ArchivedLogs:Rites of Spring

Rites of Spring
Dramatis Personae Desi, Jax, Lucien, Matt, Steve, Israel
In Absentia	2017-05-01 "/Catholic/ ceremonial orgies? The church has changed some."
Location <NYC> Tessier Residence - Backyard - Greenwich Village
Living in the heart of Manhattan means space is precious, and as such, the yard behind this house is small. It is as exquisitely well-kept as the rest of the place, though; all available space has been meticulously cultivated and transformed into a lush retreat from the concrete and asphalt of the city. The borders of the garden are lined in a wealth of flowers, the selection chosen to provide a panoply of color in all seasons save winter. A grassy rock-bordered pathway separates these from the raised-bed vegetable garden that dominates its center. The far left corner of the garden plays host to a tiny rock-lined pond, goldfish and a pair of turtles living in its burbling water. To one side of the pond is a garden table and set of chairs and presiding over the pond, a large oak tree with a hammock underneath, its branches spreading out over the tall brick wall that screens the entire area off from the city outside. Clouds still hang low in the sky, though the rain has long since stopped. The night air is cool and smells for once /slightly/ more of fresh earth than asphalt. Only a few drops of water cling to the new leaves around the Tessiers' garden. The lanterns scattered throughout the garden cast a soft ambient glow that in no wise diminishes the lively cheer of a small but healthy bonfire. Matt is kneeling beside this last, feeding it with handfuls of herbs that flare into burning ash, flying up like bright little yellow stars. Against this enchanting backdrop, he looks rather /mundane/ in a soft green t-shirt and gray cargo shorts, feet bare and his knees dirty. Lucien isn't much brighter, pale linen trousers and a lightweight white button-down. Barefoot, too. Despite the distinct lack of colour in his outfit he is currently busy /adding/ some to Matt, leaning down behind his brother to set a carefully-arranged flower crown, pale white peonies and crocus and anemones accented with large scarlet poppies and bright yellow buttercups and pansies. He's humming quietly under his breath -- Dar Williams' "Are You Out There". Nearly as soon as he has placed the crown he is fussing at it -- rearranging first a flower and then settling Matt's hair back into place where the circlet has tousled it. Israel is scattering some loose, gritty powder across the ground, the lavender of his skin oddly vibrant and fierce in the flickering yellow light. His off-white t-shirt is mostly taken up by a gigantic elemental dragon breathing out a river, he wears brown linen wrap pants, and his head is already be-garland-ed, the flowers looking particularly bright against the stark white of his hair. He finishes the task and re-seals the super-fancy sandwich bag holding the consecrated chopped up bits of whatever, setting it aside on the table with various other super-serious ritual implements like the tray of teacups. "I have sowed -- oh wait." He blushes. "Have sowed. Have -- sown? Ugh." Shakes his head, flowers waving. "The oats got onto the ground." Steve is -- actually dressed up rather bright and colorful tonight. His button-up shirt is a tight plaid primarily of leaf green, forest green, and finer lines of bright yellow and purple, though his jeans are still a pretty standard indigo. He's brought a large thermos out with him from inside, and leaves his shield propped up against one of the chairs. "As honey wine alternatives go, I rate this jamaica pretty high. Not that I've tasted all /that/ many honey wines," he adds hastily. "And I would not dream of telling you what to use in your ritual, of course." It's not very surprising that Jax is colourful. Sky-blue sleeveless shirt dotted with puffy white clouds and darker blue butterflies, a bright yellow handkerchief-hem skirt, his fingers and toenails painted in matte silver with finely detailed leaves painted onto every other one. In between the crocuses his crown, slightly askew, spills over with meadowsweet and deep red snapdragons and purple foxglove. "/I/ would cuz I baked plenty fruit tarts and ginger chocolate cookies an' is there a place in ritual for cookies? There should be." Matt smiles beatifically and leans up into Lucien's hand to /help/ with the mussing of his hair. He tosses another handful of herbs onto the fire, yielding a puff of smoke, a swirl of rising sparks, and a burst of heady sweet aroma. Then, straightening up, he brushes off his knees and flashes Jax a bright grin. "There's certainly a place for cookies in the ritual. /And/ jamaica. Beltane is about life and bounty and growing things." He goes to the table and picks up a somewhat /less/ perfectly arranged crown of flowers, a riotous mix of daisies, dandelions, foxgloves, and even a few odd bleeding hearts. "Fruits and flowers, oats and milk..." He drapes the crown onto Lucien's head, re-arranging any mislaid hair meticulously around it. "...birds and bees." "Certainly. Traditionally, the cookies come after the fire-jumping and before the ceremonial orgy." Lucien's expression is very deadpan. He's picking up one of the remaining crowns on the table -- a neatly woven colour-burst of apple blossoms and dragon's blood, primrose and daisies -- to set it carefully atop Steve's head. "In our ritual there's generally a place for whatever makes you happy." Israel snerks. "Traditionally there's also some dancing around maypoles. Bestowing garlands and baskets and what-not on your neighbors. Cavorting in the woods, with somewhat less ceremonial orgies." He slides a silverish bowl over to Steve. "But traditions have to be practiced to live, and in practice everything changes. So, fruit tarts and jamaica." Then, as an afterthought. "/I/ prefer if there's still some fire-jumping, though." Steve bows his head to accept his crown. "Merci. Some of those traditions were around when I was young, and folks mostly just didn't /talk/ about them being pagan." He sets the thermos down, unscrews its cap, and pours some into the bowl. "Though for my family, May Day was usually more about strikes and worker solidarity and generally sticking it to The Man. If that...something you could work into your intentions for this ritual?" "You had a lotta ceremonial orgies as a kid?" Jax's cheeks have flushed, but his tone is just light and amused at this. "Like -- /Catholic/ ceremonial orgies? The church has changed some." He moves over closer to the fire, crouching down near it, fingers fluttering through the very tops of its flame. "Beltane's a time for growin' things. Growing the revolution definitely counts, right? I been Beltaning it up /all/ day long in that case there was some pretty solid actions gone down this afternoon." "Growing the revolution counts," Matt assures Jax, making grabby-hands at the cookies. "Lighting and tending the fires of resistance is important work, and always a part of our intention in a way, but I can make the wording more explicit." He looks up at the sky--the clouds are breaking, scudding north-east in wind-driven drifts lit by the moon above and the city below. "And while sticking it to the man is highly encouraged, orgies, ceremonial or otherwise, are /strictly/ optional. I still plan on jumping over the fire, and so can anyone who feels so moved, but it is likewise not required." "Here I always thought the ceremonial orgies were a strictly Captain America thing. See what I get for relying on outmoded stereotypes." Lucien reaches for a bowl, brightly coloured and wobbly-edged and glazed in bright green and yellow swirls. Cloth sachets inside sit, tied off with gauzy ribbon. For a moment his hands still -- tighten, slightly, on the edge of the ceramic, finger tracing along an uneven line of colour. "We can grow all sorts of things. Concrete and metaphorical alike. I admit I've cheated some with my personal intentions this year." His eyes have been fixed on the bowl, though now he looks up and around the garden. "I only looked to grow connections with family. I often find that in the very practice of any ritual that comes inherent." There is a brief rattle at the back garden gate before it opens to admit Desi, looking like spring incarnate. She wears a long, white, gauzy dress cinched at the waist with three separate lengths of broad satin ribbon in ombres of different spectra, braided about her midsection and trailing long tails that flutter as she moves. Her flower crown seems to be woven out of three separate ones, made from a dizzying variety of blossoms, some already flagging, but no less colorful. "Blessed Beltane!" she chirps, toeing off her sandals and dropping her shoulder bag beside them. "Apologies for my tardiness, but no one wanted to go home after the rally, so we sort of went a-maying. It was lovely." She makes a round of those gathered, distributing unusually careful hugs, considering Matt's proximity. "Did I miss all the magic?" "We live in a society where looking after each other a radical act." Israel lays a hand on Lucien's arm. Squeezes gently. "So, sometimes, growing and sustaining a family is itself revolutionary. Either way, it's hardly /cheating/ when they're your /own/ intentions. Beltane is also about coming home, right?" The slight uplifted tone of the question is perhaps only /incidentally/ directed at Desi as he wraps her in a hug. "Blessed Beltane. This has got to be like your seventh circle today, right?" "Oh, gosh!" Steve's cheeks flush so deeply that it's obvious even in the ruddy firelight. "No, I meant the maypole and garlands and baskets and such. If there were any ceremonial orgies, no one told /me/ about them." He waves to Desi. "You made it, all the same, and you look splendid. And you haven't missed the /ritual/, but with your brothers it's hard to say for sure you haven't already missed /some/ magic." "If it's the seventh circle this is /way/ different than I read about." Jax gets up from the fire to return Desi's hug and drop a light and precise kiss to the top of her hair. He is unhurried about delivering cookies -- the entire box of them -- into Matt's eager grasp. "/Gosh/ but you look like you brung all the magic with you. No, I guess we can just about get /started/, huh?" "Nonsense," Matt scoffs, rolling his eyes, "it's only her seventh if you count the three from yesterday." All hints of dismissiveness flee him when the cookies drop into his hand. He curls a protective arm around it as though it were a football, or perhaps a small and wiggly puppy. "Don't listen to them, sister mine, you have missed /so/ much magic." He picks up the bowl of jamaica in his other hand and steps into the area prepped for their circle, turning back to flash a roguish smile at the other celebrants from beneath a red poppy sitting slightly askew on his temple. "Guess we had better make some more, no?" The kitchen door opens; for a long moment Gaétan is largely just a silhouette backlit by the much brighter lights inside. He closes the door a minute later, tucks his hands into his jeans pockets, shoulders a little hunched beneath his Brooklyn Dodgers tee. Trudging barefoot across the grass, he stops by the table, plucking with a faintly skeptical expression at the last remaining flower crown there. "I don't have to /wear/ this, do I?" Lucien glances up, eyes slightly wider for just an instant in the brighter spill of light from the kitchen doorway. He tracks his younger brother's progress, shaking his head. "Strictly optional." Gaétan considers this, nods. Plucks a daisy from it to tuck it behind his ear. "Cool." Lucien looks down at the bowl in his hands again -- this time with a sudden warm smile blossoming across his face. He jostled the bowl lightly, its contents rustling as the small bags shift, seeds inside rattling against each other. "Well. Now I suppose we can."