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DATE: January 5th, Year 2 LOCATION: The Grand Palace Cathedral TIME: 10:00 A.M.

It was for the Saints that they gathered, for the promise of hope that was entailed in the title. Into the cathedral they herded themselves, faithful sheep that longed for a shepherd that would deliver them from their suffering – as a person, as a people, and as a nation. As a nation they were represented in the pews of the grand cathedral of Os Alta, in the back sat the peasants, the farmers whose clothes were torn and frayed, the cobblers whose hands were roughened with work, the blacksmiths who carried with them the scent of a furnace burning, the sailors whose faces were weathered with sun and wind, and the First Army soldiers who shifted uneasily from foot to foot, faces upturned in equal parts hope and scrutiny. Closer to the stairs of the altar were those whom had their servants, both human and Grisha, stake their seating out for them. In their finery and silks they sat with quiet, excited muttering rippling from them like a drop of rain in a pond. It would start with one word from this lady or that lieutenant, muted talk that bespoke trepidation and nerves. They were here for the Saints and they were here for the reassurance that the plight that they had been so unduly handed would soon be ended with the blessing of those above. But that is a lot to ask from those whose bones were eaten by the earth and whose souls were as far to reach as the stars in the skies.

There was one whose reach was much closer, whose reach was as far reaching as the winds that swept through the cathedral on occasion, filling the lungs and caressing the faces of peasant and noble alike.

She did not bring blessings, though. What she brought was terror, was damnation, was curse and abomination.

It did not come in a furious gale, like one might have suspected. It did not come as a ruthless wind that tore the roof of the cathedral and stripped the breath of life from the lungs of the faithful. As gentle as the hands that bade it, as inconspicuous as the dust that catches a person’s eye as the sun turns it gold. No one noticed, for their eyes were turned towards the Apparat that made his way to the podium, his movements like that of a phantom, his features like that of a shrewd rat. He squinted at the flock that was gathered beneath the podium, his eyes lingering on the individuals that occupied the balconies. Selected members of the Second Army, the Darkling and the Sun Summoner who sat at his side. Across from them sat the beloveds of Ravka, the Lantsovs whose names was almost as ageless as the book that sat was open in front of him, the Book of Saints.

#rarevent #rarplague #event: plague

DATE: December 21st, Year 1 LOCATION: The Grand Palace Ballroom TIME: 11:30 P.M.

One by one, as if they were born for it and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, they slip away: those donning violet to their posts, those dripping red to the shadows, and those draped in blue to the light, to the raised dais the royals themselves had stood upon mere hours before—a pedestal, a stage. And the ordinary ones, the otkazat’sya—the lucky and abandoned—are none the wiser, for men and women who have never known fear nor hunger needn’t worry over every passing figure, every fleeting face.

It could be dangerous, this show, and perhaps in a way it is, letting the kingdom’s most powerful Grisha have their way with the elements in such a sprawling, enclosed space like the Grand Palace—like training wild animals to do tricks and trusting they’ll be docile enough not to keep any up their sleeves. But they are, at least for the night—obedient and deadly and bored, and it makes for quite the attraction.

Let it be known that men are, at their very cores, peculiar; they delight in that which is dangerous, fear that which they do not understand, and love, above all else, what will inevitably be the end of them. In this, the Winter Showcase does not disappoint; in this, it never will, not as long as there lies a difference between the chosen and the others, the poor and the rich.

One day, it may even be something more than a waste of talent eternal, but today is not that day. Instead, it is as it always has been, and despite the protests of those performing—each with their own varying intensities, there’s a sort of magic to be found in that. The Corporalki watch from the darker corners with eyes narrowed, rendered acutely less intriguing than those they see as inferior to them for one torturous night; the Materialki linger behind the fruits of their handiwork, the unsung mechanics of a show too perfect to be natural; and the Etherealki move into view, silk blue keftas—crafted specifically for this night, no less—glimmering in the chandelier light.

And then, as if on an ancient whim, it begins. A squaller wind whisks the flames of the ballroom candles away, sweeps the hems of ladies’ ballgowns up in an embrace and waltzes them into awe, into delighted gasps, and inferni fire rises to the challenge, painting the tapestries and those who paused to admire them mere hours before in a brilliant orange glow. A chorus of ooh’s and ah’s go up from the crowd, but these sights are but child’s play for the men and women pulling their strings, a game they’d mastered and grown bored of sometime between the weighty realization that they were unlike the melancholy masses, living from ration to ration, and the somber acceptance that even gods hungered for more than they’d been given, more than they could ever have.

Tidemaker mist meets the flames midair and steam blooms from their union—plays tricks on the eyes of those watching in ways to number the stars. Some see the living; some see the dead; some see things only their own minds have ever known. But none see the man and woman in black take to the stage, and though the mist is partially to blame, there’s something else at work, too—something darker, intangible, raw.

And it is beautiful, so beautiful, but in the way of a wild thing caged.

They appear as if out of thin air, and when one takes into account the sheer impossibility of the goings-on around them, the idea that they may have seems almost likely, but the crowd hardly has time to consider the odds before they’re plunged into darkness with a boom like rolling thunder, and the ballroom falls deathly silent; such is the way of children raised to be afraid of the dark.

And then it cuts through the black like a blade through water: light, first blinding white and then gentle gold, painting a portrait of a summer morning in a ballroom consumed by winter’s night, and the crowd erupts—some into gasps, some into gleeful shouts, some in thanksgiving. It’s all the same, really, but make no mistake: the coming of the Sun Summoner is not a quiet one; a sankt’s arrival rarely is.

#rarevent #rarfete #plot drop

DATE: December 21st, Year 1 LOCATION: The Grand Palace Ballroom TIME: 8:00 P.M.

Without winter, there could be no summer; without the dark, there could be no light. It was a balance universally acknowledged even before the war, even before the Fold—when the second Ivan Lantsov ruled with an iron grip and Ravka knew not what despair was, and it was this hope that founded the tradition, this brave welcoming of adversity that began it all. They ate and drank and danced and the cold had no dominion over them; in those days, the glory days, few things did. The Winter Fete was but another show of prosperity for a country unfettered by war and famine, and even as the two squandered the nation’s pride, it lived on, spanning generation after generation, era after bronze era.

It isn’t like it once was, but things touched by hardship seldom are.

The Ravkan countryside is a wild thing—so vividly alive even as so many of the things it holds dear are dying, as its trees shed their leaves and its songbirds fly south in search of warmer weather—stubborn, like any creature with a beating heart, but beautiful, too. Winter has crept in on autumn’s dying breath, and with it, the first snowfall, glittering and cold. The days have grown shorter and the nights longer still, and the change comes as both an inconvenience and a comfort to all, like a last dance long-practiced, familiar and bittersweet.

Inside the towering walls of Os Alta, few things have changed since the first Fete centuries ago. The Grand Palace buzzes with the hustle of preparation—the clink of champagne glasses and porcelain plates and silver platters, the clap of hooves and the creak of wheels against cobblestone, the ringing of a dozen bells, each with their own meaning. The servants walk the same corridors they did long ago, and those fortunate outsiders called in for the sole purpose of making the ball even more memorable than the one before it run in the same circles—the architects, the artists, creators of beauty and wonder.

The Little Palace, too, seems to hum in anticipation, its best and brightest set to the task—at times, begrudgingly—of making everything as it should be. The Materialki make recluses of themselves in the days leading up to the ball, backs bent and heads bowed over blueprints and menial requests alike—of chandeliers, of violins, of lady’s gowns, each frivolous in their own strange way. The Etherealki make fools of themselves in similar fashion, making flames dance and making art out of the breeze, of the snow; the show must go on, even if it’s a waste of their talents, even if it’s only inferni smoke and materialnik mirrors. Even the Corporalki are called upon in matters of health and beauty, for in the eyes of a shallow nobility, there can be no life without the former and certainly no hope without the latter.

And then, almost as if on nature’s whim, the night arrives, and with it, all the pomp and circumstance the gentility pride themselves on—carriages laden with gold, women swallowed by satin and tulle, men decked smartly in military dress. The chandeliers’ gleam rivals the stars, and champagne flows like a river. Everything and everyone is beautiful, and for one night, there is no war; there is no famine. There is only a dance, a song, a smile, a woman in a blue dress and a man in a violet kefta—there is only hope, fragile and raw and lasting, if only in moments like this.

The guests arrive to the sound of trumpets, and the procession to the ballroom is a slow thing, a dignified thing, but it’s flushed with the warmth of anticipation, alight with something akin to excitement. Lords and ladies file in, arm in arm or proudly lacking, and they line up like little toy soldiers in rows: barons and baronesses, dukes and duchesses, the rich and the brave and the old and the young and every respectable individual in between. Their military heroes join them not long after—their generals, their colonels, their bright-eyed lieutenants, courageous and proud and with medals dangling from their necks to show for it. And gathered before their king and his family, they wait, chins high and eyes fixed on the crown, for the words their sovereign has uttered dozens of times, and his ancestors before him, hundreds: “We celebrate, but above all else, we prevail!” It’s a mantra of sorts, a promise—wishful thinking at times and stone-solid at others, and the crowd, draped in their finery and blessed with the ignorance of never knowing what winter truly means for the less fortunate, raise their flutes in response and drink to the health of their friends, to the prosperity of their nation.

And they dance, the kingdom’s finest—the first of the ball and the first of the season, though, they hope, certainly not their last; the music lilts and sways and so do they, steady on their feet but only just. Silk and taffeta rustle across the floor, hellos are exchanged like currency, and though it’s the sort of gesture that never truly gets old, the moment is still taken for granted, as all things to be treasured inevitably are, for the guests are not all here, and the knowing of it weighs on them all—some like a feather, curiosity-tinged and excitement-laced, and some like a stone, somber and cold. But they’re coming—they always are, and they’ll be here soon enough: the magicians, the witches, the gifted—the practitioners of a Science they were never invited to learn.

The doors swing open, and the ballroom pauses as if drawing a breath—waits in anticipation; the crowd parts not in the way it had for its soldiers, but in the way of wary children, eager to get a closer look but fearful of a look too close, and they march in, violet and blue and scarlet, each order more formidable than the last. No one speaks; no one cheers. They are greeted by the music’s crescendo and the sort of reverence borne of a heavy silence, and it is as it has always been: a ceasefire for a war that was never truly declared.

And they notice something different, a break from what’s come to be second nature to some, but though they wonder at the meaning of it, none dare to ask about the girl in the black kefta, for in order for hope to thrive, there must first be a bit of mystery.

The procession comes to a halt, the trumpets blare, and the spell is broken. Their voices ring out, “My prevaliruyem!” and their glasses raise, and just as it has hundreds of times before, the celebration begins.

OVERVIEW: Welcome to Rule and Ruin’s opening event! We’re so incredibly excited to begin this journey with you all, and we hope you’re as ready as we are to dive right in.

This will be a two-part event, with this half of the event spanning the events before the Grisha perform. All characters are free to roam throughout the ballroom, gardens, and all surrounding corridors at this time. You may play out threads between 8:00 P.M. and 11:15 P.M. Please tag your event starters with #rarfete and #rarstarter.

For your reference, humans are dressed in formal evening wear; military officers and guards are in uniform. Grisha are wearing their appropriate keftas.

#rarfete #rarevent #lsrpg #literate rp #tgt

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