his mask for some reason or another.

    "Of course they're still open!" says Klaus. "Can't you see they've only just begun?" Chris says "Unless you'd prefer to arm wrestle. You might as well be playing Russian Roulette here though. Chances are you're not going to find a closely even match." Anneke points to an otherwise invisible division in the area. "Well, you can see some of these for the ordinary folk, but I believe the more 'enthusiastic' ones are out for a little more." He points out what appears to be a really old-fashioned caber toss involving entire chunks of tree, and an otherwise suicidal obstacle course down sliver-sized crevasse steps, on the other side of a sandy pit that seems to be the recipient of several wooden swords being brought out.

    There is indeed already some arm wrestling and light contests of strength going on. Someone has brought out an old pulley and brass bell equivalent of a goddamn carnival hammer tester, but otherwise, it's all very athletically oriented, including standing pillar and rope courses, shotputs, and long jumps designed to get parents yelling at someone.
Lilian Rook     Before Lilian has a chance to see what Tamamo is wearing, the fox women ends up hovering around her taller, red-headed relative.

    Up close, she can feel the magic inherent to that tree so strongly that she could bask in it. It, and its sister, seem to breathe the ambient mysticism in and out, circulating a more characterful flow of energy. If one were compelled to compare and contrast, the ambient magic in the more 'developed', 'public' settings would be a 'tasteless' equivalent to the way that the senses soak it in with the flavour of green and growing things here.

    Katrina notices her before it comes time to ask, handing off a full wicker basket to an eight year old girl, and spotting her as stands back up again. "Hey! It's you!" she says, managing to communicate absolutely nothing with her choice of words, yet seeming inexplicably excited. She practically bounces up to Tamamo, reaching out to take her hands. "I mean, obviously I knew she'd call you along, but all the same! You know me, I know you, but it's funny how we've never spoken, right? I swear I hear about you more than I ever see you around! How *are* things~?"
Strawberry Princess      Strawberry startles ramrod-straight at the illusory Strange, but- weirdly- doesn't turn her head to look at it. When it dissipates, she relaxes back to her unhealthy slouch and gives a hoarse little friction-brake of a laugh to spin down her anxiety. "Yeah," she finally says, with the trademark hoarseness that makes her perpetually sound like she's just cleaned up from a good cry. "Yeah, it's- I brought a knife, and so I just cut this bun in half, you know. ... Don't tell anybody, okay?"

     These chefs are genuine artisans. They might legitimately flip their shit if they find out she's got her grubby little hands on an illicit pulled-pork sandwich. "You, uh. You want me to fix you one?" She asks like she's the drug dealer your high school teachers warned you about.
Lilian Rook     Despite the insistence on tradition, Strange and Strawberry both find that the food is extremely good. There's nothing especially magical about it (albeit, there are some entirely unfamiliar flavours), but it's been deceptively prepared by people who have been doing this as a hobby for more than a century. It's all the mildly obsessive care of a deep south pit barbeque veteran, multiplied a few times over, condensed into everything there is to eat. Even the process of picking up some simple fruit to eat finds it all very carefully infused and glazed.

    A gaggle of school-aged kids seem to think Strange's outfit sufficiently humorous to ask him about it. One of the women who actually *looks* old enough to be Strawberry's mother, unmasked so as to see the faint lines in her face, blue eyes, and grey streaks, nosily butts in to fuss over her hands, asking her if she's "Burnt them over the fire" and, if so, to warn her "Don't believe anything those boys tell you. I'll have a word with them later.", followed by "I'll patch it up right away. You just sit still." before hurrying off again.
Gawain The Knight of the Sun is quite happy to see such smiling faces, even if his mind might blank on where some are from, due to lack of knowledge or way too much time out in the Multiverse, not that he reveals it. They know who he is, but..."Sir Gawain, Knight of the Sun. It's a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen."

Gawain glances at the events Anneke points to. "Why, that obstacle course looks exciting!" It would probably be very fun for him, and very deadly for someone mundane.

But instead of going out to the games, Gawain decides to hang out with the three men, for right now. "So, are you all going to partake, or just watching? I'm rusty on my All Saints etiquette! I celebrate /Halloween/, by eating way too much chocolate, you see."
Tamamo     Tamamo is now well-familiar with the tradition of shaking hands, if only to the extent of knowing what it looks like. Her handshake has a delicate feel to it, roughly a third of the way away from 'business' and toward 'the princess's hand, held by her knight.' The tactile sensation of such isn't outwardly visible.

    "It is I," she agrees, "as you are yourself." Avoiding the use of names in a place where many wear masks doesn't seem too strange, if only for some tradition's sake, though in truth, Tamamo's just reflecting the greeting, in her own style.

    "I understand your own business takes you far afield, while the house remains her lone self's residence. Ah, and yet, I suppose there are other spirits within the place, so this is not quite the case. I may know those ancestors and great-uncles more so than the living family." She's not quite calling it 'passing strange' but that's present as a current in the tone.

    "Happily, at last, we do meet. Of many 'things' I might speak that are, and most all of them pleasant, even those that serve as challenges. But for this moment," she breathes in, slowly, enjoying the 'taste' of the magic here, "these trees caught my interest. The specific traditions here being outside my memory, might you sate my curiosity?"
Lilian Rook     Arthur is allowed to tables by men whom are impossible to pin as 'old enough to be that laid back' or as 'professional sharks wearing half a cult mask'. Certainly the latter would aid with a poker face situation, though there's nothing to play that's quite so pedestrian. He's asked if he wants to play 'friendly' or 'gentleman's'.

    The former involves being dealt hands and dice pools and being instructed on the honestly kind of complicated rules of games that are predominantly much more strategy than luck, and involve a lot of gambling. The latter involves the same except magic is openly involved to collectively influence open dice rolls, turn blind draws into skill tests, and create and resolve tiny elemental interactions. In these cases, fine magical control is also a considerable factor.

    The party appears to be going at a social clip that he could call 'uproarious' if any part of it were chaotic. These are people who have known each other for a long time; he can already tell. Many of them are extended families. Most of them appear to be some kind of 'familial allies'. He can pick out the 'old people' discussing Shakespeare in terms of actual performances he directed, and reminiscing about civil wars involving the 'New Model Army'. Unlike the previous party he went to, he hears no discussion of business or politics whatsoever. The socializing is very personal in nature, when it isn't children yelling at each other, or young adults making dares or telling jokes. A lot of it is 'very Unchristian' folk-myth-cycle terminology that's Greek to a bonafide gamer. He picks up a few names of the houses present. 'Scarlet Cross Unseen' is one he knows, but it goes alongside 'Azure Veil Unspoken', 'Violet Branch Ungiven' and 'Sable Sun Unknown'.
Doctor Strange      Strange stares at Strawberry, unflinching as she offers to ply her nefarious trade. "Yeah," he says. Pulled pork sandwiches are good.

     The Sorcerer Supreme turns to the sound of an unfamiliar voice. All manner of supernatural beings has he dealt with, some older than recorded time, some perhaps older still. His own frequent traveling through time and all its permutations has left him uncertain of his own age, infact, but he is very much capable of immature humor.

     What is his costume? "Oh, my guise? I'm an asshole having a midlife crisis." He nods sagely. With a hint of pride, "I thought it was pretty good, too."

     He finishes his stew somewhat quickly, concerned about letting such good food get cold. Thus, if there's going to be a pulled pork sandwich, now both hands are free.
Lilian Rook     Katrina doesn't seem so liable to shake Tamamo's hand as a greeting so much as both of them at once as an anciliary expression of excitement. The bright green eyes look more 'characteristic' on her face than Lilian's, of a very pure local lineage, and thus better at affecting the half of a smile that takes place above the lips.

    "Ahh, it was like that when I was her age too. Though I suppose Bryce was around more back then. Besides, the Family isn't bad company! It's something easy to take for granted, that you all know the same folks, when all the household are just a few years apart." Her grin turns knowing. "I'm surprised someone like you could get those old fogeys so pleased with you~ Ah, don't mind the piano though, or the books, or the back garden. Those lot never say a word."

    She turns to look up at the tree boughs as they are mentioned, and stops to emphatically breathe in and out herself. "You've a good sense for it then. These old beautiful things are right off Mag Findargat, on the far side of Tir na nOg. Apple for eternal life, hazel for divine wisdom. That's how the association has always been. Of course, I'm sure you've seen some smaller shoots in the Atrium. Those are mine! These ones came back from, let's see . . ." she begins counting 'greats' several times. "-granfather, on mother's side. Want one~?"
Lilian Rook     "It does, doesn't it?" is Gawain's nodding, agreeable reply. Klaus pumps his fist, saying "Absolutely right I am! What would a proper knight be without his contests in times of peace? A bloody sellsword at best! A baron at worst! Bah!" Chris shrugs and wobbles a flattened hand. "Truth be told, the culture's a little out of my sphere, but it's pleasant enough." He takes a sip of a cup of something bittersweet-smelling. "Oh, you mean Space Halloween." It's *really really* not clear if he's joking.

    Anneke says "Be careful with that though! I did the research; apparently that's a celebration endorsed by an immigrant religion. They coexisted and blended around eventually, but these groups here -- this Ring of Solstice brotherhood -- are rooted in that transitory period where neither culture was really dominant. That's what my literature gave me the impression of." He glances towards the foot of the hill. "Well, less our fellow partygoers than the winter gods to be offended by the 'Pope', right?"

    There are now boys starting on the obstacle course, rather irresponsibly doing so shirtless and shoeless, covered in as much dirt as they are ceremonial bonfire ash. Gawain can easily tell apart which are those who work indoors and which are those who don't, in the exponential difference of general strength and agility. Klaus begins running off towards a bunch of middle-aged men tightening their belts to begin hurling half-of-a-tree as far as they can and slam frothy beers together.
Arthur Lowell >Arthur: You don't play shit on easy mode, my dude

    And so he doesn't. Arthur keeps his focus, his cool, and his cards as best he can. Eyes are almost perpetually subtly gleaming as he does all he can to influence dice through gravity and reflex, or rearrange decks by altering the geometry of the space through which they shuffle. He's playing to show a complex sort of respect, the respect afforded to one who you refuse to go easy on, though he's not going as far as Sweating The Lobby, as they say.

>Arthur: Why'd she ditch Night Mist?

    It's a good way of keeping his head sharp for what he's doing. That ring of planted weapons is something he's trying to understand more about. What's all that? And why would Lilian of all people be giving up *Night Mist* for it? He wants to trace its contours and systems to examine what it means, to understand more of those shadowed faces and those gleaming eyes.

>Arthur: Get the essence of the matter

    "Cool ENERGY 'bout all this, and I ain't even talkin' that GOOD GOOD MAGIC ON THE AIR, yo. What's the ROOT on this CELEBRATION, got that ATMOSPHERE?" He asks nobody in particular among the men he competes with, just as idle conversation-making. "I ain't got that PITCH besides ARGUIN' FOR AN HOUR about HALLOWEEN with LILIAN ROOK. This that ANCIENT CULTURAL stuff?" If nobody stops him, he's probably going to make a joke about very, very ancient cultures that haven't had jokes like that made about them since people were graffiti-carving shit in roman bathhouses -- such is his capacity to find any Gamer Word.
Strawberry Princess      Though her lips twist into a bona fide grimace at the older woman's inspecting touch, Strawberry's complex blend of emotions at being "fussed over" contains at least a note of gratitude. Her pinked skin doesn't blanch white under pressure like it ought. "Not the bonfire exactly, it's- I just forgot to wear..." And then she's gone, and Strawbs is left rubbing her wrist gingerly and staring after. "... sunscreen." The grimace tightens a little further. Maybe they'll have something to make it less sensitive, at least?

     She wanders off for a moment or two as Strange is hassled, coming back furtively with a wrinkled brown paper bag and pocketing a crumbs-smeared utility knife. She passes the lunch bag to Strange 'on the DL', making this look much, much more suspicious than it really is.

     "I brought a cool costume too," she says wistfully, leaning back against the food-table awkwardly and breathing in the savory stew-fumes. "The Project folks wouldn't let me wear it, though. ... I was really proud."
Gawain As the group of men start to split up, Gawain places his fist in his hand and heads to the obstacle course. Those boys look like they're having fun!

The knight kicks off his shoes, takes down his hood, and opens up the robes, revealing his shirt. Not full shirtlessness, but, it's disposable.

He feels like a child again, doing something like this. Hopefully, it amuses whatever spirits are watching, too.
Tamamo     Having both hands taken, itself, get a curious look from Tamamo. See, this is the kind of thing that earns Westerners that touchy-feely rep. Someday she'll have to visit the continent and find if people really do use kisses as greetings.

    "They are pleasant enough that I may understand her fondness for the whole house," she agrees on that 'not bad company,' but adding, "though the late hours of their activity are rarely that of my own. Opposing affinities, you understand." She smiles slightly at that, and more so at 'old fogeys,' though she doesn't say more on her own sociability.

    "My, if you are offering... but I could not put you to any trouble." Given the interest shown in her eyes, that's definitely a refusal purely out of politeness. "Did you travel there, yourself, as well, or was it a planting brought here or elsewhere, that then became yours?"

    There isn't a great deal to indicate how much more invested she is in the next topic, heard through her usual, part-formal, part-archaic dialect. "I can scarcely guess what might have been said of myself, though more so, I remain curious of you, as she has told me some, but little. And yet, it did not quite seem as if she were keeping secrets. Perhaps she merely did not know what to say? Of this, too, might you indulge me? I may, of course, confirm such rumor as you have heard, in turn."
Doctor Strange      Why not make it look even more suspicious? Strange drops the bag. It disappears as if swallowed into some manner of hole. "Thanks."

     Once he's done, his scarred hands go into his pockets. He angles his head inquisitively at Strawberry. "Yeah?" His brow furrows. "You know it's 'guise' and not... 'costume.' Right? It's so that spirits don't follow you home and..." He gestures vaguely. "...rearrange all your furniture," comes the dryly uttered second half. Serious about the first part, probably not about the second.

     It's not like he's not curious, though. "What was it?" After all, it's not like costumes aren't just as effective as obscuring your identity.
Lilian Rook     Arthur is recognized as a True Gamer. His powers are very well suited to manipulating draws and rolls, which is two thirds of what he needs to do, and he ends up with a very competitive stake. Doing so is the fastest way of making friends he's encountered in this world. For whatever reason, the guys he's playing with take this as all they need to chillax with him in the group. It might just be the occasion, but something about the group here just *feels* different than the high society from before; though by strict definition these people all have to be some form of high society, right?

    "That'd be the oft-invoked 'air of authenticity' you're breathing." is certainly one answer he gets. Others include "Our ancestor's ancestors have been keeping these customs alive since before the birth of Christ. Even when the Romans didn't care for it." "Not much use in caring for the turning of the seasons when men live in big cities, nor are they ever like to cross paths with the Aos Si, but in certain places, that never stopped being a rule." "Well, that's how it is. Abandoning tradition for convenience made them soft and all." "Of course some of it's still just games and so. Nobody really believes that you can predict your future wife by any of these quaint means. But the old ways of divinations and cleansings and blessings and the spirits; they're still kept alive in there as well."

    "Sense of community you don't get anymore, aside. We're fortunate four houses of the Ring still exist. Neither the Ulster nor the Pendragons weren't so lucky after all." "Forgetting to talk about the dance and the cleasa are we?" "The practical point is that even if the old gods don't walk amongst us anymore, and spirits aren't much our concern, that doesn't mean there's any sense in stopping does it?" "Picking up the cross doesn't mean you cast off everything before it. God doesn't live on his own." "This'd be the third since the last, so of course the ollams are busy reviewing the laws." comes the last one, as a gentleman points towards the secluded gathering.

    His group intensely appreciates jokes at the expense of, specifically, Rome. Like, genuinely antiquated hot takes on things mentioned in clay tablets.

    As far as Arthur can tell, the circle of weapons is a very plain circle, albeit placed at unerringly perfect compass points. He can largely expect that the others belong to other warriors in the houses. The four cardinals appear to be some kind of place of honour, and geomentic significance. Night Mist is at the east, but the only reading he can get that is even roughly equivalent to that sword though is a solid bone spear, inlaid with iron, on the opposite, western side of the hill. The north and south are old, and haven't been removed from the earth in a long time.

    The entire effect has some sort of effect as a boundary, demarcating the area inside as land exclusively belonging to . . . humans, probably. But it isn't strong enough to keep out a serious, concerted effort. Part of it has to be display, communicating to whatever is lurking out there: this gathering still contains enough knights to kick your ass, so fuck about at your own peril.
Lilian Rook     Gawain is entirely at home with other Fit Chads of his nature. Of course, all of them are *alive*, but he's welcomed in with sufficient hooting and slapping. The course is rough and jagged, requiring not just balance enough to avoid falling, but precise hand and foot placement not to slit him up, or cause knife-edged rocks to crumble away. Some of the mass is pure plant matter, requiring careful sensory appraisal of what is solid ground and what isn't, and what might support his weight regardless. Generations of young men doing the same thing have worn most of the likely holds smooth.

    Two of his friends go through first, one with agile leaps and vaults propelled on little bursts of fire, the other ostensibly powered sheerly by brave yelling, and alarmingly dicey sprinting jumps and action rolls. Chris shrugs and goes after him, though Gawain can be fairly sure there's some 'enhancements' going on under the cloak with the way he managed a couple of strange mid-air adjustments and lengthy wall-runs.

    Gawain is, after his run, asked in turn by two different groups: one predominantly made up of excessively sweet girls asking him how well he can dance, and the rest asking him just *how* good he is with a sword.
Lilian Rook     Fussy old ladies don't listen to sad objecting teens. This is a rule. Strawberry is left alone for not nearly long enough, before the same woman does just come right back, rather than getting distracted in gossip. The tangible aura of 'focus' around her befits a surgeon in practice rather than a middle-aged woman at a social occasion.

    She has with her a genuine, verifiable mortar and pestle, already well-used, and insists on sitting Strawberry down to start smothering her hands and wrists in an uncomfortably jelly-like pale green paste, then tightly wrapping silky soft bandages around them, with such dexterity as for the wrappings to make no difference to Strawberry's range of finger motions. It is, actually, strangely very effective. Outside of being intensely soothing, however, it does have the unfortunate effect of being itchy half an hour later, due to the fact that all of the fried skin has peeled off on its own, and replaced by at least *ostensibly* healthy, if still slightly pink and sensitive, tissue.

    It's sort of a given a few of Those would be here.
Strawberry Princess      Strawberry laughs a little sheepishly at Strange's rhetorical question, rubbing at her elbow and casting her gaze diagonally down. "I do know! I do know. I mean- I know now, for sure. They had to... explain it, a little bit, but I know. But don't worry." She straightens up a little and gives him a Serious Look. "Ghosts... can't follow me home. I don't- have a guest bed."

     He asks to see her costume. She gives him a sly look, like she's never wanted anything more in her entire life. A weird white folded thing gets pulled out of her pocket. She lifts it up above her head and drops it, where it drifts down over her perfectly.


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     "Boo."
Gawain Gawain faces the course with jovial cheer, but also remarkable determination and skill to not cut up his feet and hands. The only thing he holds back on is in his speed, and only so others can watch instead of him blitzing it as fast as possible. Making leaps, brief wall-runs, extending his senses for precision landings, and at the end of the run, a thumbs-up to his watchers.

And then there's two groups coming at him. Those who want to see him dance, which he admits to being poor at. "I only know old Orkney folk dances, and can cheaply imitate a ballroom." The way he says it is dashing in its own way, a boyish laugh and smile from the man, but then he turns to those asking him about his sword skills.

"Well! As Sir Gawain, Knight of the Sun, I am proud of my sword skill, and have tournament wins to my name to back up such." He's usually not one to brag, but this is a festival! You're supposed to brag at festivals.

And if anyone /challenges/ him to a sword-fight, well...that'll be interesting.
Lilian Rook     "Oho, you're one of those types that *sleeps* at *night!*" Katrina replies to Tamamo, faux-scandalized for only a second before laughing. "She's . . . well, you know. That one couldn't sit still for four hours even if she were unconscious."

    She releases Tamamo's hands to make a lot of insistent motions with her own. "No no, you looked at it, you asked, so now you have to take one! You're a guest! This is a time about accounting and sharing what the land gives you, and planning for the next year!" Standing up on her toes, Katrina's finger hovers around in shapeless circuits at the selection of pure white apples dangling out of reach, and then alights in the general direction of a smaller example with a bright gold leaf still attached, causing it to fall off of its own accord and right into her waiting hands.

    "You know, you should try peeling it all in one piece. They say that if you throw it over your shoulder once it breaks off, the shape it lands in is the first letter of your future spouse's name~" she adds, not-very nonchalantly, as she holds it out for Tamamo.

    Katrina seemingly can't stop grinning, though Tamamo is introduced to the sheer variety of expressive ways in which she can do so. The elder sister is almost surreally warmer and more open than the younger. "Nothing bad, don't worry~" she says on the prior topic. "We don't talk a *great* deal, but I can tell. You're . . . well, I don't think she ever really got much of anything like you growing up. Hah! Growing up! I said that like she isn't still! Easy to forget as it is, given. But I think it's good. And the lesser mother meddles the better, to be honest with you."

    "I'm not surprised she hasn't had much reason to talk about me though. I sort of . . . went my own way, I think. I technically still live at home, but I'm usually abroad. I do irregular work. Sure, it helps mother with her research sometimes, but I'm not spending any time adding anything to either the library or the reliquary." Her mood briefly dims. "I think I just . . . responded differently than the others. To things. We all have our own ways. Most of what I saw was people in pain. More than anyone had room for. That's what I fixated on. That's what I wanted to fix. So I do what I do. Maybe, years from now, there won't be so many people hurting so much, and I'll come home, but . . ."

    The cheer flicks back on like a switch. "If *I* get to ask about rumours, is it true that you two are . . ." Katrina leans close, glancing left and right, holding her hand to cover her mouth such that her lips can't be read. "Planning an overseas holiday?" She manages to keep a stone straight face for five entire consecutive seconds, before blowing air. "But, no, really, I shouldn't need to ask anyone. Since you came along, she hasn't needed to ring me once. And she used to all the time. And it was always bad. So, thank you."
Doctor Strange      The Sorcerer Supreme actually smiles at the sight of that sheet ghost. "Oh, wow," he says, between laughter. "That's a *classic.* I'm kinda disappointed they stopped you too." He really is.

     Strange helps himself to a beer, if there's any to be had. And if there isn't, he'll take whatever's available for drinks. He returns to the same general area. "I kinda get a family vabe from this," says Strange, watching the party in a very broad sense, sweeping across the vibrant surroundings to take everything in--the games, the bonfire, the music, the various little groups of people--and the multiversal visitors, in their own little bubble. With the exception of that last group, most of the people here seem as though they're regulars, that this is a yearly thing.

     "So, if you come here next year, I bet that lady's gonna come fuss over you then, too," he says, his smile more dry. He peers at her over a sip from his drink. "That bother you?"
Arthur Lowell >==>

    A signal boundary. It's telling who, exactly? Who needs to be reminded this night, every year? Well... that question answers itself, at the end of October. The Earth may have been devastated, but that's no reason not to keep up appearances in a reasonable way. It's maintaining an understanding that most people didn't really understand needed maintaining. "Tough keepin' it OLD SCHOOL, huh? I mean, ain't gonna make it to those CITIES, socially, if a homie don't got his FOUNDATION LAID with the WILD."

    He plays, and draws, and plays anew. "Where they PREDICTIN' FUTURE WIVES? I gotta STEER CLEAR on that, dawg. Shit's DANGEROUS." He warned you, bro.

>Arthur: Get spooked

    Arthur sights that fucking sheet ghost from halfway across the party. He has to finish his gaming fast to go hassle Strawberry Princess, because that's *hilarious*. By the time he's over there, he's almost breathless with laughter. "GOD DAMN, STRETCH." Arthur coughs a bit. "I hope you-- look, homie, I hope you got that APPRECIATION, about how THIS," He gestures up and down. "All of THIS is like... Holy shit, combo with that HEIGHT and it's AMAZING. That's you, right STRAWBS?" He glances at Strange and flashes a green to the sheet ghost. "If that's WHO I THINK IT IS, girl earned some of THAT. GET FUSSED, NERD. It's a good CHILL SPACE." It's true, Strawberry Princess needs some of that if she's *never going to do it for herself, god dammit*.
Lilian Rook     Arthur asks about predicting the future. He's pointed directly to the people just finishing up around the bonfire. If he believes this is dangerous, then Strawberry and Doctor Strange are in danger, because her SHEET GHOST has drawn the attention of a couple of kids asking them if they 'want names', and an elderly woman with a corvian mask and a handful of small bones remaining asking them what their birth dates are, in the tone of a slightly overworked field trip leader.

    He himself is included especially in the small child hassling, trying to drag him towards the bonfire, which now has an essentially complete ring of carefully marked stones all around it, with the remaining two women now chucking slaughtered animal bones in one after the other, drawing adults up from their seats and activities to cluster up for what must be readings of some kind.
Arthur Lowell >Arthur: PREVENT THE FUTURE AT ALL COSTS

    "Hey. Hey!!" Arthur urges in tense whispers. "This is bad! They're gonna try to *predict your wife*." Yes, even yours, Strawberry Princess. "Don't let 'em predict your wife!! Remember, lethal romance!"

>Arthur: Do not reject children, children must be indulged

    But, there is a very specific moral obligation. When a child runs up to you with an internal narrative and something vaguely unreal going on, you are required, by the rules of every ethical system with any internal rigor, to take it seriously in your response. "Oh, no way!" He says. "If I KNOW MY FATED WIFE, shit might MESS UP up my AVOIDING MY FATED MARRIAGE. And as long as I can AVOID MY FATED MARRIAGE, then," He sweeps his hands broadly. "I GET TO BE IMMUNE TO ALL DEATH. That's the SCHEME. You don't get to DIE if you have a FATED MARRIAGE on the docket, right?" He nods in sagely, serious ways, adjusting his re-styled hood with drama.

    "Seriously, losin' that BLOCK ON FATE is some SCARY SHIT." He admits.
Lilian Rook     Gawain draws a lot of giggling and some slightly disappointed 'awwwws' at all the girls whom he is not dancing with, who largely seem to have interpreted his honesty as a humble and excessively chivalrous way of declining to play favourites, before running off to the circle with most of the rest.

    As for the matter of swords, well, it seems pretty quickly he's being overtly gauged for interest, and then *quite* enthusiastically shown to the sector of the firelit area currently dedicated to a lot of loud and boisterous yelling, and shortly enough, in amidst the thump of sand and scattering gravel, the percussive crack of wood. The smallest group is more or less boys of the age to be merely copycat roughhousing, and another would still constitute him pointlessly picking on smaller lads than his big barrel chested ilk, but one is certainly 'old enough to know better'.

    He is shown a waster with a handful of runes expertly chiseled into the bottom to, presumably, prevent it from shattering into a hundred pieces, and then gets to Run The Lobby on a dozen young men. He can tell just from the full contact exchanges that several of them are (very physically fit hobbyists) who are there as a social exercise, and trying to see if they can 'take a stock' off of him, and that some of them have been up to this for nearly as long as he was at their age, coming at him without the inherent reluctance to risk being hit, nor to involve grapples and binds, trips and throws, body blows or thrusts that fencing instructors kick you out for.

    He draws a small crowd (some of them the girls that were trying to persuade him earlier, possibly there to see him sweaty and shirtless) in appreciation for his work, and quickly gathers the sense of who here are the 'best in my group of friends', who here is a habitual spectator, and who probably used to, but is too old bother anymore. Despite the pounding music and festive atmosphere, it really isn't dissimilar to a lot of rowdy young knights taking stock of the newbie on the training field, though in this case, Gawain is the star celebrity blonde foreign exchange student.

    A short ways in, the unguised congregation in black finally moves out of the ritual circle of shields. On the way past, a couple of the boys call towards their number, waving them down and *very* excitedly trying to get one of them to join them. Lilian is one called by name, who glances up and down Shredded Abs of the Sun out of reflex, then says "Maybe later. I have plans for tonight~", to some groaning and some saying of 'the one year' and discussion of whether or not they could somehow coax her older brother into the ring in her place. She seems to be headed to the ring of stones with the rest.
Strawberry Princess      "I know, right? Me too!" Strawberry is entirely too willing to commiserate about the injustices of the Project administration and their notions of appropriate dress. The black blindfold she's wearing conspires to enhance her ghost-sheet costume even further: instead of eyes behind the eye-holes, there's pure darkness.

     The sheet shifts slightly as she crosses her arms underneath it, then bulges out around the face as she takes a contemplative chomp of her improvised sandwich. "I don't... think I want that," she manages to say after swallowing. "I mean- I appreciate it, I guess. The intent. But being 'fussed over' isn't- it's never been a part of my life. I feel more- grown-up than that. Is that silly?" This is, after all, someone who hasn't been treated like a child in over a decade.

     Arthur, thankfully, swoops by to provide a reprieve from the heavier talk, just as it was starting to form a destructive harmonic with her natural mood. "Heeeey! I didn't recognize you 'til I heard that voice, Arthur. What're you- dressed up as? Are you an elf?" She holds her hand out for The High-Five, though the blanket in the way will necessitate improvisation.

     She lets out just a little wheezy laugh as the prognosticating children crowd around and Arthur tries to warn her off. "I'd love a name. I've got one already, but- more is good." Not two. Emphatically one. To Arthur: "I don't- think they're going to predict my future wife, Arthur. Don't worry. But- isn't it just as dangerous, not knowing? Then you might find it by accident just the same." She provides a birthdate to the elderly woman: January Sixth.
Tamamo     "Why, of course I do. It is /rabbits/ who come from the moon, did you not know?" That's either a cultural joke, or confirmation of a hidden lunar-leporine civilization. Possibly destroyed at this point in the timeline, but that sort of thing happens when apocalyptic invasions occur.

    "To be sure, she is young by some standards, though not by others. The time a human is given to grow seems one of the greatest differences between that I have seen in this time, against that other time I did walk the earth, neighboring the opposite sea. I cannot say whether my own time in growth was much like that of any other." Tamamo says all this while turning over the accepted apple in her hands, balanced on the tips of her fingers. She doesn't quite start on peeling it the moment divination is mentioned, but does give this a thoughtful moment's consideration. (She concludes that it would take more of her attention to do properly than would be polite to withhold mid-conversation.)

    "There is much I know not, and it is that unknowing that defined me." This is deliberately worded, yet said in what would look a moment of distraction, her eyes focused on something very distant. It's a moment lacking some degree of her usual seeming, the usual veneer, not just that which cloaks sun and fire in favor of more humble countenance, but that which smooths and rounds and softens features of the inhuman to the human-alike, of the fox spirit to the merely fashionably-accessorized. The glimpse of something unknown, if not unnatural.

    And then it's gone, like the flickering of the bonfire, or the edges of shadows cast by turning masks.

    "Mm, to see and to empathize. You would rather take the path closer to suffering, though it denies you the defense of distance. I hope for such success as will allow your return. I shall do more than hope, but to see my own Fate is difficult, for me." The apple is tucked away... somewhere. Up her sleeve? But the sleeves aren't even attached to anything, just hanging loose, and short enough to show off the gold bands at both wrist and forearm. There's no sign of it now, at any rate.

    "A /holiday/? My, but if she could find the time. Surely she will be short of hours in the day at some point, yet still she pushes. Oh, but of course, you must be at least as aware of this as I. I can only wonder how much further she would push because one such as I had asked." Tamamo closes her eyes, imagining something Katrina mentioned. "If her burdens were such, and now they are not, then this is well." She doesn't need to say more than that.
Gawain As Gawain is led into the sword ring, he strips off his robe and down to just his jeans. While he holds back as to not 'put his full strength forward and actually hurt somebody', because he can manhandle trains if he uses his full strength. His skill, however, is not held back once. Every block, feint, and strike is true, and shows a real mastery of the sword.

Everyone who takes a run at him and fails gets actual encouragement instead of a 'you did good', with tips on where they can improve should they seem to be seeking it at all.

Gawain's really having a blast. He gets the names of his best competitors afterwards, in case he ever gets a chance to meet them again.
Doctor Strange      Strange is about to offer up an answer to Strawberry, when Arthur shows up! He instead offers non-answer to the question of what his birthday is. He's about to go off on one of his almost intentionally confusing existential wanderings, when Arthur heroically prevents both the future and, by extension, cryptic sorcerer bullshit. Instead, he merely offers a nod of agreement when the Mage of Space looks his way.

     "Oh, yeah. A person who knows their own narrative can definitely exploit it to their advantage. Arthur's not out here trying to get MacBeth'd, y'know." He places his hands on his hips and nods, as would a plumber surveying particularly fine handiwork.

     He lifts his hand for a High Five of Passive Assurance. After the five is Slapped, he agrees to a name. "I've got a name, too, but if you guys are feeling generous, I won't say no either."

     As they deliberate over an answer, he asides to Strawberry.

     "It isn't silly to feel like you're mature. Only to feel like you can't enjoy immature things past a certain age."

     Then, more obviously, to Arthur, "Hey, Arthur, you lose all the games yet?"
Lilian Rook     Arthur has performed his god-given duty and excited several small children who are really into a holiday occasion. However, his trouble for doing so is a tiny child running away and then back again to shove a smooth, relatively flat, egg-sized river stone into his hand, smudged with ash from the fire. Strawberry is given her own by a bashful little girl half her height, who takes what feels like forever to finally hold her arms out, then run away. Feeling them, the reverse side has a semi-familiar rune carved on it. The same is offered to Strange, by a boy who does his best impression of slipping it into his cheap suit pocket and patting it like he's a cool mob dude passing off a bribe to a big corporate man like he saw on a TV drama.

    The woman has to shoo them off once she's done taking down the birth dates, returning to the larger portion of methodically disassembled bones, done with the same kind of severe rigor that the grandmother of a culturally endangered family would insist on with company.

    As they're instructed, they have to find a place around the fire to put theirs down, as close as they can without burning themselves. They then have to go around three times, and let the smoke pass over them. Come the morning, once the fire is burnt out, where the ash has fallen will show someone's fortune for the next year. These portents include a range from 'a good marriage' to 'dead before winter', so the reliability of this is questionable at best. Maybe slightly more legit than all of this about peeling apples and roasting hazelnuts, which in of itself seems only a step above paper blossoms. But they're enjoying it, so that seems to be the main point. At least the old woman claims it's a very very basic exercise for the few in the houses who have the spark necessary for true divination. Gossiping about fiances and ill fortune keeps them interested.
Lilian Rook     Gawain's advice and encouragement is received with varying degrees of interest itself. He can quickly tell which of the young men is going to pick up on it, and several amongst them are deceptively sharp learners, for being here casually. None have nearly the physique to match him, but several are in the very early realms of 'post-human' achievement. His want for names is met with a *lot* of people throwing out their personal favourites and arguing about them at a tone barely any more rigorous than 'my dad could beat up your dad'.

    Largely, the takeaway is that the group that had spent all that time with the pillars of heraldry, unmasked and wearing iron, would be his real competition. That is, the men and women with Lilian are the small portion of each house that still maintains the knightly traditions. He's given the first half of an explanation, about how the individual orders that make up the Ring of Solstice had formed out of various circumstances as small, independent, land-owning militant clans made of mystically inclined houses, who'd deliberately faded out of view with the encroachment of time and modernization, rather than joined themselves to vaster public faces, like the orders of Christiandom that followed them. They're only partway through trying to explain the differences between the code of chivalry to king and country, and a similar code to blood and man, before the whole gathering is disintegrated in short order by the change in drumbeat afar.

    In that amount of time, Katrina continues animatedly conversing with Tamamo, apparently ecstatic to get the chance. She does share something in common with her younger sister, in that 'the part that gives one shivers' involved in that discourse seems to excite her rather than cause her to flinch. She may have even less of a sense for danger than her younger sibling.

    "Oh, believe me, it was different when *I* was born!" she laughs. "I'd *love* to hear about that some time. I've been to Japan plenty of times before, but not to soak up the culture, you know? And if Lilly's taken an interest; well, I should know, right?" She catches herself. "Ah, but to answer your question better: Those ones in the Atrium are mine because I went there to get them myself. All of the Rook women do, at least once, at a certain age. You could call it sort of a pilgrimage? In honour of-- well, you've heard the story by now. And a reaffirmation that the fruits of the Tuatha De are owed to the kin. I hope she takes you when she goes! It's *beautiful*!"

    She comes off the more exciting topic with an inarticulate hum. "We all take paths close to suffering, if we take paths that lead anywhere at all. How we choose to receive it, and how we push back against it, is different. Mother has her own way. Father has his own way. Bryce has his way. And Lilian is finding her way. Mine just happens to be a very direct way of 'making people stop hurting', don't you agree?" She rolls 'burdens' around like a tangible object for a few seconds. "It's not that she called me to talk about things being bad. She called me a lot because she needed things fixed. And now she's stopped breaking them. Which means I can tell certain things." The subject matter can't stop the rather cheeky wink she gives after. "Oh you know how she is. She'll make more hours if she has to. She's very proud of the fact that she's made one and a half of them since you showed up~ Don't tell her I told you she told me though!"

    Her focus, of course, shatters completely once the broader gathering comes together, with the same change in musical tempo.