The Black Pot

She sits idly fanning herself. Very few in the room would understand any messages she would wish to send through subtle touches or elaborate twists and rills of the fan, so it is the plain, dulling monotony of back and forth. It's a pity, really, that the tradition has been allowed to die. How boring it is to have only one conversation and hope that your listeners can grasp double entendres or subtle shades of meaning. It was always much easier and satisfying to have two, or possibly three, conversations actively occurring at the same time in the old days. Now, the tradition of conversations conveyed through floral arrangements, that one she is happy to do without.

Thoughts of floral arrangements and making up saucy stories based solely on funeral arrangements oddly enough brings her thoughts to this month's topic. June weddings, which might as well be funerals for a few unlucky brides who've bought into the packet of false advertising presented by a scheming beau. Or for the grooms who would in a few years time find themselves saddled to a vapid cow who turns to bonbons and bourbon after the first flush of love has withered like the bridal bouquet. Love and marriage should not ever have anything to do with one another. Love is too fragile to withstand the demands of that social contract, at least in most of the lives she has observed.

"Love is too fragile to last long in this world, and should be enjoyed whenever and wherever it is found."

The Doctor runs his fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp, his expression one of deep thought. Suddenly, during the lull following Ianto, his eyes widen and he shouts mid-hair-scratch, "Oh! I've got one!" He jumps to his feet and announces gleefully, "Mind-bending!"

He continues on explaining, eyes gleaming with pride. "Great traditional sporting event of my people. Sorta like...wrestling... for Time Lords. It was quite a big deal in Academy. We used to have tournaments within our Chapters, then each Chapter winner would go on and compete against the others. Plus, sometimes people would organize teams or compete recreationally. Like...football, here. Or any other sport, really. People would have their little rituals before matches. There used to be wagering involved and everything!"

His lips turn slightly upwards, reminiscing. "Been a long time since I've mind-bended with anyone," he muses. "Suppose I never will again, being that..." his expression hardens as he breaks off mid-sentence.

He inhales deeply and resumes speaking. "Last person I challenged was a giant brain. Actually, not that giant... Fairly standard-sized brain -- especially in comparison to an alien I met recently -- but, the brain was all that was left of him! He was quite a psychopath. Once a great Time Lord himself, Morbius. Our challenge sort of ended in a draw, though he..." he breaks off again, noticing some of the cafe patrons' expressions glazing over. "It's a long story."

"Anyway!" He continues on enthusiastically, now roaming about the tables. "So, here's how it works: one Time Lord challenges another Time Lord to a mind-bending contest. If the Time Lord you've challenged accepts, then we form a connection between our brains either through a technological device or by simply using telepathy. Now, the point -- the object of the contest -- is to force your opponent back through their previous incarnations -- their previous lives -- by using the power of your mind. Time Lord who pushes the other furthest back or the Time Lord who bests resists being pushed is the winner." He grins, beaming.

His smile fades and his voice takes on a more serious tone. "Trouble is, sometimes it gets a little out of hand. Things can go too far, you can push people beyond their first incarnation, beyond even the beginning of their existence... And, well, you know what they say: it's all fun and games until it ends in a deathlock."

"But," he grins again, "on the whole, it's a pretty fun traditional game. Well, for Time Lords, anyway." His grin widens and he returns to his seat.

Ianto stands up after listening to everyone talk about their various traditions, a faint, fond smile on his face.

"I'm not sure if mine even counts as a tradition. I mean, it didn't go on for very long, all things considered. And it's not something a whole culture or society or religion did. So maybe it's not a tradition, maybe it's just a habit, or something.

My dad used to take me to the cinema every Saturday morning. Maybe started when my mom was pregnant with my sister, giving her some peace and quiet and a few hours to herself. Anyway, every Saturday, we'd wake up early, and he'd make me eggs and toast for breakfast. He always burned them. And we'd watch cartoon or he'd read to me until it was time to go the cinema. They always showed kids movies on Saturday morning. Then we'd stop for ice cream on the way home, even if it was wet and cold and miserable out." He sighs a bit. "I loved Saturday mornings. I don't know if that's a tradition or not, but that's what we did."

He almost sits down, then stands back up, as though deciding to add something at the very last second. "He died in car crash. When I was seven."

OOC: I will be going on a roadtrip with my roommate over the next few weeks, so will only be around in the evening if at all, depending on whether or not the hostels have wi-fi.

Phèdre slides into the cafe, her kitten that Bones gave her tucked into her pocket, and quietly takes a spot at a back table. She has a thermos with her full of hot Earl Grey. She is still quite tired, she realizes, though she's had a day or two to recover from her trip with Buckbeak. She's not yet returned to the Spa, but plans to do so soon.

Perhaps.

She is honestly not sure what she wants to do. She only knows that she is glad to be in Margate, since she was unable to find her way back to Terre d'Ange, as she'd hoped. Buckbeak also appeared to be happy to have returned to his corral, trotting around squawking and rolling in the fresh hay someone had left for his eventual return.

Once the last person is finished, she nods to the crowd.

"I did not grow up in a normal family. My father left us when I was very young, and my mother abandoned me to others. Sadly then, any family traditions that might have been passed on to me by them both, were not. It is a loss that can never be undone, and this question has made me wonder, as I haven't in some years, what would my life have been like had I not been struck by Kushiel's dart? Given such a fateful name? Sold to Cereus House by my mother?"

She takes a breath, dispelling the surprising rush of anger at her parents as her eyes fall on Dora. Blessed Elua, I hope she doesn't think anything of this!

She smiles, spreading her hands. "But a normal life was never meant for me, not with what I am, Kushiel's Chosen."

"I grew up, then, in Cereus House. A child growing up in such an environment must abide by a great many rules and, yes, tradition is a major part of that which shapes him or her. From the way the child is taught, to the rituals that must be learned that surround each and every possible celebration a Patron might wish to employ an Adept to perform, and even to the choice of each Adept's marque, and the many ways how payment for such is satisfied."

She flashes Sirius a smile, drawn to the curiosity in his eyes. She raises one eyebrow, her eyes dancing across young Dora, and the ever-watchful Xel and Iago, and decides perhaps it is best to temper her tales of tradition.

"Unfortunately, once again, I was denied these things, and was not permitted to become an Adept, at least not in the usual manner. My flaw," she motions toward her eye, "made it obvious I could never be a true courtesan, for many feared what they saw. A Patron desires a pleasing look of eye, and that is not something I can give. So on the sidelines was where I stood as I watched the others taught the traditional," she glances again at Dora, "arts of the courtesan."

"Fortunately, at the age of eight, I was bought by a Patron who instilled in me at last the feeling of family and tradition. Anafiel Delauney, whose name I now hold as my own, enjoyed his traditions though he was most untraditional himself. I believe they made us--Anafiel, myself and my brother Alcuin--a family bound by more than mere blood."

A family. The sharp pang of loss flares in her breast. How she misses them both, still.

"My peoples' traditions are based primarily on pleasure, not just of the body but of the mind, and under Anafiel's guidance, I learned these things and many more. That I have no one to pass them on to, from the simple toasts of joie on the Longest Night to the beautiful traditions wrapped around those who are deemed ready to enter service to Namaah, is a shame. If anyone would care to know more of these things, it would be my pleasure to share them in private."

She smiles down at Dora, then at the audience who, no doubt, understands why she chooses to end her speech at this point.

.


( Traditions )
*shakes his head - not for the first time, it occurs to him that the most innoccuous words trigger the oddest memories*

*to Regulus*

Before I say anything, I need to know: if the weirdest tradition gets a cold cup of tea, what does someone have to do to get a hot cup of tea?

After giggling happily at Regulus' bells and wondering where she could get some of her own, Dora listens attentively to the others before she decides it's her turn. She gives her Teddy over to Xellos, who obligingly takes the oversized bear. Then she reaches her arms out to Iago who lifts her up from her chair into his lap so she can stand on his thighs. She wobbles a little but he has a secure hold on her around the waist. Her hair is lime green today, and it matches one of her socks (the other sock is purple).

"I don't know wear bells or compare tools with people, and I don't think Mummy or Daddy do either or Xellos or Iago. Iago works in a hotel making drinks for people so he doesn't have a hammer or a screwdriver to show people there. But Xellos has tools like that!"

She pauses to think about her own traditions, things she and her family do regularly. "Daddy and I watch Bond movies together an' Daddy always makes popcorn for us, and Mummy makes orange and pineapple juice for us shaken, not stirred, so I guess that's a tradition, right?"

"At Christmas, we go to Grandpapa's church reeeeally late at night for Midnight Mass. Grandpapa puts a wreath made out of branches and red berries that I'm not supposed to eat because they're poisonous on the door. And it's really cold and we're not s'posed to use magic in front of the Muggles so we bundle up in lots of jumpers and coats and two pair of socks. And we sing songs 'bout baby Jesus and 'bout Once in Royal David's City, and drink hot apple cider! And then we go home to stay with Grandpapa at his house!"

Dora looks like she's about to sit down then she bolts up again in thought. "OH! AND! Daddy told me once about people in South America who bite each other instead of asking people to marry them!" She shows her teeth to everyone then chomps down a few times in illustration.

Elric stirs his tea, listening intently. This month’s topic is another invitation to gloom, at least for him, but he’s not going to have that. The first speaker’s - that dark-haired fellow’s- contribution does nothing to dispell his impression that more gloom lies ahead, but the other fellow’s – Jack, was it? A friend of the Doctor’s? - leaves a slightly more cheerful impression. Of course there is death in it – small wonder, considering the kind of parons typical for the café – but there is also his recounting of happy orgies. That, of course, reminds Elric of certain traditions concerning the Melnibonéan succession. While these traditions were on the orgiastic side, they lacked every bit of the joyful ease of the meetings this Jack has talked about, and he’s not going to talk about them.
He deliberately pushes away the gloomy thoughts. There has been so much, these days, which calls for something other than gloom.

He gets to his feet and starts: “My people held tradition in high esteem. As for myself, I never was much of a traditionalist. I will not recount the traditions of my people – I figure that most of you would find them as distatsteful as I did. I have not yet learnt much about the traditions of this world, but what I have learnt today...” - he glances at Regulus – “looks charming enough. So if you don’t mind I’d rather learn more about the traditions of this world.”
He pauses for a moment, then adds with a faint smile: “I’ve already learnt to appreciate tea.”

Jack stands up and looks around like he's waiting for a tradition to burst through the walls and dance on the tables. Maybe with bells on. Since nothing of the sort happens, he sighs and tries to figure out what he can say about traditions, of all things.

"Traditions," he says. "Uh, traditional stuff. Yeah, I'm not much with that. Don't think anybody would ever call me traditional." He looks down at his own clothes, uncharacteristically wearing denim jeans with his very characteristic greatcoat, and shrugs. "Although I guess maybe I have some in me somewhere. Let's see, traditions in general..." Might as well go on a ramble until a point gets made somewhere in it.

( Traditions )

This spring has left him tired and irritable, more than anything else. The jolt from miserable shit weather to something approaching a feeble excuse for summer was unexpected, and Cesare couldn't even be bothered to dress properly, grabbing rumpled jeans and a polo shirt before slouching out the door. (He blames Miquel for those lapses, bella figura-wise. Miquel started this, Cesare reminds himself, what with the soft, soft cashmere turtlenecks and the shamelessly low-slung jeans. God only knows where he got that from.) Wearily, Cesare rubs his eyes. Probably hayfever. No reason to feel heavy of heart and limb.

Traditions, hm? "I'm all for traditions," he says quietly, distractedly, crossing his arms. "Although there's one that irritates the f-... that annoys me greatly." Every festivity, every dinner, Lucrezia had looked at him like a cow - at first with those big, watery, swollen eyes sore from crying, then with a glacial stare bordering on the malicious. She'd make sure to bumble with the earthenware, clunking and clanking it around, jabbing her fork into the plate as if stabbing Cesare, not the poor hapless maiolica. One or two times he'd been tempted to smash her head on the table, just to stop the sniffling.

"I don't see how it could appease the soul of the deceased, may God rest them, if tradition forces the widow to pack away her silver for a year. Looks absurd, too," he mutters, raking his hair, "when everybody dines off the choicest plate, and the poverella sits in front of a peasant's bowl." And then turns it into a weapon. Great god, the wailing. Enough to give him a migraine. As if it had been his fault. Ridiculous.

Cesare shrugs. "I've never seen the sense in that. Besides, she was better off without him."

Regulus is jingling. He doesn't usually jingle; in fact he's usually quite opposed to jingling noises, especially when they signal work to be done. On closer inspection, he's wearing some rather jazzy socks, complete with ribbons and what are unmistakably bells. Not the normal Black attire, although if one can get used to the idea of a Black wearing an apron, then anything is possible.

"The topic of discussion for this month is traditions. For those of you that need even more proof that Muggles are a very strange breed, some apparently like celebrate May Day by dressing up in bells and silly hats and dancing around with handkerchiefs. Why, however, is still beyond me. Hence my bells. I'm in-te-grat-ing."

It's said slowly, slightly hushed, as if it's a very dirty word.

"Say a word and you'll be sorry. So. Tell me all about your traditions. Prove to me that there are stranger things out there than full-grown men skipping around and banging their sticks together. Whoever has the weirdest tradition gets a free cup of tea, if there happens to be one available that hasn't gone too cold."

The tag for this topic is "traditions".