logs | MOD EVENT #001

Entry tags:

MOD EVENT #001

A CHAOTIC RESPITE

It isn't rare for the seasons in the Netherworld to be a little erratic, though many days have passed now without much of a hint of its typical mercuriality, a good and a bad omen all at once. This respite is commonly referred to as the proverbial "calm before the storm", but it also marks the beginning of merrier celebrations. The Moons above are gilded silver, the twilight sky edged with faint pink and orange -- a sunrise phantasm, spilling over the horizon. It's an infrequent spectacle, accompanied by a dulcet breeze and light drizzles that seem to encourage growth nearly everywhere. Unfortunately, under its influence, people seem a little on edge, quick to anger, but no matter; around Stygia, Restless have begun hanging decorations and ornaments on trees and windowsills, left to catch the moonlight and give off marigold and ginger glows, warmly lighting up the city. Rather than fish, the smell of freshly ground spices permeates the air in the Harbors, Mirth keeps its doors opened to all, but just before the festivities officially begin, a cacophony of chimes resounds all over, a transmission difficult to ignore.

On the screen of your cellphone, nothing; only a voice, ragged, out of breath...

“The woods... Oakwoods! They've come alive! O-One minute he was complaining about the water seeping into his boots, and the next he was... he was being yanked up into the trees! We didn’t see what happened to him, but we heard... the screams, ohh, the screams. Please! Come to Serene, I beg you. This is our safest sanctuary, and the lan... oh, no... wait, no, please... please... NOOO--”

...and the feed abruptly ends, a dull chirr of static. Will you ignore the stranger's call for help and feast, or venture into the woods?

► I. KNOCK ON WOOD (OH PUCK, HE'S HOT!)

When you cross the gates of Serene, an old woman welcomes you, palm flat against her chest and disquiet in her eyes. Myrtille, her name. Oakwoods loom dense and dark in the distance behind her, groaning low as leaves rustle without wind. The Mourning Lantern was stolen, and malevolence rose in turn, dooming them all.

“It was once kept here, a sacred Artifact crafted from the bones of Serene's first founder, who gave her heart’s blood willingly to the woods in an act of contrition. It's the absence of the lantern that is contributing to the wood’s unusually active malice, and if you lot cannot retrieve it, then we must sacrifice another. Go! Take these torches and go, before Oakwoods swallow us whole.”

So you've decided to be brave. Commendable, or foolish? The wood is dark and shrouded in mist, and the trees crowd around you, an absent wind somehow whispering foul nothings in your ear as dead leaves rustle around your feet. Your Shadow basks in the murmurs, sensing the malign presence in Oakwoods as a faint, garbled scream echoes in the distance. You wander deeper and the canopy thickens, thin streaks of moonlight peppering the woods in deep patches of darkness. Behind you, a creature you can't see hisses, and a fluttering of wings nearby alerts you to the arrival of snickering harpies lurking on branches. “Dead,” they croak, in a sing-song chorus. “Dead as daylight.” Oddly enough, they seem content to just watch and stalk you, perhaps expecting you to die quickly, an easy and effortless meal.

It's a frustrating errand if you've ever known one. You barely know what you're looking for, and your Shadow thrives in the dark, taunting, coaxing. You hear it then; a haunting melody, the silhouette of a boy on a fallen tree trunk, strumming. “Come,” he says, with a voice that shimmers like the sun on moving water. If you remember what that's like. “Rest a while. Forget your troubles.” For anyone familiar, you'll recognize him as a Puck, famous prankster, and from his hand dangles a lantern.

► If you attempt to take the lantern from him, he'll immediately drop it to the ground, causing it to break. You may choose to kill him and offer his blood to the woods, or let him go and bleed in his stead. Myrtille should be able to repair what's left of the lantern once the offering's been made.
► If you politely ask to return it, he promises that he will... if you indulge him for the night.

No matter what you choose, you will come across camps, either on your way in or on your way back: pitched tents, most moth-eaten, and some containing vestiges of prior expeditions such as putrid corpses or rotten food. You've been wandering for a while, and sleep sounds terribly inviting. Unfortunately, a wind finally picks up, and leaves begin to blow around you. A nick, then a cut, then a slash reveal the leaves to have razor sharp edges. Sleep well yet? If you've spared the Puck, he'll encourage you to sit with him around a campfire, where he'll sing and tell stories. Or are they. Perhaps you've heard of Bloody Mary before. Slenderman? The Devil that'll make you dance until you die? While the lantern remains in stranger hands, the thread between reality and fiction narrows; protagonists from the Puck's legends come to life, and the only way to rid of them is by quenching the flames of the fire.

Your journey unfortunately doesn't end there. The Puck has a riddle for you: I am a word that is hardly there. Remove my start, and I'm an herbal flair. What am I?

If you fail to answer correctly, he'll vanish before you, and you can bid the lantern goodbye. You'll be forced to gather the bones from the corpses scattered across the woods, and feed it your blood -- or a friend's -- before you escape and return to the woman. The offering will leave you drained and exhausted, weak on your legs. If, on the other hand, you do answer correctly, the lantern is yours, and you'll be teleported out of the woods with a boon in your pocket: a piece of parchment invites you to visit your home in the Shadowlands. There, you'll find an object (or a pet) that belonged to you in your world.

the answer to the riddle is sparsely! it's up to you whether you'd like your character to fail.
legends told around the campfire can be any of the ones mentioned above or any other that might strike your fancy! go wild, have fun!
remember that if you pick an item from your character's world as their boon, it'll eventually disintegrate unless reforged with a soul.

► II. GO BIG OR GOURD HOME

Welcome to the Frightful Harvest, a festival that marks the beginning of the Respite, a temporary period of tranquility between seasons. It acknowledges the blessings offered and the role that both good and evil play in the Netherworld. It is a time to give thanks, but more importantly, it is a time of reflection and warding. Warding against not only the darkness of the next seasons to come, but of the nefarious creatures and struggles that will undoubtedly follow.

Carved pumpkins and straw bales are placed everywhere around the city, and streamers and banners are hung from every home and storefront. Decadent cakes, candies, and pastries are made in over-abundance in order to accommodate everyone, and from the lush gardens of Radiance, an elderly, dark-robed man addresses the Netherwork. You'll learn by eavesdropping on nearby Restless that his name is Doran, the oldest among you and loved by all. His smile stretches kind, and while not an official member of the Hierarchy, it's clear he has certain privileges -- well-deserved, or so you hear.

“Let us gather, feast, dance and celebrate. Let us hold our glasses high for those who heroically perished, for goodness, and for the Ascended. May their journey inspire us to change our lives and the lives of others, to resist evil, and to triumph. To you, dear friends!”

And without further ado, let the festivities begin!

► BARDIC BLITZ
The bardic blitz is a friendly competition that pits talented musicians against one another in an attempt to win over the affection of the crowd through festive melodies or personal compositions. Although it can be hosted just about anywhere, the bardic blitz is normally held in a large canvas tent directly in the heart of Mirth, though smaller crowds also gather in Serene and the Harbors around bonfires.

► FEAST
Although all cultures around Stygia bring their own tastes and specific flair to the celebrations, there are a few staple trade goods that you can find at nearly any celebration of the holiday throughout the city. Many producing the various cakes, beverages, and cookies also use the time to test and perfect their recipes, teaching others or using them as guinea pigs.

► Firstdawn Tea: This revitalizing crimson tea soothes the mind and body and is brewed from the roots of the dawn flower, which only sprouts during the Respite.
► Grablenuts: These fist-sized brown nuts have a hard, stippled outer shell and soft, delicious spicy centers. A single bite will slightly lower your inhibitions, and you may find yourself seeking proximity and warmth.
► Elysium: A nonalcoholic beverage that smells and looks as bad as it tastes. Only those with the strongest will manage to gulp it down. Once drunk, the person experiences true bliss, which seems to last for hours; in reality, it's only a few minutes.
► Will-o-the-Whiskey: Whisky with minor hallucinatory effects, visual and auditory.
► Sundrop: A pound cake coated in a sugary lemon drizzle. No side-effects, just delicious!
► Shadowfell Candy: Chewing on this candy will grant the character a deep and rejuvenating sleep, during which they will appear dead to anyone.

. ► HARVEST HUNT
The harvest hunt happens in a corn maze located in Mirth's amusement park, specifically created for the occasion. Because of the labyrinthian horrors dwelling in the Tempest, some find the terror-free replica a little inappropriate, yet participants still abound every time. A favorite seasonal game of the exuberant and athletic, characters take on the role of either hunter or prey, racing through the maze to either corner their quarry or escape the hands of their pursuer. As long as Shadows behave, it's a relatively safe activity. Friendly spars sometimes occur, picnics, and star-gazing.

► THE PARADE
The parade is the activity most looked forward to by younger Restless. Citizens clad in colorful costumes walk the streets to the rhythm of festive music, and according to tradition, it helps ward away any lingering evil that might try to hide in the community. For reasons unknown, incidents where Restless unwillingly swap bodies sometimes occur.

► III. WAYWARD SUN

The Warding Ritual is a private affair, a behind-the-scene execution on the last day of the festival as you dance and feast and frolic, blissfully unaware. Something goes awry. First, a shriek in the distance, and soon, birds flying away in apparent surprise as the landscape rustles with the sounds of creatures and Restless alike fleeing. A vague sense of dread knocks the air out of your lungs, an iron grip around your throat. And you see it then, a headless figure shrouded in a black veil of cloth, sword in one hand and a bright flaming pumpkin in the other. Its head. It thunders through the night on its skeletal horse, its blade flashing in the moonlight in search of prey. Heads fall. You might get injured during the chase -- collateral damage. 10 members of the Hierarchy won't ever rise again, and the rider eventually charges into the Tempest, leaving behind bloody puddles and a slather of confusion. If you opt to help clean up the mess, you might come across stained sheets of paper on the ground, a painting of a white scorpion in the middle. Otherwise, it's time for you to go home.

ooc note

► Welcome to Nightfell's first event! If you'd like additional, more casual prompts, the Notice Board is right here! New prompts will be added next month, if you've already had your fun with them!
► You'll find some answered questions here, but if you'd like to ask something else, please comment below!
► For a little spooky ambience in the woods.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

i. bardic blitz cw: some eldritchy horror hiding under the surface

She had thought, what could one or two songs, hurt? She had not sung in so long, partaking in a verse or two could not bring any harm.

Save that she missed it, saved that, simply put: she was not named Singer because she bleated like a ram. That it's easy to progress with each round. Sometimes they are devotional songs, praising the gifts of her the Holy Sea-Father which gave the world life. Sometimes it is ditties about maids getting caught with servant boys and their fathers and mothers chasing them about. Some are wild, that demand of the world in the shrill notes.

The mistake is when she goes to sing something higher, sweeter, like had been her favourite. Round after round and she thinks what could one more hurt?

Until it does, and she lifts her voice to sing a note, bright and pure as she had once done so freely - and it strangles immediately like a dying cat. At once, and over again, she cannot breathe. Her hand lifts and snatches to her throat as she turns away, gasping for breath to get out of the closed space as fast as she can. Trying to suck in air, that turns to a cough. Violent enough that her eyes water as she gets out of sight. Clutching the right-hand side of her throat, fingers splaying wide. Holding herself tightly as she coughs and coughs and coughs.

Because disconcertingly, between her splayed fingers, the fabric begins to drip water, of all things. A thick, briny smell of seawater which drifts from it. Something that seems to be wriggling below it.

ii. feast & parade cw: freely encouraged drug use
The meals do a wonderful job of driving fears from her head, even once her voice has been stolen away. No more than a whisper now, soft and rasping, she starts off absolutely sure that she has learned her lesson about not pushing herself. Especially not in regards to the rest of the festival, the rest of it is a young person's game, even if she did not have her own reasons to fear leaving herself abandoned to her merriments.

A few mouthfuls, of course, and the concerns are gone. As much as she missed singing, she missed dancing. Been as good as any of her people at it - the physical expression of strength that farmer and prince all raised themselves too. That she does try to put off, at least a little, throwing herself to the familiar madness. But the want of being close to others, the loudness of the drum and the shifting of the seasons that ache in the depths of her soul, call just as loud.

The dancing she takes up, is not graceful, not strictly. It's about showing off, more exactly, strength and speed, a past where once they had been warriors. It is driving, unrelenting, throwing herself into each step with abandoned fervour. Leaping to clear feet from the floor, spinning in long kicks of her leg to keep her momentum up to go around and around and around. A tall woman, and her limbs sturdy, she throws her head and forgets to care. Her veil unravelling and the many, many feet of long curls sent flying in arcs around her, snapping like a whip in an extension of every one of her turns. Her skirt hitched up above her knees to keep out of her way and the hard lines of muscles trained to this push and keep her momentum going as she gives into wildness and madness in equal turns.

It is not even that she asks, necessarily, if anyone wishes to dance. Finding one who seems passingly curious is enough for her to emerge out of the crowds of dancers, and snatch a drink from another table and stride closer, tall and proud, almost, the way her hair seems to drift and her movements are smooth like she is propelled along a current.

A simple beckoning, offered with little in the way of words as she offers the cup. "Drink, sweet one. It is bitter as brine, but all shall feel better."

iii. wildcard
got something else you'd like? feel free to just drop it here and we'll have at.

Bruno, as a rule, does not sing. Out of his entire family, he was the least musically capable. Another mark against him, he supposed, though it had never stopped him before when he felt like joining in, and here, he does, on occasion, when the audience jumps in on a familiar tune and there's more than enough other voices to make his own addition happily drowned out. He wouldn't get all the lines right, with how new and varied the songs were, and more than a few times he'd stumble to a halt when the lyrics became scandalous in some way or another, but overall?

It was a good time. He was feeling less and less terrible about the entire fact that he's died and gone to... well, here. Some strange purgatory where life seems to simply carry on.

And that evening would have kept going on well enough for him right up until Gilia begins to struggle. One of the bolder singers in the group, sure enough, he'd noted, but it isn't until she turns away and snatches a hand to her throat that he does anything to engage. He's typically happy remaining in the background rather than drawing attention to himself but...

"Miss? Are you..." No, he shouldn't ask if she's okay. She clearly isn't. He's approached, reaching out towards her arm but not quite making contact yet. Worried eyes peer up at her, only becoming more distraught when water begins to leak between her fingers and something, something wriggles. Oh, oh god. "That's. That."

What is that? He won't withdraw in horror, though. Geez, what is happening, what can he do, will asking questions even help? What if she can't respond?

She manages to get one hand braced against the wall. Manages to hold herself up as she shudders and chokes. It should not hurt, this was the only gift she had been given in life, her voice. Neither beauty, nor wit, but this and it had been stolen away so surely.

"Water, please, I need...." She gasps back to the poor wretch that mistakenly followed her. Her veil was choking her, smothering her, as she tried to drag in air on her rasping throat.

She'd normally be ashamed, beg him not to look, as she began to snatch the fabric off of her head. Pushing it back and unfurling all those curls, then unwinding it from around her neck and yanking it free.

What was squirming around so unsettlingly was plain, the starfish - a little yellow thing, smooth bumps of a wrapping pattern, a choking bright orange colour, that wraps around her throat. Almost desperately, and it was easy to see why - the scar that lived open, a pulsing cut into that lived below. A wound that had never healed and now, where she had strained it, reaching into the depths of that place - almost like she had ripped it open, it seemed it bled.

And the starfish, strange as it was, held it closed. Gilia helped, as best she could, wrapping her fingers around over the top to hold her neck closed.

Bruno can't help it. He does recoil at the sight of the starfish, though it was through sheer surprise rather than horror that he stepped away again so swiftly. It would not change that he meant to help her, either, because he's quick to drag his bewildered gaze away from the little yellow starfish when he realizes she'd asked for...

"Water?" Water. Water, she needs water. He holds up his hands, stammering out a quick, "J-just wait here, I'll!"

He'll be right back. That's what he meant to say but he's already turning to run off toward the stage. He pushes his way through the ring of people who have turned to stare at the spectacle and then further on through the throng of merrymaking celebrants. Water, he assumes — and correctly, thank goodness — would be held in reserve to offer performers who actually did take the stage. He snatches up a glass of it from there and covers the open top firmly with a hand to keep most of it in as he makes his way back. When he does, he shoulders his way back through to Gilia and offers the same glass of water up to her.

"Here! I. I've got some!"

She nods in thanks, as she gasps her breathes in, much as she can. The kindness of strangers where others simply stare in shock and horror, no doubt. Why here? Why did she forget herself, for a minute, just a moment, she is not allowed such things.

Lifting the drink to her lips, she gulps down mouthfuls hurriedly. Desperately trying to get it back into her system, as much as she can. Until she is down to the last few mouthfuls, and straightens up, and tips her head back, and tips the water down her neck, over that wound, the sea-star, and it seems, somehow, to soothe it. Calm the pain of it, that caused her to choke.

The starfish stops moving quite so much and begins to go back to its usual spot, wrapping around her neck once more like a bandage. Arms settling to grip her and hold her throat closed. Sealing the wound to a thinner closed, and little by little, the sea-water ceases to seep from it.

Bruno lingers even after delivering the water, hovering nearby in a worried manner. He doesn't dare breach a certain line of space often kept between strangers, however, two or three steps away from her. Not so far that he wouldn't be able to offer additional aid if needed but not so close that it would be awkward. His own hands are linked together, fingers through fingers, and he's wringing his hands in a more apparent, physical show of nerves.

It's constantly tempting to reach out to the starfish and check that it's doing its job again for sure. By now, he's realized it must be what's keeping... something? Some injury? Closed, even though it's the strangest bandage he's ever seen, he would admit. That, too, he quashes, because, again, that would be a very strange thing to do.

So it's from those few steps away that he asks, words sounding uncertain, "Are... are you going to be alright?"

It takes her a few minutes still, to wrangle something out of her throat. But at least for now, she nods, breathing in deeply, now that she finally can begin too. In, rough, and out with a rasp, the sting of it all, choking and then breathing again that makes her eyes water, and hastily scrubbed away.

"I shall be well." But it clearly won't be immediately, because her voice is rasping. Dry as the autumn winds. "I... I forgot..." She leans forward, cooling her brow on the stone bricks of the wall she'd lent against. "... Thank you."

"Oh, uh, you're welcome?" Bruno replies, words still unsure of whether this is all good and fine just yet or... well, he wouldn't know. He's not even sure what's going on apart from the wild guess of the starfish keeping her from bleeding water.

Seawater, in fact. It's almost like he can smell the sea, hear the water, simply by standing close to her, and it's unsettling. The only sea he's ever experienced was the Tempest between the Shadowlands and Stygia, leaving him with no fond memories of such, and so he fidgets and wonders if he should simply vanish into the crowd again. The crowd, the nearest ones still watching, staring, some confused, others wary; as used to strangeness as one must become in such a strange place, something new must be worth some scrutiny. Even Bruno can feel those eyes boring into his back and the urge to flee loses out against the urge to not abandon Gilia to be stared at all alone.

With that in mind, he gives a nervous glance back towards the other people and hasily suggests, "How about we, um. Head outside and get you some fresh air? That. Maybe that'll help? It's getting a little stuffy in here."

And to follow that thought, he'll take a step closer and offer her an arm to lean on. She's taller than him, sure enough, but that won't stop him from lending some support should she want it.

Edited 2022-10-18 02:37 (UTC)

She takes it gladly, exhausted beyond a simple of measure that she felt tired. There would never be enough sleep for the sort of memories this dredged up from her. But at least, she could breathe, again. At least she could walk herself slowly through this, little by little.

"I would like that." Gilia is polite, even so, her hand gentle on his arm, as she shuffles her steps.

But the feeling of observation smothers her, but no longer did she know how to cower away from it. Instead, she pulled her shoulders upright. The pride of her people, even now, she must not faulter. So she attempts to lift her head, straighten her shoulders, even as she keeps a hold of him to not stumble.

Bruno certainly did still know how to cower away from the staring, the curious looks, and half-heard murmurs, and he would cover that for the both of them. Gilia may find the strength to square her shoulders and keep her head high, but it was all he could do to keep from stumbling over his own feet as he helped lead her out of the tent and into the fresh air. He glanced back enough times at the people they were leaving behind, nervous energy almost vibrating off the poor man, but then they were out and the flap of the festival tent swung shut and he can relax some.

"There's... there should be a bench just over..."

There. He cast his gaze about for it, finding it soon enough and it'll be over there that he leads her. A quiet place to sit, but not too quiet. The music they left behind has begun again and it drifts out distantly to where they've retreated to.

gilia st. loe — original

bardic blitz

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

feast & parade

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

II

no subject

no subject

no subject

sorry for this angst

welp, sasuke is also her son now

just as planned

no subject

no subject