faderift | [OPEN] FRIGHTENING FESTIVITIES

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[OPEN] FRIGHTENING FESTIVITIES

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.

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Because it's a wedding, Jone didn't bother bringing arms or armor. Her intention was to scrub herself clean and drink and dance. And she does-- looking cleaner than usual, hair carefully pulled back in a neat braid, Jone is content on the dance floor. In the lulls between songs, (a) she's only interested in pulling more in, grabbing the hand of passers by. "C'mon, this song's just grand."

Of course, it can't be a normal wedding, no. There have to be ghosts. (b) Seeing a headless knight approach, Jone screams and throws an instinctual punch. Her arm clangs on dirty metal. "Fuck!"

But she seems to be rallying for another strike, holding a nearby chair as a weapon.

Later, she can be found quite scuffed up and dirty, (c) trying to corner a dead woman, all over with blood. In her sword hand is a lit torch, and the other hand is using a dinner plate as a shield.

Desperate times, you know.

Beth's tired and merry--and sober, for that matter--when everything goes to hell. It's a familiar kind of fear at the back of her neck, seeing the dead shamble forward from the darkened parts of the ruins.

I did this, is her first thought. They're here because of me.

She still has her knife on her, even though it's a party. (It's not like she has anything fancy to wear, anyway. She did the best she could, but who's going to be that dressed up on a camping trip?) And right about now, it comes in handy. Scurrying around, stabbing things where she has to, trying to figure out who to talk to in the chaos--at least she's prepared.

She doesn't hesitate when she sees an unbelievably tall woman brandishing a torch at a walker. (They probably aren't walkers. But they act like them--) Marching up to the dead woman, Beth grabs her by one shoulder and stabs her in the temple, right where her jaw and her skull join.

The ghost woman screams, and Jone takes the advantage, rushing forward to press the flame into her bloody torso. Pulling back, she watches the flames lick up lace finery, moving around wet blood like a painters pattern.

"Strewth," Jone murmurs, "don't think she were invited."

She maneuvers herself between the flaming ghost and the human girl without thinking.

The bloodied woman hardly reacts to someone trying to push a blade into her brain, and it might be the most reassuring thing Beth's ever seen. That's not what a walker would do--a walker would be a pile of rags and rot at her feet.

Unless they're different here.

"What are they?" she asks, voice low in hopes of keeping more attention from coming their way. The fire consuming this one is already likely to make them come, like moths to a flame.

Jone still has her arms up, stance as sure as if it were carved from stone. Her faith in her ability to survive this is close to unshakable.

Dying like this would just be too fucking stupid.

"No expert, me," she says, "demons, most like. Always fucking demons, these days. Hey, nice work with the knife."

"Thanks." She edges out from behind the woman, who doesn't exactly look like she dressed for a party, either--though that might just be due to the sudden infestation of dead. There's hesitance in her voice as she asks, "Does stuff like this happen a lot?"

This is the first time she's left the Gallows since she arrived. Things aren't going exactly how she'd imagined.

"Things just like this? No."

Jone stands a little straighter, but she still has her arms out, ready with weapon and shield should the need arise.

"Things as fucking daft as this? Yeah, more'n I'd like."

"Seems like there's a lot of demons around here," she says, trying to sound conversational about it. Her knife's still in her hand, her breath just a little less steady than she'd like. Demons, the whole idea still freaks her out a little.

"Giant hole in the sky have something to do with it, d'you reckon?" Jone doesn't quite snap, but her tone is certainly sarcastic. "Bollocks to this whole war."

Another ghoulish creature begins shambling down the open, mossy hall, and Jone immediately maneuvers to put herself between it and the girl and her knife.

"How should I know?" It's an answer cut from the same cloth as the woman's, just a little edge to the words. "It was here when I showed up."

And once something else is coming at them, Beth starts trying to get around the woman again. Even if she's not raring to stab every not-quite-walker that comes her way, she'd like to be able to see where they are.

She's a rifter? This little thing? What an odd thought. Jone nearly gives voice to it, before battle-hardened instincts settle in. Which begs the question-

"Why are you scrambling? I'll handle this. It's me job."

"It's everyone's job." There's no denying the fact that this is a woman who comes off like she's done this a lot, but Beth's pretty sure she can at least help. Especially since she just stabbed a demon in the head in front of her.

"Fair enough," Jone concedes. This is a bit of a martial effort. "Oughtta knock it down, then. I'll get the last blow in."

This is generally how she works when the effort is shared between her and a quicker but slimmer fighter.

"Okay." It seems as fair a division of labor as any, not least because her companion here looks like she could probably beat three walkers back in one blow if she wanted.

So she darts forward, getting this one through the neck. It's about as disgusting as it sounds, and she hates the feeling of pulling her knife out again, but she always hates that part. The thing that matters is that it crumples to the floor, still twitching like it wants to get up again.

Jone takes that time, with the dead thing twitching on the floor, to grab a chair leg and shove it down deep into the sputtering gullet of the headless knight. It twitches, sure, but that's all it's doing, by the time she's finished.

"Fucker," she spits, before straightening. Jone looks a mess, covered in dead blood and spilled wine, smeared food and soot. She grins. "Well, now, this ain't the worst wedding I've been to."

Maybe she just wants to see that worried girl smile. Maybe she refuses to take this seriously. Probably, it's both.

The corner of Beth's mouth twitches up a little, despite herself. As brittle as she feels--the awful sick feeling in her gut is still there--there's a kind of kinship that comes from working together. Even when all you're doing is killing walkers. "When my sister got married, we went to war the next day."

Went to war sounds melodramatic, but she thinks it'll make the most sense to somebody here.

Jone smiles in return. "Sounds like my kind of wedding. But knowing me, I'd be proper soused for the battle."

Jone continues to carry the chair, dripping slightly with old dead blood. "Let's we find some high place to ride this out, aye?"

"We...didn't really have much booze." It doesn't seem worth it to explain any of it in detail. Maybe it's better to let it sound like Maggie and Glenn got the kind of wedding they deserved, not the kind they had. "Is that okay? I mean, shouldn't we help?"

Jone cocks her head to the side, as though considering. "Well, ain't their fault. Not Fereldan."

She smiles to see Beth's reluctance. "Hardly a threat, this is. Half of Forces is here, anyroad, and I'm to get folk safe. I'd rather do that then prove my fists against these pillocks. No sport, ennit."

The party is large enough. There is no need to share space, and yet—

No, there is no need at all, he decides, keeping watch from some far-off point. For the matter of his own regrets, for all that well-housed guilt for his own shortcomings, he’s no right to make issue of it now, nor ask anything further of her.

Always has he been an imposition at her side. Now at least he’s reason to break that troublesome habit.

He gives her room instead, and keeps himself from her sight.

Jone sees him this time, she's sure. Not out of the corner of her eye, but a true image; black metal bulk of that height is hard to miss when its background is mossy cobblestone, and not the glinting ocean.

She hesitates. Should she talk to him? She doesn't want to, and yet she does. She wants to see him, but fears what she'll see. Who is he, to make her feel like this? How dare he-

Jone's hesitance robs her of the choice; he is gone already.

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[OPEN] FRIGHTENING FESTIVITIES

jone | ota.

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