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

[murderbaby]

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.

Comments

[sarcophage]

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—"

[murderbaby]

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.

[sarcophage]

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.

[murderbaby]

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.

[sarcophage]

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."

[murderbaby]

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."

[sarcophage]

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?"

[murderbaby]

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.

[sarcophage]

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?"

[murderbaby]

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.

ROLL

[sarcophage]

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.

ROLL: NARROW FAILURE.

[murderbaby]

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.

[sarcophage]

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?"

[murderbaby]

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

"That's hardly your business."

[sarcophage]

"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?"

[murderbaby]

Medrod moves closer, knife out like a warding. "Don't test me, boy."

Mhavos, hearing his name, snaps to attention. Servitude is an instinct, just like flicking his wrist and summoning a knife into it. How can he be useful? He struggles to stand, eyes hazy.

[sarcophage]

"No, no," his hand once again gentle on that unsteady shoulder, "stay there. You may feel a bit dizzy."

May. Will, most certainly, as Leander reaches instead for Mhavos's suffering, to awaken the fuel borne by the letting of his blood. To charge himself with sickening potential as he goes on to address Medrod and his little knife,

"You've no idea of the mistake you've made, have you?"

[murderbaby]

Magic. Medrod wasn't expecting magic. He takes a cautious step back, unsure.

Mhavos, meanwhile, falls to the floor like a used doll. He keeps his consciousness through pure stubbornness, and speech is an easy thing: "That's why it's a mistake."

He doesn't know what's happening, but it feels... wrong.

ROLL

[sarcophage]

It does feel wrong—to Leander, too, in its own way. Like the thrill of a sudden drop, the finality of it, knowing in that instant that no matter how it ends the decision is made and you can't take it back.

Medrod made his decision, too, when he put them all to sleep. His end is inevitable.

Careful in his use of the elf's blood, with acute efficiency—he's well-practised, and it doesn't take much to achieve great and terrible things—Leander now makes an effort to hold Medrod in place against his will.

ROLL: MEDIUM SUCCESS.

[murderbaby]

OUTCOME: Leander pins Medrod to the ground. He gasps, unsure what's going on, generally floundering speechlessly.

Mhavos does not die either, which is nice.

[sarcophage]

The success washes through him like a deep breath. This will weaken his link to the Fade for a time—not so dissimilar to magebane—and the eyes of demons will follow him now, hollow hungry things that they are, but these are tolls he's paid many times before. The trick is to keep one's head. To respect the gravity of this art. Never in desperation, never in fear.

Their host made immobile, only now does Leander leave Mhavos's side, wending smoothly around the table and saw to approach him.

"Now do you see?"

[murderbaby]

Mhavos lies on the floor, eyes open, watching. He feels sick, he feels wrong, and did he just-? What just happened? His mind is too cloudy to begin guessing, but what remains of his pride, self-respect, whatever it is elves are allowed to have... it won't let him turn away.

The creature called Medrod looks up at Leander with hate in his eyes. "My brother was right," he says, "I should have listened. You are poison."

[sarcophage]

"Yes." Softly. "I am."

Whether Medrod means Leander himself, or mages more broadly, his eyes gleam for it.

"Now, before you answer this, bear in mind I've taken control of your body, including that arm, and the hand attached to it, and the fingers still clutching a weapon." And to prove it, he wills a squeeze of those fingers around the knife's handle. "Tell me about your brother. Is he here as well?"

[murderbaby]

Mhavos keeps watching. It's strangely fascinating, to be in this much pain, and know you're not the weakest creature in the room. Is this how mages feel? No, no, they're not always bleeding.

Medrod speaks what he believes is true. "My brother is here!" He raves, "he is always with me! The Maker ordained it! In thanks, I make these creations. For Him."

[sarcophage]

I make these creations. For Him.

Leander studies the man through seconds dragging long, still but for the movements of his eyes.

In thanks,

—is a misguided approach. Gratitude is the second reflex of every disciple; the first, begging for help. A broth watered thin, flavourless, for its overuse. The Maker will not turn his head for something so common. Still, he must ask:

"What creations?"

(Mhavos buzzes in his awareness, a conduit waiting to be utilized. That alone tells him the elf is still alive.)