(no subject)

[andhiswife]

Greta spends most of the morning in the kitchen.

Sort of absurd, really, given the preparations being made across the city. But they've been working on the cottage for weeks, now — fortifying both magical and physical deterrents, getting Aggie's animals settled and comfortable, stocking up on whatever they might need based on every miserable eventuality she could envision — and it's belatedly occurred to her that if all goes according to plan, what she'll mostly be doing is just... hosting. She's told everyone she can think of that the cottage should be a safe harbor, and while she doesn't expect all of them to come by, or to stay for the whole evening, she imagines the ones that do might be wanting more than just a brief rest and some first aid.

So she bakes, wanting to get it done early enough that the wind will have time to dispel any tempting scents well before the siren sounds. Wanting to give herself something to do besides wringing her hands, or checking and re-checking everything like a madwoman, or lecturing Saoirse about the importance of not doing anything foolish.

Later, as people begin to arrive, she focuses on making sure they're comfortable (or as comfortable as circumstances allow). There's a large pot of soup on the stove and fresh-baked goods for anyone who's managed to keep their appetite, and plenty of tea in the cupboard. By the time 6PM rolls around, she's half-tempted to bring out something stronger, for all that this seems like a terrible time to impair her own judgment. The heavier stuff can wait, she decides, until they've all made it through this, ideally unscathed.

When the siren sounds, she's standing on her front stoop, brow furrowed at the city skyline, windows tightly shuttered behind her and arms folded tightly across her chest. What a stupid bloody excuse for a holiday.


[ A gathering post for anyone who might be riding out the Purge at the cottage, either temporarily or for the whole evening. If Greta knows your pup, it's a safe bet you've been invited or otherwise made aware, but anyone without evil intentions should be able to safely bypass Magnus' wards and make it onto the property for a respite. Open forever! ]

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[ghost_holder]

The siren sounds and Aggie wishes it sounds more distant, as if it were something that happened only after crossing properly into the city. Instead, it's loud and clear in the skies above her here too. Someone's on the porch still, whether to get one last gasp of fresh air or arriving at the very cusp of safety, but theirs looks to be a familiar face rather than a threatening stranger.

"You should come inside now," Aggie says, even though she's only a few feet away, dithering right at the threshold. Greta's nervous energy probably found no calm harbors with Aggie, who spent all of the daylight hours pacing the property line and going over every bit of magic with a fine-toothed comb. It's as safe as she can make it and Aggie knows there's very little else she can realistically do, but she's still fighting with the pent up energy that she's been unable to siphon off.

And now, here she is, standing at Greta's door and telling someone to get inside as if Aggie's the grown up. It's not as if the front door will change everything else, nor are people practically at their doors with pitchforks by any means. It just feels especially vulnerable out here, somehow.

[auctionofinnocence]

The Downs are as secured as she could afford, her house is boarded up, and she and Poppy have been at the cottage for most of the day. Poppy is getting along famously with the animals that Greta's friend Aggie's brought along, but Lari knew she would — the concern had always been anyone else that would come by, but apparently, Larita is the only person that Poppy outright hated on sight. Thank goodness that's over.

Greta is a nervous baker, Larita's learned. Perhaps 'nervous' isn't the right word, but there's a certain sort of ceaseless energy that suggests she isn't sure what else to do with herself, and if it weren't for this ghastly Purge business, Larita would find it even more charming. They're never both keyed up at the same time — Larita, for her part, has felt very still and quiet as the day wore on. She feels, she realizes, like she had before her trial, so many years ago now. She's done what she could do, what she'd needed to do, and that's all that she can do, until something happens.

It isn't until later, the sun long down and the Purge well underway in the city proper, that the itch for a cigarette rises, and Larita's fingers drum against her knee where she's been curled on the couch. Her heels have been traded out for slippers, and she'd been hoping for a nap, but between the tension in the air and the keen awareness that despite all of their preparations, something could still happen, she hasn't been able to sleep. Now, she uncurls herself from the sofa and stands, hugging herself as she paces on quiet feet over to the window like she'll be able to see out of it, shuttered as it is.

"You know, of all the things to forget to prepare for tonight, I wasn't expecting 'no smoking' to be one of them," she notes, her tone wry and amused. "I suppose stepping onto the porch would be awfully foolish of me."

[negative_feedback]

The windows are shuttered and the wards are in place; the cameras Regan has set up on the roof and a couple of trees are readily in night vision. She has an alert set up on her phone for each one of them, so if any movement gets by, she'll know immediately. They're in night vision mode, so the screen is eerie white-and-gray as she looks at her screen. She's got a two-monitor setup in her room right now, and she feels like a real hacker, checking cams for any sign of suspicious activity.

And for the first time in a long time, she's glad that she can't hear how loud or quiet it is in the cottage. The air feels like home: that quiet tension, expecting every sound to be the one that dooms them. That's enough for her. She doesn't need to hear the silence, too.

Her eyes are tired, dry and in need of a screen break, so she turns off her monitors and tucks her phone into her pocket, then heads down for soup or tea — or both. Both would get her away from her screens for longer, and while the thought makes her anxious, she knows it's still a good thing. Besides, she's got her phone. It'll buzz in her pocket if one of the cameras is triggered.

Saoirse's in the kitchen, picking at a scone and getting crumbs all over the floor, but Regan just nudges by her and grabs a bowl to fill with soup. There are a million animals here tonight; one of them can sweep up.

"Anything?" Saoirse asks one-handed, sending a shower of scone crumbs to the floor like snow. Regan shakes her head.

"Nothing." She pauses, then adds, "That's a good thing, though. 'No news is good news,' right?"

Saoirse rolls her eyes, but nods, and Regan smiles more reassuringly than she actually feels. She brings her soup to the table and settles in, phone face down on the tabletop beside her.

[onlythebranch]

Mad Sweeney is here more to patrol than to keep himself safe. The night doesn't frighten him much, most of the idiots taking part either wanting nothing more than some mischief, broken glass and stolen televisions, or are far too fucking pathetic for him to really be concerned with. His safety isn't at the forefront of his mind.

There aren't many willing to take on a seven foot mountain of a man who can pull a spear out of thin air.

There are those who'd be willing to attack this cottage, however, and he sure as fuck isn't going to let anyone lay a hand on Greta, Saoirse, or anyone either of them cares about. So he's pacing the property, keeping a keen eye out, attuned to the shadows of the night even with the nips of alcohol he's taking from his flask.

When he nears the front door, he calls out, "All's well so far." Greta and Saoirse will both recognize his voice, maybe one of them will come out to say hi and he can give them shit for opening the door.

[selkiesaoirse]

Maybe she's being dramatic, but Saoirse's kind of angry with Darrow.

The cottage smells amazing, and everyone she cares about is here, and if they're not, she knows they can take care of themselves, like Sweeney. They've set up traps and cameras, and Aggie's strengthened the wards that Magnus set ages ago — wards that, Saoirse knows firsthand, are still holding strong despite his leaving the city so long ago. If they weren't, her coat wouldn't still be in its pendant, safe and protected from the outside world. They've done all they can do to keep their home and loved ones safe.

But the city has still stepped all over her birthday, again, reminding her with a bruise to the ego that she isn't as important to it as it is to her. It's true, nobody's forgotten about her, nobody had forgotten to give her gifts or wish her a happy birthday, and there's a bit of leftover cake somewhere amidst all of the other goods Greta's nervously put together over the course of the day. But if she isn't wrong, if she isn't just being totally selfish and dramatic, then the day before had felt tense and awkward as everyone waited for today, instead, because today is more important to think about than her birthday.

It feels uncharitable as soon as she's thought it. It isn't that her birthday was less important, she knows. It's certainly a lot less stressful and absolutely less dangerous, but not less important, not to Greta or Regan or even Larita now. But it still stings, to be reminded that the city she loves, because it gave her a mum and a sister and a whole slew of friends that she'd never have had in Ireland... It's still just a city, without feelings, without care for the people inside of it after all.

And she can't even sit and stare broodily out the window, because all the windows are shuttered up tight to protect the glass, and so they don't have to sit in the dark, probably. Which is great for Larita, who's quietly reading a book with Poppy curled up against her ankles like the city isn't in chaos, and for Regan, who's up in her room staring at her monitor setup and watching the cameras, but Saoirse can't even do the 'How Many Layers of Polish is TOO MUCH - 100+ layers of nail polish challenge' livestream she'd planned to pass the night by, because the internet went out an hour ago and now her phone's almost dead, and—

"Ugh," she declares to the glass she can't see through, storming away from the window she can't stare broodily through and throwing herself dramatically into the armchair instead. It feels at least a little satisfying, like she's a throw pillow that's just had some dust shaken out of it, only the dust is her fourteen-year-old dramatic, selfish feelings.