STARS ARE BRIGHT | WT; LETTERS

[ORPHEUS]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Surprisingly or not, Orpheus was hardly a religious person. He grew up in a world that made him feel more and more alone with every passing day, drowning in immorality and pain. That sounds so ridiculous, like the start of some hero's life — or a villain's. But the truth he'd come to understand was that there was nothing spectacular about imperfection. Having an unhappy life, being unhappy, didn't inherently make someone better or worse. It contributed, but everyone had their own options. He's pretty off topic now — so far from it — but to boil it down to the basics... the idea of helping people write to a "high power" has the lion feeling conflicted. Papercrown and asked so politely, and he wasn't one to shame another for their beliefs, or even to contest them. And — well, maybe he was somewhat curious about what they would say to another higher power, or to Santa, who Orpheus actually had believed in for a long time. That part wasn't so bad. Writing letters had never been a part of his Christmases, but he'd only had three. If he could make it special for someone else — why not, right?

So the colorful lion had set up a station of sorts, with paper both colorful and plain, pencils and crayons and stickers. This wasn't just for children, after all. It was all a little bit plain, placed neatly on a low-sitting table in the main area of the observatory. Part of him wants to keep decorating, paper snowflakes and cheerful glitter, but instead he settles for a elf hat on his head and a sticker to his chest (which will likely be a pain to get off later, with the thicker fur in that area; oops) that reads "Santa's Helper" in a light but legible cursive. "If anyone wants to write a letter for the holiday season, I'm here to help!" Orpheus calls out, paws kneading on the ground for a moment, his own childish excitement dragging up a very old habit. Now was the season for it, right?

[clarence a.]

Clarence was religious in the same way nearly everyone was religious in London. Or, if you asked the right person, he practiced witchcraft. In fact, apparently his whole family did, so they said. They didn't. At least, Clarence didn't. He supposed he couldn't really say anything for certain about his sister or his mother but he tried not to think about that. The idea that they'd been able to lie to him for that long was overwhelming. He still would've gone to the Navy, even if they were. Nothing could've made him hesitate in that decision. He just wanted them to be safe. When he'd asked about it, of course they denied all of it, but he wouldn't probably never really know for certain. He had to admit, showing up in a strange world with talking animals, in which he was basically just a large black cat did raise some questions. Questions that he didn't have the energy to answer, quite frankly.

There was no denying he'd faced hardship. Between accusations of witchcraft, being blackmailed into the Navy, and the passing of his dear friend, the last few years hadn't been easy for Clarence or his family. He didn't really think much about how it affected him, though. No, he preferred to ignore it altogether. Things were easier when you didn't have to think about them, so he just didn't. Of course, sometimes he'd lay awake at night thinking about all the things he refused to think about consciously, or sometimes he'd be plagued with terrible nightmares or day dreams that seemed to follow him everywhere he went, even into this new world. In fact, they'd gotten worse. Still, he just ignored those too. Eventually something would become a problem and he'd have to deal with it, but he figured he was doing well enough to not acknowledge any of his issues for now.

Clarence happened to be coming back from one of his runs (which were now regularly scheduled. He liked having a routine, it made things feels less strange) when he noticed Orpheus holding a sign and calling out about writing letters. Confusion immediately covered the man's face and he approached, his brow furrowed. If there was anyone related to the holiday season, it would be Father Christmas. He'd never heard of anyone named Santa. And he wasn't sure why someone would want to write a letter to Father Christmas. He wasn't sure what the point would be. "Who's Santa?" he asked simply, obviously finding nothing strange about his questions before adding, "Do you, perhaps, mean Father Christmas? And why are you writing letters to him?"

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[ATTICUS]

―――― Atticus, he supposed, was religious in some manner. He held beliefs about gods and goddesses, notions about life and death, understandings of the world around him based on the preconceptions of how he had been raised and what discoveries he had made himself, yet he did not necessarily celebrate Christmas.  Perhaps he had gotten more into the habit of doing so, after wandering between one group and another of people over the years, but he was more... A 'Yule season' sort of man than "Christmas" itself. Regardless, seeing as how the majority of the Ascendants seemed to be involved with the Christmas season, he indulged in trying to decorate and being involved for the sake of the others to make it fun for them. In the same train of thought, he had read more than one of his fair share of books about the Christmas season over the years to try and better understand it. As far as Holidays went, it was actually a fairly community-based and enjoyable holiday. You gave gifts and presents to those you held dearest to you, had a good meal, and spent time with those you cared about. All in all, it was good.

Stepping forward at Orpheus' call, there was a moment of pause as he considered what reason he had to write a letter to anyone, other than keeping pretenses up for Keyne or some of the other children. Perhaps a little bit disgruntled, he stepped forward to take one of the envelopes and the letters, as well as a pencil, finding a place to sit and begin writing some letter to... Someone. At Clarence's questions, which perked up his ears slightly, he had to fight the amused smirk that wanted to cross his face. "Yes, Father Christmas, otherwise known as Santa. It's a tradition that children, or some adults, it seems, writes a letter to Santa to tell him what they would like for Christmas and the Holidays, so that Santa knows what they want for Christmas," Kit hoped that the mention of 'children writing letters to Santa' would be enough for Clarence to maybe not dismiss the magic of the Holidays, at least not with any young ears around, but the tradition in it of itself was simple. Though, Kit often forgot that Clarence was... different, and seemingly had a completely different perception of the world. Regardless, Kit hoped he could at least enjoy the odd traditions of the Holidays.

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[clarence a.]

As Atticus began to explain exactly what "Santa" was, Clarence only furrowed his brow and looked even more confused than he'd been before. "No, Father Christmas is not known as 'Santa'. At least not that I've ever heard of. And, as far as I'm aware, Father Christmas doesn't give out any sort of gifts. He's associated with feasting, but not with presents- for adults or children," he answered. Despite his words, he sat down beside Atticus and pulled a piece of paper close to him. He didn't want to be left out, after all. "So, how do we send our letters to this 'Santa'?" the man questioned as he picked up a the sheet of stinkers, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to peel one off. He had no idea what these little adhesive decorations were but they were rather intriguing. He was finally able to get the little cartoon mistletoe off his sheet and then tried to press it on his paper, but it wouldn't stay. He frowned and tried pressing again before flipping over his paw and finding it was stuck to the pad of it. He waved his paw around a bit and even tried removing it with the other paw, only to find it got stuck on that one. He let out a huff and tried pressing it down again, only for it to stay on his paw. "Oh, bloody-" his words broke off as he picked up a pen. Perhaps writing a bit would get the thing unstuck. Without thinking, he wrote the word 'socks' at the top before letting out an irritated huff and pulling his paw to his face again. He glanced at Atticus and Orpheus, feeling heat growing in his face and chest. "Come on-" He muttered the words almost desperately as he tried to flick the sticker away from him.

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[Grimm]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 420px; line-height:120%; font-family: arial; font-size: 8.5pt; text-align: justify; margin-bottom:5px"]Speak of the devil and before you he shall appear – or within this present case it was nothing of so malicious an intent but rather the child deemed Keyne.

Within the grand scheme of all things, odd the structure of time for loose had it grown during the process of healing and addled the mind in its wake, he knew little to the function of the world, the traditions bound to certain times. Religion bore no weight, strange the word though never had it settled about tongue, unneeded such belief within beings that proved higher then all who felt the beat of heart, drew breath. No, his upbringing had been toned within a different light though power did he know, yet lack of defined frame, of thing made as nought but a vehicle for cheer and good tidings.

The storm was what he knew, the power ensnared within the roiling mass of clouds grown dark and within the vapour grown heavy until expelled is it, heat and cold drawn together into something wondrous. Minimal was his own experience with such, youth a turbulent time in which body and mind grew, sponge of one and awkward mess of pain and hormones the other, the surface marred by scarring showing his only time with such. There had been no room for such matters as religion or the Gods tied to it, being thought once to have crafted this world and given life to all, replicas yet imperfect them all. Better to let the child dream, wrapped up within the odd stories shared by those once deemed family, allowed it to be shared with others, remembered fondly without the moment of heartbreak when the magic was cast aside for the harsh touch of reality.

“Santa's helper... did you meet Santa?” Innocent question posed through the slight curl of a frown, twist of head allowing ears to flop over to the side. Odd this concept, half hearted the attempt to listen to what Atticus directed towards Clarence, instead Keyne was focused upon the lion who began this, shuffling paws stilling for only a moment, raising as he found a sticker amongst the rest he rather liked. Simple was it, a snowman with a pebble grin and carrot nose, pressed to his own chest in a mimic of Orpheus'.

Displeased the exhale of breath, ting of embarrassment about it. From the lion attention was turned and brief was the raise of laughter, crinkle of eyes showing further mirth as a smile took hold, wobbly the steps of the child as he moved closer. Paw lifted, waving at Clarence in an act meant to convey Key wanted him to lean forward, reaching out to assist with the removal of the sticker.

[ORPHEUS]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]"You're not from around here, are you?" Although the question is a somewhat serious one, there's a bright, friendly sparkle in the lion's eyes. Everyone had to be explained the holiday at least once, and who's he to fault someone for joining in a little bit late? Perhaps Christmas wasn't as widespread as he thought, but — well, again, it's not like he could judge that. Orpheus hasn't been all around the world, and he doesn't think he ever will be. Too much to see, too little time. But the idea is appealing nonetheless, and if he needs to, he would be perfectly content to learn from their stories. Clarence certainly seemed to have a long one. Maybe he would ask eventually. For now, the way he furrowed his brow was subtly amusing and possibly somewhat cute; he'll keep himself anchored in the moment. "You — do you want help?" The lion tips his head towards the sticker with a quiet smile, trying not to seem too amused.

Socks? Well, maybe that's a good place to start, then. "I dunno about Father Christmas, but Santa gives gifts to people who have earned them, and coal to people who have been bad. So if you're writing to him, maybe talk about what he should get you." For a moment, his attention drifts off to space, eyes falling down to the table. Everything that he asked for in previous years felt so distant, and what he wanted now was beyond any seasonal spirit's abilities. He feels as if he should warn people of that, that maybe Santa couldn't fix all of the world's problems no matter how nicely you wrote it all down, but he doesn't want to drag that into the cheery atmosphere. So he blinks and smiles again. "Like socks, if you want. That's a good place to start. Even if you don't want anything, maybe you can tell him what you're thinking. I think he's a pretty good listener."

While his eyes had drifted to Atticus then, smile growing even as he tried to fight it down. A bunch of Grumpy Guses trying to write letters for the sake of the holiday spirit was kind of hilarious. But Keyne — that's the sort of thing he's really here for. The lion's entire body softens at the child's approach, blinking gently when confronted with that rather damning question. Saying no felt cruel and saying yes felt dishonest, but he would rather swallow a lie than ruin someone's Christmas. So as Keyne potentially busies himself with the very stuck sticker, he glances to Atticus with a small "please help" panic and then clears his expression. "Unfortunately, kid, I've never been able to meet him myself. When I was your age, my dad —" he swallows hard, smile almost pained "— my dad didn't really like strangers, and you know how Santa brings presents at night? I think my dad would have gotten mad at him." The last part drops to a conspiratorial whisper, eyes crinkling with a much easier warmth.

"Maybe we can stay up this Christmas and try to see him together, yeah?"

[AMBROISE]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Ambroise already had a headache from all the goddamn Christmas cheer. Lights everywhere, reflecting off tinsel and plastic and whatever the hell else they'd gotten into their minds to decorate with. Disgusting. Obnoxious. If only people were this enthusiastic about anything else of actual importance. Like health. Maybe he'd like the season more if it weren't so ruined for him, if Mila hadn't hidden stockings for all the slaves to fill with odds and ends she'd collected over the months. Hard to think of anything she'd claimed in his mind without feeling nauseous, without remembering her sightless gaze looking skyward. But that was his baggage. As far as everyone else was concerned, he hated Christmas because it was pointless, loud, and greed disguised as kindness. He never did like it when things were dressed up to be more than what they were. Didn't matter if it was a person or a holiday.

He couldn't escape it, wherever he went. His headache worsened as he kept on, and something like a snarl flitted over his mouth when Orpheus -of course it was Orpheus, who probably stuffed all things Christmas up his ass like practice for loading Santa's sleigh- had to set up some kind of delusion-indulging. Letters to Santa.

"He must not can worry too much about Santa. Fictional fat men aren't mighty dangerous, all things considered."
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[clarence a.]

Clarence glanced towards Orpheus when he heard the man's question and was quick to shake his head. "Uh, no, I don't believe so. Honestly, I'm not quite sure where this place falls on a map, but I can tell you it is nothing like my previous home," he responded. Then had come the fiasco with the sticker. Just as Orpheus offered help and Clarnece seemed to grow more flustered, the child came forward to offer some help and he leaned forward, lowering his paw so he could reach. "Oh, thank you, Keyne," he still seemed rather embarrassed about the whole thing, but he was more than happy for the help. With that out of the way, his gaze was allowed to return to Orpheus. Hearing the description of Santa Claus, the man nodded in understanding. "I see..." He murmured before his attention was then drawn to Ambroise. He had only seen the man around before, yet they'd never spoken.

Despite lacking knowledge of this tradition, his face scrunched a bit at the mention of him being fictional as Clarence cast a glance to Keyne. He didn't see the harm in allowing children to have a bit of fun. The world was dark enough already. Stories were a good, healthy escape. Still, what could he say? "I think it's perfectly reasonable to be concerned. With so much documentation, it seems unlikely his existence is false. However, due to his nature, from what I've heard, you're right in one respect- there is no reason to worry. He is a generous, kind man who I'm sure will reward Keyne well this year." Honestly, he wasn't sure if he was making the situation better or worse, but he wasn't willing to just leave it be. Hopefully Keyne would pay no mind to the man. He should be allowed to live in a world with magic (not the dark kind, of course) for a bit longer. There wasn't a long period where one was allowed to be a child and he should be able to exist in it for as long as possible.

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