[OPEN] FRIGHTENING FESTIVITIES

[heirring]

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: Celebrating a totally 100% legit wedding.
WHEN: Summerday
WHERE: Edlingham Hall, the Vinmark Foothills
NOTES: cw: Spectral Violence and Ghostly Gore; if you don't want to deal with the spooky ghost adventure half of the evening, feel free to say your character went back to Kirkwall early rather than staying the night.

PARTY;

A few hours' journey from Kirkwall, the great old shape of the house known as Edlingham Hall rises up from out of the Vinmark foothills. In the decades (ages?) since it's abandonment, what must have once been a very imposing stone structure built in the mountain's shadow has given way to age and the elements. What remains is unequivocally a ruin, albeit a stunningly elaborate one. It's a place of columns and alcoves, gutted passages and weather worn stairs leading to the skeletal remains of old towers and chambers, with everything turned to varying shades of brown and green and as it's been grown over or into by the surrounding landscape. There's hardly a roof remaining to be found in the whole of the place.

Luckily, this particular party doesn't require one. In what might have once been the titular hall, a series of tables and benches (borrowed from the Gallows, thank you very much) have been set up around a stretch of cracked tiles which has been more or less cleared for dancing and everything has been lit amply by a collection of merrily burning braziers.

Party-goers will be treated to a host of entertainment, included but not limited to: at least one speech (thank you, Provost Stark), a half dozen toasts, a rather impressive spread of Orlesian-styled cuisine (no doubt prepared by someone devastated to be expected to do so under such rugged conditions), quite a bit of rather good wine, music, dancing, and a few more avant garde Rifter-influenced party games including a vaguely wyvern-shaped pinata and some heinous game called Snap-Dragon.

And if none of that sounds like a good time, then there are ruins to explore, discreet alcoves to investigate, and a campground pitched in the ruin's shadow where one might retire early from the party with only a stock level of scorn.

AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT;

An eerie mist begins to stream from the cracked tiles of the dance floor. Riftwatch does not count a fog mage among their midst. Was one perhaps hired? Is this a trick of some science? A peculiar feature of the weather in this region? Such murmurs begin to circulate as the mist continues to thicken, and rise, and sour to a sickly pale yellow. It clashes with the decorations. Its touch seems to wither the impossibly sumptuous meal, curdling cream fillings and souring fine meats.

And then the screaming starts.

In the stone frame of an upper window, see her: a woman, in a long pale gown, with a horrible wound around her neck. Her slippers peep over the sill. Blood begins to drip down her front as her mouth opens, and opens, and opens, until her jaw rests upon her bloody chest.

Guests seated at the table will feel some creature bumping against their legs--something big, and solid, and hot, and hairy. When they pull away in horror, they will find nothing at all beneath the table. But the growling will not stop, nor will the crunching of teeth on bone.

The twisted figure of a man rises from a pile of tumble-down stone. His limbs hang at loose and unnerving angles. One arm has been crushed and droops down too low, brushing at his warped knee. His face is a mask of pain, and his left eye bulges as if ready to burst. Pressure has thrust his circlet of gold low on his brow, cinching his balding head. He shuffles toward the party, reaching with his ruined hands for human flesh. Or perhaps a cup of wine.

A headless body comes running out from the rotting main keep. It is wearing armor but is otherwise without identity. From its stump of a neck sprays a great geyser of blood, spatting party-goers and the ground and the food and whatever else is in its way. Its graying hands are reaching, but without a head, its path is random and monstrous, trampling over anything and anyone without regard. Or it would, if it weren’t spectral.

The ghosts must be stopped. Find the source of the haunting or this marriage will be ruined.

Those not interested in tracking down the source of the haunting will soon discover that the fog which has wreathed Edlingham Hall has become quite impenetrable. Attempting to escape the grounds will result in being impossibly turned around and eventually spit any would-be escapee back into the ruin. Solving the mystery may be optional, but experiencing the haunting by the aforementioned ghosts (and any other thematically appropriately specters your heart might desire for the convenience of creeping out your characters) apparently isn't.

Comments

wysteria | ota

[heirring]

party;

At every wedding Wysteria has ever been to, the newly minted husband and wife sit at some remove and are expected to reign over the party in its entirety like a miniature lord and lady of some importance. But candidly, she has always been of the opinion that it seemed quite dull not to be able to enjoy your very own party and so Wysteria has judiciously neglected to mention anything about that particular Kalvadan tradition to anyone who had asked after them during the event's planning stages.

Wysteria—in her best rose-colored dress and faintly clinking from the collection of copper coins tacked decoratively along the hems, draped in strands of what must be borrowed pearls—lasts in her ceremonial post at the head table for only an hour or two. During that time, she is game enough to weather various toasts and speeches, accepting congratulations and handshakes and whatever wishes (well- or otherwise) which might come her way.

But once the wine has had a little time to flow, Wysteria cheerfully contrives to be whisked off to the dance floor by any willing partner, or insinuates herself into enthusiastic conversation—("I imagine it is very like the Crossroads, in a sense. It is the Fade, and the places where Rifters comes from as the destinations one might reach through the eluvians. Only rather than passing literally through the mirror, only the Rifter's reflection travels through it. A copy, as it were.") ("If you were Queen Anora, what sort of suitor would you wish for?") ("Were it not prohibitively expensive to experiment with, I might wish to explore the utility of a sort of...lyrium lacquer as a way of temporaily boosting enchantments.")—with anyone (un)fortunate enough to be drawn into her orbit.

ghost adventures;

The first piercing scream curdles along the length and depth of the hall. The music shrieks to a halt. Dancers pause mid-stride. From where she has retired once more to her seat of the head table and was a moment ago neck deep in an perfectly enjoyable argument-slash-debate over some passage out of a recently published treatise dissecting The Canticle of Benedictions Through a Wartime Lens, Wysteria loudly barks out a thoroughly displeased:

"Why must this always happen?"

And then the night goes thoroughly to shit.

wildcard;

You know. Whatever.

enthusiastic conversation

[kantikoy]

"Hold on."

Adrasteia blinks at Wysteria seriously as she runs through her mind what the other woman just said, and then runs it through again in order to be sure she heard right.

"You think that the Rifters here are just... reflections of their real selves?"

[heirring]

Wysteria's attention pivots over her cup of wine and readily recenters on Adrasteia.

"Yes, precisely. —Well, more or leas. Copies, perhaps, if that tern if preferable. For evidence suggests that our presence here in Thedas doesn't preclude our continued lives there in the place from which we came. Somewhere on the other side of the Fade, the person I was is going about her business as if no part of her had ever passed elsewhere."

[kantikoy]

"Copies," Adrasteia echoes, and frowns softly. She thinks over what she's read regarding Rifters, and what happens to them in Thedas. "Do you think that when a Rifter disappears it is because these copies are re-absorbed into their former selves? The ones that are still living their lives, unaware of Thedas or having traversed the Fade?"

enthusiastic conversation.

[ipseite]

“I think of it more as divergence — I would not wish to imply of either of ourselves that we are, in some fashion, lesser than what we left behind us, and it is a difficult enough thing for some to stomach,”

not her, granted; it is freeing if sometimes complicating the way that she thinks of herself, her history, and her relationship to what she knows followed after it.

[heirring]

"Oh, yes! Certainly that is my exact notion, Madame de Cedoux!" Wysteria, with a cup of wine in one hand and her skirts carefully controlled with the other, seems quite pleased to have Petrana at the edge of the conversation at all, to say nothing of novelties such as agreement.

"Naturally it would be preferable to think of ourselves as distinct individuals more that merely the vision of the person who might have projected us. But for the sake of illustrating the argument to others—I have found the metaphor quite apt."

[ipseite]

“I had said to our former Provost,” there is no trace of her opinion of the man in it, trace warmth for Wysteria and genuine interest in the conversation that they're having, “the Fade is simply a place that is typically touched by minds and not by hands. Obviously, the experiences of both the Inquisition and of Riftwatch do indicate that that is not the only means by which the Fade may be accessed, but when we speak of its nature.”

She uses her own cup to gesture, illustrative; it is a gracefully done thing, and the wine is never in any danger of spilling.

“We were all dreaming, after all. Sleeping, at least. I believe he took something of an informal poll — but his findings were remarkably consistent. And my own experiences do lend themselves in support.”

party;

[archademode]

"Lady Poppell, my congratulations to you." Armor an unsettling mien besides rose lace and pearl droplets, he bows his head with no less grace for all the harshness of his own regalia. Something he trusts she'll forgive, knowing all past exchanges held in private.

He’s brought wine, of course, though the purchase made far too late (her announcement had been...unusually quick in nature, though marriages of arrangement often are in his experience) to make his gift anything even slightly exotic in nature.

Still, it’s a finer bottle by local standards, wrapped with care and granted with just as much of it, setting it gingerly atop the table at her side.

"It does us all benefit to see you flourish so."

A pause lingers there at the edge of formality, before a faint edge catches just beneath his tone:

"I trust he is a worthy match."

[heirring]

Regardless of the scheme which might lie at the heart of this thing, it is very difficult not to be pleased by all the features of the evening. Touched would be a poor word choice, as it's all bathed in rather too much sentiment, but still—there is something very charming, isn't there? In saying suddenly you will be married one week, and the next being surrounded by a great deal of people in a place you've chosen, with music and dancing and good food and respectable wine and, now, being presented with a gift by a knight in full plate.

It is the sort of thing anyone might wish for a wedding celebration, even a very pretend one, to be. Complete now with serious inquiries as to the genteleman's spirit.

It makes her laugh, a great peal of it as she is turned in her chair to mostly face Gabranth.

"Well I should hope so, as I seem now to be quite attached."

[archademode]

“Many who wed themselves feel nothing for the matter, and there is no shame in that.”

It’s a statement made not out of judgment despite his own title and typical determinations: should her mind change, perhaps it’s best she not feel alone at some future point, leashed to a man who is different. Or burdensome.

Still.

“Should he ever fail in his duties, however, I imagine I need not remind you of my prior offer. The presence of a Judge is one capable of setting even the most erred man right.”

party

[acreage]

"I'm not much of a dancer," is his warning.

But he's warm, indulgent, as they make their way out to the dance floor. The truth is, whatever his hesitation when she'd asked, it's hard to deny her. This is, after all, her wedding day, and it's nice to see her enjoy herself like this.

[heirring]

"Nonsense. Unless you mean to trod all over my feet, I have every confidence that you will be a perfectly fit one. Almost no one is a good dancer, Mister Holden. Merely an enthusiastic one. If you are enjoying yourself, and you will for despite my assertion just now I will have you know that I am a singularly excellent dancer and so a rare exception which proves the rule,"—(no she isn't)"—If you are enjoying yourself, then that is all that really matters."

This Wysteria manages to say all in one great breath as she steers him around to a safe edge of the dancing presently queuing up.

"Now, this one is quite easy. Here, give me your hands. Yours goes here, and mine here and then we clasp these two together like so. Once the music starts"—it is beginning already—"We will rotate on a wheel with those two other couples there. And then there will be various calls by the dancing master, I believe that is the Ambassador at this present moment, to cue the step changes. I will show you everything. It is not so fast."

And then, very seriously even as she is beginning to lead him into the first steps of the dance: "But truly, if you trample me I will be cross. These shoes are new for the occassion and I am very fond of them."

[acreage]

"I will," he promises, "be careful."

And besides that is happy to let her drag him to an appropriate place to begin the dance, and position his hands accordingly. He isn't a bad dancer, really, but he's certainly not too familiar with the kinds of dances that are popular in Thedas, that Wysteria would know from Kalvad. Jamming in a future space club when he was still 20 is very different! But you can't get by working in space by being uncoordinated — so, as they start, he manages to avoid stepping on her shoes.

"Is this from Thedas, or Kalvad?"

The dance, that is, the music.

party;

[sparklequeen]

Glimmer is still getting used to this whole Thedas thing but having a nice, normal party to go to where people drink and eat and have a good time? That's refreshingly normal after the last few months. So she stuffs herself with the food and the wine and eventually finds herself stumbling up to the head table to offer her congratulations. Dressed in borrowed finery (mostly in blues, oddly) She makes a sort of bowing curtsy (she is not used to wearing skirts most of the time) and rises with her circlet gleaming on her forehead.

"Congratulations. And many happy returns on the day!" That's what you're supposed to say, right?

"This is my first party in Thedas and it almost feels like home."

[heirring]

There is a moment in which the previous congratulator (for there is always a great line of them to get within speaking distance of any bride, isn't there) moves on and Wysteria's smile is quite genuine, and then it goes very stiff as her attention turns to the unfamiliar face before her. It doesn't disappear; it merely hangs there desperately as if painted on while the young woman behind it screams internally.

'Dear Miss,' she had written an individual who is apparently so titled as to be considered some kind of queen. She has avoided all this time thinking about it or deciding exactly the nature of her feelings on the subject, and now here they are the two of them face to face and Wysteria is dismayed to find herself still undecided on how to address the person before her.

"Oh? I'm so pleased that you're feeling so welcome. I would so dearly like to hear more about the place you come from." She lapses into a pause, remembering only after a moment that she ought to say: "And thank you."

[sparklequeen]

Glimmer hesitates just briefly, unsure as to what's happening. Something is perhaps wrong--but what it is she can't quite decide. So she remembers her lessons in etiquette and politness and just smiles the warm, diplomatic smile of a princess who doesn't remember anyone's name but has to be nice anyway.

"Oh, of course. Etheria is such a beautiful planet, and Bright Moon is--well, I'm biased, obviously--but it's the most beautiful kingdom there," she says, cheerfully ignorant of the reason for poor Wysteria's awkwardness.

"I'd be happy to tell you all about it."

dance floor

[degenere]

At some point, or perhaps even points, the bride and groom do find themselves the opportunity to dance together. This is both customary and expected of them.

During this time, the music is quite loud, and while Wysteria and Val remain remarkable as the celebrated couple of the evening, the attention is largely elsewhere during the dancing as everyone concentrates upon their steps and their partners. And even if that were not the case, who could blame the happy couple for finding a moment of intimate conversation to themselves?

"You are very wrong about Suard," Val is saying, intimately, into his wife's ear, "and I can tell that you did not read a word of the Verreau that I left for you to read. How else can you explain your incredible opinion of Suard's findings in the Brecilian Forest? If you had read Verreau you would understand Suard's position."

[heirring]

Broadly speaking (ignoring the semantics of however many turns they might make about the floor together tonight), it's possible that this evening isn't the first time they've danced together. For example a rather significant portion of the previous Satinalia has been thoroughly erased by the consumption of a prodigious amount of Orlesian wine. Surely however, tonight must be the first instance where the thing is done with any kind of intention or without being merely conveniently passed to him by way of some reel where partners are routinely exchanged.

It should be grating that he is so accomplished at the thing, she thinks, for she would wager her must hate it. But it is a fine evening they have been quite successful in their gambit, and so she doesn't have the heart to be irritated with the discovery that her husband is a good dance partner.

Anyway, there are other things to be annoyed with.

"When did you last shave? Your cheek is going to turn my ear raw red," she says through her smile. "As for Verreau, he is perfectly well reasoned but neither gentleman accounts at all for the work of Leed and Stuhbert. Did you not read their essay on the intersection of Tevene and Dalish patternmaking and their clear resonance in the art of the Alamarri? I put a copy of it among your things. If you have let some weasel eat it or used it as lining for a bird's cage—"

[degenere]

"I am not keeping any birds at present," Val replies, interrupting the rest of that thought. This is not a refutation of the potential circumstances presented, as might be noted by anyone with a particular attachment to the essay by Leed and Stuhbert. "Stuhbert I do not care at all for. There is, I will admit, something to be admired in the work of Leed. You have fair taste, at least. Of course Verreau could not account for the Dalish, he had little regard for their culture and histories. An oversight. This, I do not argue. But that does not mean that he should be--"

They must separate for this part of the dance, a quick bit of stepwork that trails Wysteria some paces away from him. They remain joined by the hand, a delicate connection. Her ear does not look very red, Val notes, as he has chance to observe the thing.

"--Ignored," he finishes, when they come together again. "Or otherwise left out of the conversation. Your ear does not look very red at all. I noted it precisely just now. You are exaggerating, ma cochon."

dance floor

[overharrowed]

Enough time has passed that she's had dances with her new husband and, presumably, some of the friend she's closer to when Julius turns up with a small bow. It is doubtless outside influence that he's dressed in a tunic and trousers, but it is Julius's own eye that led to fine tailoring and fabrics sturdy enough for outdoors but decorative enough for a special occasion. His dominant color note is a muted gold shading into a warm brown, and if it sets off violet particularly well, that's hardly an accident either.

"I was given to understand," he says with a faint smile, "that I have offered insufficient dancing at Riftwatch events in the past. Will you help me in my project to make up the deficit?"

[heirring]

Wysteria has by this point also had perhaps one or two too many glasses of wine, and so whatever formality Julius might be attempting - and really, that shallow bow is quite dashing - is scuttled by Wysteria enthusiastically seizing him by both elbows.

"Enchanter! How delighted I am that you would grant me the honor of being one of your collaborators! I would be most pleased, no honored to escort you. Are you very familiar with this particular dance?"

The music of the last set is transitioning into some other, slightly more lively reel.

[overharrowed]

Her enthusiasm hardly offends; instead, he laughs warmly. "I've done it a few times, though I confess I've more practice with the slower ones. If you're willing to be patient with me, though, we can see together how much I've retained from my lessons." A shade confidentially, he adds, "Madame de Cedoux is an excellent teacher, so she deserves the credit for whatever progress I've made."

ghost

[muckspout]

"This happened to you before?" He asks lightly.

He had just been about to tap her shoulder when the screams started echoing. He hasn't been to many weddings, but he's familiar enough to know what is supposed to happen.

Ghosts, on the other hand, he's less familiar with.

"Congratulations!" He offers warmly.

puts thumb over timestamp

[heirring]

"Congratu—ugh."

She is rising from the table, the screams from the wailing woman above them reaching a key that might only be described as blood-curling. About them, the room (if one might call a place with no ceiling left such a word) is rapidly descending into chaos. A cursory scan of the table has Wysteria arming herself with...a table knife.

"Your bow. Try to fire upon the spirit there in the window."

don't worry I can't read

[muckspout]

Edgard stands tall, bow at the ready. His vision sways a little. The alcohol isn't going to help his aim, but it will keep him calm. He breathes and the arrow strikes the window spirit who wails in response.

"One down." He says. "You know how to use that?" He indicates the knife.

"Nice party." He laughs, leaning his hand onto a table, when a spectral one reaches through and pins it down. His laughter turns to a high pitched shriek.