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

[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.)

[murderbaby]

"You wouldn't be able to see it," Medrod hisses. "Only we can. Only we ever can. You're just a cog in the grand work."

While the man raves, Mhavos slowly moves himself forward, trying to get closer for reasons he doesn't quite understand. He can't close his eyes. If he keeps moving... that becomes less tempting.

[sarcophage]

This poor, pathetic scarecrow of an old man, so tangled up in himself. So small. Leander crouches before him, lowers his voice against the elf's shuffling. His eyes are keen as ice, his stare relentless.

"But I have seen it," comes smooth as a lungful of smoke. "The work that we few are born to create. I know how beautiful it is—and how great a burden it can be."

[murderbaby]

"You have?" Medrod replies, somehow mixing defiance with wonder. "A sword to pierce the sun... You can see it, can't you? The chaos? Th-thank the Maker for the rain, to wash the filth from these streets..."

Mhavos slumps himself next to the leg of a table, listening with glossy-eyed fascination.

[sarcophage]

"You, who made worlds out of nothing.
We are alike in sorrow,"

and he sounds so gentle as he says it. The pass of a razorblade. A knife's whisper. (The power still alive in his fingertips, electric, waiting.)

"The rain has come, Medrod. Your work is nearly complete. To consummate its glory, you must commit yourself to it. With your whole heart. Do you see now?"

[murderbaby]

Medrod tries to reach out, but the magic won't let him. An almost conspicuously clean man, the lack of power clearly upsets him. But he continues, "Victoria knew it, but they hid her away. These things can never reach the light. Did you find that, too? In the bones? The marrow?"

Mhavos opens his mouth to comment, this man is insane, but finds too late he lacks the energy for it. He sighs instead, pallid expression one of disapproval.

[sarcophage]

Mhavos may judge Medrod to the back of Leander's head all he likes; he won't mind.

"That and more," nearly a whisper. He scarcely blinks. "I'd like to release you now. If I do, you must commit yourself. You know what will happen if you try to hurt us again. Do you see? Can you promise me you'll do it?"

[murderbaby]

Medrod's expression reconfigures itself into one of resolute confidence. He tries to sit as straight-backed as the bonds of blood will allow, less defiant than committed. "I have always been committed. Your lot have always been hurt. That is the world."

Somehow, Mhavos retains the ability to roll his eyes.

[sarcophage]

What this gets from the mage, rather than some grim appeasement, is a sigh, soft through his nose.

"No. He even sent me to your side, and still you refuse to see." A pause, a calm and dreadful silence—somewhere else, a clatter, the sound of voices—as Leander lowers his gaze, considers the knife in Medrod's hand. "Well. We'll have to find some other way to open your eyes."

And by power of blood, he compels Medrod to raise the knife, the point aimed at his own eye socket. Not to puncture it—not yet.

[murderbaby]

Medrod's arm raises, but he doesn't take his gaze from Leander. "Better to be blind than see the world as you."