faderift | CLOSED | if i cut off your arms and cut off your legs,

Entry tags:

CLOSED | if i cut off your arms and cut off your legs,

WHO: Mhavos, Barrow, Sawbones, Ellis, Vanadi, Edgard, Athessa, Leander, Dick, & Holden.
WHAT: Slasher Plot / Murderhaus / I should really have come up with a set name for this thing.
WHEN: Late Harvestmere / Early Kingsway.
WHERE: Ostwick.
NOTES: This plot is based on the idea of slasher movies, so there will be blood, violence, torture, cannibalism & NPC death.

YOU MAY REMEMBER going to Ostwick on a Riftwatch mission, closing a rift on the property of the noble Pickney house, and being accosted by the Lady Elsed Pickney. Her (adult) son is missing! Terrible things are afoot!

But that's easy to ignore; Gawen Pickney rather publicly announced his intention to elope with a Dalish elf a few weeks ago. Assurances are made, yes, we'll let you know if we see him, and what can you do but that?

It's time to move on. Traveling back to Kirkwall, a storm breaks out, and everyone decides it's better to find a place to stay for the night than push forward. The Silver Lamp is a cozy Inn on the roadside, and the proprietor, an elderly man named Medrod, is very kind. It's not tourism season in these parts, so he's happy to give everyone a discount for the night, and the meal is on the house. Everyone eats well, has a pleasant enough time, and wanders off to bed for the night.

(The food your characters ate was not people and did not taste strange in any way.)

And then Medrod will let the sleeping gas seep through the Inn, laced with Magebane just in case, and everyone will wake up a few hours later, dizzy and, in many cases, in pain.

(Look for a toplevel with your character's name below.)

HOW WILL THIS WORK? Well, I'll be NPCing Medrod the Murderer. Medrod will be showing up in each thread eventually, after a number of tags I RNG'd. It's entirely possible to escape before he shows up! And don't worry, if you guys get in a rut, I'll make him show up early to spice things up ;)

I'll also be doing dicerolls!

If you have a situation where you feel your character will need to roll (I'm going to let you decide this!) put ROLL in the subject line, and bold what you need me to roll for.

(For example, you can have a whole tag like normal, and then Bob tries to pick the lock. Then I'll roll for success or failure, as well as other factors, and reply to that thread with the results. But if you don't want to rely on dicerolls, for whatever reason, don't worry about it. The dicerolls are an opt-in feature. Use it as much or as little as you want.)

I'll also be rolling for discovery, which will work the same way: if your character is looking for something, put ROLL in the subject line and bold what they're looking for (normal tag normal tag then Alice looked for a lockpick) and I'll reply with results after rolling. But if you just want your character to find the thing without dicerolls, go for it.

IN SHORT, I'm only making this as hard as you want it to be. Your characters are already waking up to torture. If you want them to find the special key and escape in two comments, it's totally fine. (Just respect other people's difficulty levels, if they want to give their characters a harder time.)

The only thing that has to rely on rolls is killing, apprehending or injuring the Murderer, but since I'll be NPCing him, those rolls are automatic and will be baked into his reply comments.

IF YOUR CHARACTERS GET FREE, let me know what they'd want to do next oocly (options below), and I'll set that up for you!

Other potential goals to keep in mind besides escaping:

- Finding / saving others.
- Killing / apprehending Medrod the Murderer.
- Getting evidence of Gawen & his Dalish wife's murder to eventually send to Lady Elsed.
- Getting your stuff back (all obviously visible weapons / staves have been taken away).

You got questions? Lemme know!

DETAILS:

- ~~While in the torture room, your character is free to hear (or not hear) distant screaming. It's muffled enough that you can't identify the source (it's Edgard).~~ The screaming has stopped.

- The hallways between the rooms are pitch-dark, and even those who can see in the dark will find it difficult to navigate, as the walls and ceilings are mirrored, distorting the size, shape, and direction of the hallways.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's the saw; it's the meat.

Leander awakens quietly, opens his eyes, and movement tugs his attention at once toward that jagged swinging shape. The elf so peaceful beneath it—dead? No, his chest still holds a rhythm. The red shapes in their periphery call to him next, turning his head, resolving into something

unexpected.

His eyes, and only his eyes, move to take it in.

Humanoid shapes, practically arranged. The stains on the bench older than today. Common instruments with worn handles. More than a hobbyist's space. Was this their host, or are these his tools? Sound of the apparatus swinging, swinging, lower, lower, a little at a time.

Trying an arm against his bonds rewards him with new resistance, to which he surrenders at once. Not only at his wrists, but everywhere, the gentle ratcheting shift and squeeze of chain. Like an embrace, he thinks, his thoughts still loose. An embrace, all over, like the glyph he draws on the floor of his room, to lie within the circle—

Lower, lower. He watches it, interested in the mechanism.

The space is tighter than it could have been when finally he says,

"Mhavos."

Mhavos awakens with a shock, the automatic response to his name, in this haze, like a snap to attention. An order; he has duties to attend to. He tries to heave himself up, and moves right into the blade.

The motion of saw brings the blood up, momentum carrying it through specially carved rivulets to the side-- the pattern it splatters on the nearby wall is artfully crafted.

Mhavos falls back, eyes wide with shock, while the blade angles down further. "Who...?"

The voice is familiar: Smiling at a wedding, a shape in the crowd, a spider, a man, a mage, an office desk. His mind whirls.

"Leander."

The blade swings a bit further down. Another layer of blood splatters on the wall, giving further dimension to an artistic, if abstract, shape. Mhavos watches it, and the pain follows, and the adrenaline kicks in. He begins fighting against his bindings, first as a stupid animal, and then, finally, with cleverness. His lockpicks, his knives, are they still with him? He can't pat himself down and check. But he can try to move his hand out of the chains. They're a bit large for someone of his size, but rather heavy. He gets one out as the blade falls again, digging a bit deeper into his gut.

The shape on the wall grows redder.

Mhavos watches it, and doesn't immediately cry out—and the spray on the wall, oh—

What spirit should he thank for this dream? A bone in the fire, perhaps.

The slowly fading anaesthetic improves his usual deficit of expression, leaving him with an inappropriately mild level of concern. The little frown line hasn't even arrived between his eyebrows. Beneath it all, giddiness bubbles up in his belly like a new spring.

"Hurry," he says, in a hush. (That's what you say, isn't it?) "Be careful—"

"I'm trying." The fact that, through whatever drug they were imprisoned with, Leander is concerned, and for someone he barely knows, such as Mhavos-- he feels a new strength.

Mhavos manages to free his other hand, cutting it in the process-- these manacles are rusty, disgusting, he'll clean himself off when he's alive, when he gets out of this alive.

It's a very quick movement, and he hopes Leander is still too groggy to notice. The knives sewn into Mhavos' undershirt are still there. Lightweight and razor sharp, he tosses one upward into the mechanism of the swinging saw.

It catches, the saw stopping... before falling and clipping Mhavos' side in the process. The clangor of metal covers the sound of Mhavos' screech, a large cut through his side staining the table red.

He might have seen Mhavos throw something, had the butcher's table not drawn his gaze away during the struggle. He stares at a jointed leg, at a slope of ribs still connected by flesh, thick marbled cuts in progress, waxy pale strips of fat set aside, breathes in against the squeeze of the chain.

(Blazing from his core to every limb, to the tip of every digit. A ritual of inurement. A meditation. Penance to replace the guilt he cannot feel.)

Now aware he ought to match the elf's urgency, he reaches for his magic—and the Veil slips through his fingers. The act itself feels weak, slow, like trying to run in a dream. An offensive limitation. Far less gently, he reaches again for the Fade's energies, while straining physically against the chain, as though to remind reality who commands it.

OUTCOME: While Leander can't summon the Fade's energy, he can still very much feel it. The Magebane is wearing off a little faster, now. His movement reveals a weakness in the chain, one of the chains falling from the ceiling and falling to the floor.

Leander is no longer in danger of strangling.

Mhavos watches the chains fall, his expression slightly dazed. Then again, that may have be the pain. One arm is held tightly to his gut, as though that will stop the it from getting worse. He feels as though if he moves, his wounds will get worse.

He moves closer to Leander.

"H-how can I help?"

Blood flecks his lips. He tries not to think about it.

Relief, like a bodily sigh, as the links of his bonds relax. Leander is not surprised by his success—such is his confidence in the power of his own will—and his eyes seem clearer for it, his focus markedly less broad.

"Thank the Maker," first of all. Everyone likes to be told, it's good you're alive. "Arm yourself. Whatever you can find."

The lack of sympathy is mostly practical: Mhavos will weaken soon enough as his blood leaves him; in the meantime he may be encouraged to feel in better condition than is true. Pointing out his injuries will turn his thoughts in a less useful direction. (How far can the elf push himself through his own pain? As games go, it's a favourite—)

Meanwhile, with whatever slack he's been afforded, Leander will try to free himself.

OUTCOME: Leander can't break free, and the chains constrict further, but only around his arms and legs.

He has leverage to maneuver forward with his shoulders.

Mhavos feels inside his coat for a pair of lockpicks. Elves knowing how to pick locks is far more excusable than having knives sewn into their undershirts-- all elves are thieves and liars, after all.

Mhavos' mind may be spinning a bit with blood loss, but Leander's casual manipulation is, purposefully or not, fine tailored to his insecurities. Leander cares enough to wish him well, has done the bare minimum of niceities, and so Mhavos' motivation is entirely on saving this person.

He may feel dizzy, sick with the desire to die, to make the pain stop, but not before he does his utmost for Leander's sake.

The lockpicks, also in a hidden compartment, are unmolested. He reaches up, before realizing he'll need both hands, and with a grunt of pain, lets go of the arm on his wound. He feels as though his guts will spill out, but somehow they don't.

Tension wrench and rake pick in hand, he begins working on the rusty lock, but his hands are numb and bloody, and he drops the pick. Murmuring a whispered apology, he nearly collapses attempting to bend over and pick the thing up.

It's not what Mhavos was asked to do, but oh, look how he tries.

Leander holds where he is, still at the mercy of this pitiless mechanism, sharpened by the gentle pain in his limbs. He does not look to the ominous shape of the closed door, nor to the gruesome tableau next to them, these things that would inject the imagination with terrible suspense, only watches the elf work.

"Bless you, you clever thing. You're all right. Carefully, now—quickly—"

Edited 2020-10-31 17:22 (UTC)

Praise, something Mhavos is categorically vulnerable to, bolsters him now. He finds the dirty, sticky rake pick in the packed earth floor, and works it back into the lock. His movements are sluggish, but lockpicking isn't about speed, it's muscle memory and hearing.

His eyes actually close, caught in the rhythm of his wrists, slowly moving to a beat only he seems to hear.

The lock springs open. One of Leander's arms is free. Stumbling slowly, nearly staggering, Mhavos moves to work on the second, fighting to keep himself awake.

Free, and moving at once to shed the clattering links to one side. Pink and bluish imprints on his wrist.

He grasps Mhavos by the shoulder, firm. "Steady." Low, nearly a murmur. "That's it."

Still weak in the ways that matter most. Imagine where they'd be were he the sort to panic—Mhavos struggling against his own frailty while Leander suffers desperately, smothered by ever tightening chains—how dreadful.

Whoever did this, he'd very much like to meet them.

Leander is about to get his wish. Just as the second lock falls, the door handle begins to turn. Mhavos falls to his knees with the sound of it, or maybe the panic, or the pain-- he isn't sure, it feels as though his mind is sludge.

In the darkness between the doorframe and the door, something metal gleams.

"Silencieux," Mhavos sighs, voice barely a whisper. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion. He's dropped the pick and the tension wrench. In this state, he's not sure he can even fight.

As Mhavos droops, the mage's grasp leaves his shoulder by way of his head, lingering gentle on his hair, shh, you're all right. Together they form an image discordant amid the gore: the supplicant absolved, his suffering eased by a soothing hand.

Leander's grey eyes turn to the doorway, the danger glinting there.

"Don't be shy. Come in."

Mhavos takes the opportunity to rest. Normally he would be horrified, being a petitioner to human prowess, but he's too tired for pride. It hurts so much, and Leander's voice is soft, as though truly caring. He waits there, refusing to let his eyes close.

The creature in the doorway is just a man. Medrod, their host, a charming fellow with a gentle smile, stands in the doorway. "Look at you," he says, turning his head like a dog hearing a strange noise, "I think you're ruining it."

Look at me, he thinks, and does not smile in return.

"Mm, we thought that might be the case—please forgive our ignorance." His hand moves absently on the elf's hair, rubs a lock once between his fingertips, then slips away. "I've been admiring your work. Did you build all this yourself?"

Mhavos fights to keep his eyes open, refusing to let himself pass out. He interprets the situation, fuzzy though it is, as Leander stalling for time.

Medrod steps through the doorway. The knife in his hand has dried blood on the edge. "No, no," he says. "You'll steal my ideas." He goes over to the table with all of the... limbs, and begins to pick them up hastily, placing them in a basket hung over one shoulder.

He's closer, now, and Mhavos tenses, still at Leander's side as he is.

As if restrain victim beneath swinging blade is some arcane knowledge. Leander doesn't laugh, though it occurs to him to do so—look at this fellow, gathering someone's pieces like he's picking fruit, jealous of his secrets. It's charming, in a way.

"How could I? We're at your mercy, are we not?"

Medrod points a spindly finger at Leander. "You should be dead by now. Just like the knife ear."

It's said with the kind of accusatory tone one leverages at a dress rehearsal when someone's wearing the wrong costume.

Only loud enough for Leander to hear, Mhavos murmurs, "crève la gueule ouverte." His eyes flicker up from an expression that would be a bit dopey, if his features weren't so sharply arranged.

He doesn't fully understand—polite conversation taking priority, Alexandrie has yet to tutor him in threats—but the sentiment is clear enough. Now he smiles.

"Our mistake."

Without moving his lips, raising his hands or otherwise, Leander reaches for what he can sense of the Fade and makes a sudden effort to shut the door.

OUTCOME: The door wobbles a bit, not quite closing, but Leander can feel the Fade coming back. It's just taking its damn time about it.

The magebane hasn't worn off... yet.

And for the sake of consolidating comments, Mhavos starts a bit, clearly confused in the midst of, you know, blood loss and pain.

So much for that. It would have been a satisfying moment. With a sigh, he touches the skin under his nose—checking for blood, in case the effort popped something subtly—but finding none—and then begins to step out of the chains, careful not to trip himself. He prefers to make only one blunder at a time, thank you.

"Well, your ambition is admirable, taking so many people at once. You haven't killed the rest of us yet, by any chance, have you?"

Medrod doesn't step back. He's in his home. Why should he be afraid?

"That's hardly your business."

"Don't be ridiculous. You know very well you've made it my business."

There: free about the ankles and feet, the chain left in a little pile next to this poor bloody elf. He straightens his shirt.

"Mhavos, my friend, I may need to use you in a moment. Do you mind?"

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ROLL (to see how badly he hurts himself i guess)

ROLL: MEDIUM SUCCESS.

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ROLL

ROLL: MEDIUM FAILURE.

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ROLL

ROLL: NARROW FAILURE.

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