This is the Summer thread-of-deciding-a-Sovereign. All Summers are invited. If you don't show up, forever hold your peace. Note that since this is taking place after the Spring Coronation, in game continuity, most newcomers can be assumed to be sworn-in to the Freehold oath. For those of you that haven't been in The Burn, Summer's common Hollow, before; the description is in the Summer social group.
They had time. The message didn't have to be loud. It didn't have to be obvious. It just had to sit in places where people would see it. Graffiti on the wall across from an old diner. Notes scrawled onto napkins as drinks are served in The Forge. A poster stapled to a telephone pole outside the boarding house. A meeting is being held. Summer will come in a few short months, and the Wyrd will crown it's next sovereign. Until then... they need, at least, a figurehead. The ship must have a captain. The army must have a general. The court must have it's prince.
As usual, Ramona has arranged it all. The senior, active member of the court in Sacramento. Resentful that it has to be her. But swallowing that frustration so she can do what must be done. This isn't a party, all the hard liquor has been stowed away. There's no meat grilling on any of the fires. You can grab a beer if you need one, but that's about it. Tonight is about business, plain and simple. Sparks waft up from the bonfire into the Hedge's starry sky. Ramona watches them, leaning back in one of the carved benches she shaped with her own hands. Propped against the arm of the bench, metal glinting in the firelight, rests a round shield, a bastard sword in it's scabbard, and a polearm of some sort with it's head hidden by a small sheet, covering it. The exchange of power can be violent in the Summer Court. Whatever comes, Ramona will be prepared.
Though the weapons are nearby, she is otherwise casual. Barefoot, dressed in worn-out jeans and an old, white t-shirt. Her knife is at her hip, but that's not unusual. Nestled in a concealed holster at the small of her back is a revolver, just in case. Her mantle has grown, filling the air around her with the fumes of hot metal and burning coals, with the muted roar of a distant, simmering furnace, and giving those in her presence the impression that she is bigger and stronger than they are, regardless of whether or not that is physically true. Deciding she'd rather be on her feet than seated when the others arrive, she stands, then bends to reach over to a tangle of dried vines and weeds, the unusable leavings of a hedge-fruit harvest, and toss them into the bonfire. They go up with a crackle, shooting the flames higher as she straightens, and awaits the rest of her court.
Draft this Post
2 successes
