OOC: This thread is created to give a sample of whats happening around the world on December 24-25, 2011, in the world of NSE. Consider this an opportunity to show a side of your nation or people that you normally don't. Wether its soldiers, preists, workers, politicians, whoever, feel free to post what they are doing on Christmas Eve. It could be anything. So please, post, it doesnt have to be christmas related, merely a snapshot of the world at a certain time. I'd like it if everyone currently active who wasnt busy with other things was able to post here, and give some kind of semi-global picture.
IC:
December 24, 9:00pm, 2011
Westhaven, People's Republic of Havenshire
All Saints Church on Fullminster Street didnt normally see much traffic. In fact, most of the year, it was a run-down, grey building, a church which had stood there for centuries, ignored, despised, passed by. Its stained glass windows were patched and blurred, having been shattered many times over the last few decades. It stood bare of the usual ornament, robbed in the Madness of 1927, its gold lecterns melted down, its bibles burnt, its crucifix torn down and smashed. But its preist, Father Sergio D'Ittori, was determined to give this old church the best presence he could. A refugee from Solaren, he had been accepted into Havenshire because he described himself as worker. It was true- his work was the work of the Lord, Jesus Christ, and his task was to build not material, but Hope. Some years, he reflected bitterly, it was harder than others.
But tonight- tonight was the one night of the year he could be sure that men would come. That they would feel some need- a need no amount of indoctrination could rob them of, no amount of propaganda smother- a need to come together, a need to feel...Hope. For one night only, Father D'Ittori didn't need his whiskey bottle to keep hope.
He and the usual parishoners had done their utmost to turn the run-down little building into a place of welcome for this one night only. Tinsel was draped around cold, hard stone pillars. Handmade pillows, sewn from cast-offs from the cloth mills, decorated the pews. Candlebra made of tin and aluminium cradled small, runny wick candles, which cast a dim but hallowed light through the vast empty hall. On the high wall, affixed across the stained glass facade, was a poster of the Lord, crucified. Everytime he looked at the poster he almost cried. The real Crucifix would never be found or returned, for it had been burned in 1927, along with everything else in this church, on a huge pile in front of it. The Father of that time had written it all down in his diary, which every custodian of this building was required to read. What happened to the Father then...noone was quite sure. But the diary ended in the July of 1937, 10 years after the burning, and not long after the end of the Civil War. About the time, in fact, that John Walker gained power, and the Purges began.
It was an ill-omened history, Father D'Ittori knew. But it was a history he bore with care. This land had a darkness draped across it, but points of light existed. Solaren, he feared, was a land whose light had been perverted. But here, there were no lucifers to cast a veil over what he said or did. No mad Popes to pervert the doctrine. It was a blank slate, and, aside from the occasional outburst of anti-religious grumbling, or the frequent suprise inspections by the Ministry of Public Affairs, he found that there was very little to fear here. Instead, his enemy was Apathy, boredom, inertia.
And tonight, of all nights, he was determined to win that fight, if only for a little while.
The Heavy, blackened wood doors swung open with hardly a creak. His heart soared as he saw the numbers of people, wearing heavy mufflers, worker's flat caps and scarves, shuffling in from the cold. He wore his best vestments, and had a big thick Bible on the lectern in front of him. The local school even donated its Singing Club to be a Choir for him. The school had asked to remain anonmyous, but the gesture was one he cherished. The Organ in the back had been a personal project. He had laboured for the last four years to get it fixed. Old Pete, the carpenter, had helped, and had even learned to play, a little. It was by such acts, he knew, that Jesus's love was truly rewarded.
As they all gathered and sat in the pews, he knew many would be coming for the first time, others long-time secret or even open Christians. It was not about Roman Catholicism, Protestantism, or any other denomination. All Saints was one of but a handful of churches here in the Capital that could legally operate. The State made no distinctions, played no favourites. Those who wished to indulge in that opiate of the masses, would have to do so, quietly, at whatever was available, or not at all.
He noted with interest that, whilst the majority of those filing in were local workers and their families, there were always a few from other professions and walks of life, who came, sometimes in shame, sometimes pretending to be "checking up on this suspicious godfulness". Civil Commissioners, Party Members, Defence Reservists. The Call touched souls both low and high.
As at last they began to seat themselves, he waited till all were quiet, before he began to speak. He knew he wasn't a very good Catholic, but a few years in Havenshire had taught him that points of doctrine and ritual were ultimately secondary to simply getting people in and hearing the word of Christ.
"Thank you all for coming." He said, careful to project his voice so that it filled the entire chamber. The wooden doors slammed close, and the volunteers quickly got themselves ready for their other roles in the ceremony. He coughed, clearing his throat. "For those who are here for the first time, or needing a refresher, you will find a paper pamphlet detailing the order of ceremonies scheduled for tonight on your seats. Hymn Books are under your pillows, so please leave them here when you leave later tonight." He then quickly put on his hat, and walked calmly back down to the front of the Church, to begin the Procession. As he hurried, Old Pete began to play hesitantly on the organ, an opening song. It was a bit of a hash doing it this way, he knew, but he found it easier to introduce before formally starting the ceremony, as best he could.
A group of volunteers of various ages quickly formed a procession, swaying a brass decanter and holding aloft simple carved wooden crosses. The poster had been taken down in favour of a simple wooden crucifix, though he was mindful of the difficulties in finding appropriate precious metals for the right sacraments.
And so the Mass truly began. He read Isaiah 9:2-7 and Isaiah 62:6-12, talked about the Love of Christ, they sang hymns. He followed the rough instructions set out by the non-Solaren Papacy for Christmas Mass procession. It wasn't the form that mattered so much, but the spirit that filled the occasion. For three hours or so, he was able to keep over a hundred people spellbound, willingly participating in a ceremony many centuries older than even this fine church.
As he gave Communion, he was suprised at some who came to recieve it from him, including a man he recognised as being the local City Councillor, someone who sat in the People's Directive when it was called. It gladdened his heart. The Lord did indeed work in mysterious ways.
As the time of the Recessional drew near, he ended with a simple, heartfelt request: "May almighty God bless you,
the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit." A loud, almost universal Amen echoed back from those attending. He allowed himself a small smile. "Go in peace, and have a Merry Christmas!" he said. The ceremony ended in a hubbub of activity, as Old Pete began to play Born in Bethlehem, a favourite in these parts, on the organ. He had gained much confidence in playing the organ this year, perhaps enough to begin training a new organist.
"A wonderful ceremony, Father." D'Ittori turned, and saw the City Councillor standing there. "Blessings be upon you, sir. How can I be of assistance?"
The man chuckled. "It is truly rare to meet someone so...unassuming, so willing to give of themselves. Actually, I am here to do you a favour. This church...how would you like a substantial, discreet donation? From one servant of the people to another."
Father D'Ittori was stunned. "This wouldn't be another attempt by the State to buy me, would it? Listen, I appreciate the offers of Spiritual Grants or whatever they call them, but..."
"No, no, please don't be offended Father. This is a genuine private donation. I give it because...well, I'm so tired of being asked for everything all the time. The Unions, the Directive, the Co-ops, the Millitary, the Symposium, the Academies,Aid Coop, the Veterans Association....everyone comes begging at my door, for money, for funds, for political favours. But not you. Not...this Church. Instead, you have given me a few hours of peace. I feel that deserves a reward, don't you?"
"I don't do this for rewards, Councillor. I do this because it is what i truly believe in my soul to be the right thing to do."
The Councillor smiled. "I knew you were the right man. I am prepared to write a cheque to you, for 10,000 credits. That should be enough to help cover rennovation costs for the interior of your fine Church, and perhaps get you some proper sacristies."
"Thank you, sir. Who do I attribute this donation to?"
"Charity given in public is vanity, Father. You know that." The Councillor winked, and left.
Father D'Ittori was left wondering wether this classed as a miracle or not.
===========================================================
December 25th,
9:30AM
The Nation awoke to its usual state holiday. Families gathered around trees and ate meals they prepared themselves. Presents were given in plain brown packaging, usually something useful or homemade. TV showed Christmas movie classics, and even broadcast public christmas celebration ceremonies. At 2pm, the Premier would give his Yearly Address to the People, talking about how this year went, and what was planned for the year ahead.
In Montelimar, Princess Rebecca Garland nodded to her Franken Bodyguards, and proceeded to her private study. She was 14 years old, and the official heir to the Throne of Havenshire. She had just finished a fine christmas breakfast with her Uncle and Regent, Samuel Garland, who was talking about negiotiating this or that thing with the Franken and the EDF. She didn't much care about politics, but she was fascinated by the country she was born to rule, even though she had never been there.
She went online, and prepared to record her Christmas Podcast. She wanted, now that she was old enough, to continue a tradition her Grandfather had sadly had cut short with his death. He had given clandestine radio addresses, wishing everyone in Havenshire a Merry Christmas, and reminding them that however hard things got, there was always hope of a better tomorrow. He was a master orator, and for decades the CIB had tried to shut down his radio operations. Instead, she reflected with an old sadness, they had killed him and her parents.
Quietly, she turned on her webcam, and got out her notebook, in which she had written her latest poems.
"Good Morning, World. I am Rebecca Garland. Today I wanted to wish all of you a Merry Christmas, to read some of my poetry, and to anwser some common questions about who I am...and what I am. For my longtime fans, thank you for your support. For those who see me in political terms only, then I hope you will also stay, and give honest comments on my poetry."
She smiled brilliantly, and then began to read, in a voice she had been drilled and tutored to perfection, her poems.
It was a strange yet noble act of subversion, and one that even Defence Minister Angela Steele watched, in between reading reports and drinking eggnog, on her laptop.
Angela Steele was in her office, inside the empty Ministry of Defence building. She had so many plans to attend to, so much business official and unofficial to co-ordinate. The recent scandals had set her back, but she was confident she could outwit the Central Congress and its spies. For now, the sight and sound of a 14 year old girl reading out christmas poetry...reminded Angela of her own past. Her encounter with General Rothmann had unearthed demons of her own. The man was a pyscho, but his story had been...instructive. She was also now confident she knew what to do to guarantee millitary support for her bid for power, should it prove necessary.
She looked out the window, at the sight of a grey courtyard. No snow this year. A cold, hard year full of war. She smiled, colder than the ice. It was only the Beginning.
The World is in turmoil
There's War everywhere
People starving and homeless
And not enough seem to care.
It's not their kid who's dying
In some place across the sea
Or who is mere skin and bones
With no one to hear their plea.
Some people are too busy
Out spending their money
To try and to outdo others
If not sad, it would be funny.
Some began it months ago
Swiping that plastic, credit card
There's some will never pay it off
And for most, it will be hard.
Then there are those people
Who want, "politically correct"
Who want, "Happy Holidays"
(What else would you expect?)
They can't leave well enough alone
The way it's always been for years
They say it might offend someone
And there's some other stupid fears.
Peace and Goodwill are evasive
And they will most likely never be
As long as the rich get richer
From War and the Christmas spending spree.
-Rebecca Garland
OOC: Poem by Del "Abe" Jones
IC:
December 24, 9:00pm, 2011
Westhaven, People's Republic of Havenshire
All Saints Church on Fullminster Street didnt normally see much traffic. In fact, most of the year, it was a run-down, grey building, a church which had stood there for centuries, ignored, despised, passed by. Its stained glass windows were patched and blurred, having been shattered many times over the last few decades. It stood bare of the usual ornament, robbed in the Madness of 1927, its gold lecterns melted down, its bibles burnt, its crucifix torn down and smashed. But its preist, Father Sergio D'Ittori, was determined to give this old church the best presence he could. A refugee from Solaren, he had been accepted into Havenshire because he described himself as worker. It was true- his work was the work of the Lord, Jesus Christ, and his task was to build not material, but Hope. Some years, he reflected bitterly, it was harder than others.
But tonight- tonight was the one night of the year he could be sure that men would come. That they would feel some need- a need no amount of indoctrination could rob them of, no amount of propaganda smother- a need to come together, a need to feel...Hope. For one night only, Father D'Ittori didn't need his whiskey bottle to keep hope.
He and the usual parishoners had done their utmost to turn the run-down little building into a place of welcome for this one night only. Tinsel was draped around cold, hard stone pillars. Handmade pillows, sewn from cast-offs from the cloth mills, decorated the pews. Candlebra made of tin and aluminium cradled small, runny wick candles, which cast a dim but hallowed light through the vast empty hall. On the high wall, affixed across the stained glass facade, was a poster of the Lord, crucified. Everytime he looked at the poster he almost cried. The real Crucifix would never be found or returned, for it had been burned in 1927, along with everything else in this church, on a huge pile in front of it. The Father of that time had written it all down in his diary, which every custodian of this building was required to read. What happened to the Father then...noone was quite sure. But the diary ended in the July of 1937, 10 years after the burning, and not long after the end of the Civil War. About the time, in fact, that John Walker gained power, and the Purges began.
It was an ill-omened history, Father D'Ittori knew. But it was a history he bore with care. This land had a darkness draped across it, but points of light existed. Solaren, he feared, was a land whose light had been perverted. But here, there were no lucifers to cast a veil over what he said or did. No mad Popes to pervert the doctrine. It was a blank slate, and, aside from the occasional outburst of anti-religious grumbling, or the frequent suprise inspections by the Ministry of Public Affairs, he found that there was very little to fear here. Instead, his enemy was Apathy, boredom, inertia.
And tonight, of all nights, he was determined to win that fight, if only for a little while.
The Heavy, blackened wood doors swung open with hardly a creak. His heart soared as he saw the numbers of people, wearing heavy mufflers, worker's flat caps and scarves, shuffling in from the cold. He wore his best vestments, and had a big thick Bible on the lectern in front of him. The local school even donated its Singing Club to be a Choir for him. The school had asked to remain anonmyous, but the gesture was one he cherished. The Organ in the back had been a personal project. He had laboured for the last four years to get it fixed. Old Pete, the carpenter, had helped, and had even learned to play, a little. It was by such acts, he knew, that Jesus's love was truly rewarded.
As they all gathered and sat in the pews, he knew many would be coming for the first time, others long-time secret or even open Christians. It was not about Roman Catholicism, Protestantism, or any other denomination. All Saints was one of but a handful of churches here in the Capital that could legally operate. The State made no distinctions, played no favourites. Those who wished to indulge in that opiate of the masses, would have to do so, quietly, at whatever was available, or not at all.
He noted with interest that, whilst the majority of those filing in were local workers and their families, there were always a few from other professions and walks of life, who came, sometimes in shame, sometimes pretending to be "checking up on this suspicious godfulness". Civil Commissioners, Party Members, Defence Reservists. The Call touched souls both low and high.
As at last they began to seat themselves, he waited till all were quiet, before he began to speak. He knew he wasn't a very good Catholic, but a few years in Havenshire had taught him that points of doctrine and ritual were ultimately secondary to simply getting people in and hearing the word of Christ.
"Thank you all for coming." He said, careful to project his voice so that it filled the entire chamber. The wooden doors slammed close, and the volunteers quickly got themselves ready for their other roles in the ceremony. He coughed, clearing his throat. "For those who are here for the first time, or needing a refresher, you will find a paper pamphlet detailing the order of ceremonies scheduled for tonight on your seats. Hymn Books are under your pillows, so please leave them here when you leave later tonight." He then quickly put on his hat, and walked calmly back down to the front of the Church, to begin the Procession. As he hurried, Old Pete began to play hesitantly on the organ, an opening song. It was a bit of a hash doing it this way, he knew, but he found it easier to introduce before formally starting the ceremony, as best he could.
A group of volunteers of various ages quickly formed a procession, swaying a brass decanter and holding aloft simple carved wooden crosses. The poster had been taken down in favour of a simple wooden crucifix, though he was mindful of the difficulties in finding appropriate precious metals for the right sacraments.
And so the Mass truly began. He read Isaiah 9:2-7 and Isaiah 62:6-12, talked about the Love of Christ, they sang hymns. He followed the rough instructions set out by the non-Solaren Papacy for Christmas Mass procession. It wasn't the form that mattered so much, but the spirit that filled the occasion. For three hours or so, he was able to keep over a hundred people spellbound, willingly participating in a ceremony many centuries older than even this fine church.
As he gave Communion, he was suprised at some who came to recieve it from him, including a man he recognised as being the local City Councillor, someone who sat in the People's Directive when it was called. It gladdened his heart. The Lord did indeed work in mysterious ways.
As the time of the Recessional drew near, he ended with a simple, heartfelt request: "May almighty God bless you,
the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit." A loud, almost universal Amen echoed back from those attending. He allowed himself a small smile. "Go in peace, and have a Merry Christmas!" he said. The ceremony ended in a hubbub of activity, as Old Pete began to play Born in Bethlehem, a favourite in these parts, on the organ. He had gained much confidence in playing the organ this year, perhaps enough to begin training a new organist.
"A wonderful ceremony, Father." D'Ittori turned, and saw the City Councillor standing there. "Blessings be upon you, sir. How can I be of assistance?"
The man chuckled. "It is truly rare to meet someone so...unassuming, so willing to give of themselves. Actually, I am here to do you a favour. This church...how would you like a substantial, discreet donation? From one servant of the people to another."
Father D'Ittori was stunned. "This wouldn't be another attempt by the State to buy me, would it? Listen, I appreciate the offers of Spiritual Grants or whatever they call them, but..."
"No, no, please don't be offended Father. This is a genuine private donation. I give it because...well, I'm so tired of being asked for everything all the time. The Unions, the Directive, the Co-ops, the Millitary, the Symposium, the Academies,Aid Coop, the Veterans Association....everyone comes begging at my door, for money, for funds, for political favours. But not you. Not...this Church. Instead, you have given me a few hours of peace. I feel that deserves a reward, don't you?"
"I don't do this for rewards, Councillor. I do this because it is what i truly believe in my soul to be the right thing to do."
The Councillor smiled. "I knew you were the right man. I am prepared to write a cheque to you, for 10,000 credits. That should be enough to help cover rennovation costs for the interior of your fine Church, and perhaps get you some proper sacristies."
"Thank you, sir. Who do I attribute this donation to?"
"Charity given in public is vanity, Father. You know that." The Councillor winked, and left.
Father D'Ittori was left wondering wether this classed as a miracle or not.
===========================================================
December 25th,
9:30AM
The Nation awoke to its usual state holiday. Families gathered around trees and ate meals they prepared themselves. Presents were given in plain brown packaging, usually something useful or homemade. TV showed Christmas movie classics, and even broadcast public christmas celebration ceremonies. At 2pm, the Premier would give his Yearly Address to the People, talking about how this year went, and what was planned for the year ahead.
In Montelimar, Princess Rebecca Garland nodded to her Franken Bodyguards, and proceeded to her private study. She was 14 years old, and the official heir to the Throne of Havenshire. She had just finished a fine christmas breakfast with her Uncle and Regent, Samuel Garland, who was talking about negiotiating this or that thing with the Franken and the EDF. She didn't much care about politics, but she was fascinated by the country she was born to rule, even though she had never been there.
She went online, and prepared to record her Christmas Podcast. She wanted, now that she was old enough, to continue a tradition her Grandfather had sadly had cut short with his death. He had given clandestine radio addresses, wishing everyone in Havenshire a Merry Christmas, and reminding them that however hard things got, there was always hope of a better tomorrow. He was a master orator, and for decades the CIB had tried to shut down his radio operations. Instead, she reflected with an old sadness, they had killed him and her parents.
Quietly, she turned on her webcam, and got out her notebook, in which she had written her latest poems.
"Good Morning, World. I am Rebecca Garland. Today I wanted to wish all of you a Merry Christmas, to read some of my poetry, and to anwser some common questions about who I am...and what I am. For my longtime fans, thank you for your support. For those who see me in political terms only, then I hope you will also stay, and give honest comments on my poetry."
She smiled brilliantly, and then began to read, in a voice she had been drilled and tutored to perfection, her poems.
It was a strange yet noble act of subversion, and one that even Defence Minister Angela Steele watched, in between reading reports and drinking eggnog, on her laptop.
Angela Steele was in her office, inside the empty Ministry of Defence building. She had so many plans to attend to, so much business official and unofficial to co-ordinate. The recent scandals had set her back, but she was confident she could outwit the Central Congress and its spies. For now, the sight and sound of a 14 year old girl reading out christmas poetry...reminded Angela of her own past. Her encounter with General Rothmann had unearthed demons of her own. The man was a pyscho, but his story had been...instructive. She was also now confident she knew what to do to guarantee millitary support for her bid for power, should it prove necessary.
She looked out the window, at the sight of a grey courtyard. No snow this year. A cold, hard year full of war. She smiled, colder than the ice. It was only the Beginning.
The World is in turmoil
There's War everywhere
People starving and homeless
And not enough seem to care.
It's not their kid who's dying
In some place across the sea
Or who is mere skin and bones
With no one to hear their plea.
Some people are too busy
Out spending their money
To try and to outdo others
If not sad, it would be funny.
Some began it months ago
Swiping that plastic, credit card
There's some will never pay it off
And for most, it will be hard.
Then there are those people
Who want, "politically correct"
Who want, "Happy Holidays"
(What else would you expect?)
They can't leave well enough alone
The way it's always been for years
They say it might offend someone
And there's some other stupid fears.
Peace and Goodwill are evasive
And they will most likely never be
As long as the rich get richer
From War and the Christmas spending spree.
-Rebecca Garland
OOC: Poem by Del "Abe" Jones
