[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

zoya | ota

[novokribirsk]

party

You'd never know that attending wasn't Zoya's idea. She wears her long hair in an elegant twist, woven with a ribbon of midnight blue. Her dress is the same color, shimmering silk that flatters her figure. Her only jewelry is a silver bracelet at her wrist, studded with bone. It's possible that she's blown whatever cash she received from Riftwatch, so far, on this dress and having a kefta made. But she has priorities.

She doesn't particularly give a damn about the bride or groom, but she applauds politely at the right times, listens to speeches without (much) comment, drinks in time with toasts. (The wine, at least, is nice.)

During the dinner she may frown at some delicacy or other, but pride keeps her from asking what a particular dish is supposed to be. Still, her hesitation may be noticeable before she tries some new food or other. She doesn't immediately move to stand when the night turns to dancing, but she does watch, and she may consider invitations.

Surprisingly, she's keen on Snap-Dragon. Pomdrakon she calls it, and reaches for burning raisins without fear, eats them with relish.

Eventually, she seeks some time alone — and may be found passing through erstwhile hallways and alcoves of Edlingham Hall, considering a staircase, or a flaking, faded painting half grown over with ivy. Or maybe she notices someone else looking around, and her voice rings out jarringly above the faint ebb of the party:

"Don't touch that door. Unless you enjoy pieces of architecture smashing your skull."

spooks

Saints, she knew coming here was a bad idea. She might not have guessed that there would be hideous ghosts, it's true, but it's the principle of the thing. What matters is: she was right.

She'd attempted to clear the fog, at first, instinctively raising her arms to summon a gust of wind that had done absolutely nothing but knock over a table and shatter a particularly expensive-looking vase of flowers.

She can be found facing down the headless body, her arms outstretched, curls falling out of her coiffure, and a look of pure disgust on her face. She snaps,

"Can't you do that without making a mess?"

Again: priorities. What is she supposed to do, run around with a dead man's blood in her hair and splashed across her dress? Revolting. But she's unafraid, moves with easy grace as she summons, truthfully much more comfortable surrounded by shambling ghosts than she had been during the festivities.

wildcard

[ you know what to do ]

party @ the dinner table;

[kantikoy]

"It's veal," comes the unprompted answer to the unasked question. The elven woman who has spoken up Zoya may have noticed welcoming people earlier as they came in, or listening to the complaints of the head chef for this little shindig. "It's not bad, actually. I think you should try it."

Presuming she eats meat, which... well. Adrasteia doesn't know anyone who doesn't, so that'd be new.

[novokribirsk]

Herring and rye is still the standard breakfast at the Little Palace — sorry, Alina, but that innovation of hers hadn't stuck — and Zoya prefers it to her red meats, but she isn't unfamiliar. She takes a bite, chews and swallows, and admits,

"It's passable," which, for her, passes for praise. She gives Adrasteia a closer look, then says, "I take it you're the wedding planner?"

[kantikoy]

"Generally, no, well, not exactly. I'm the Morale Officer for Riftwatch." Which isn't a project terribly removed from the nature of wedding planning, actually, but Adrasteia can't help but feel like 'wedding planner' is some kind of title she can't quite claim. "And a Grey Warden. In this specific case, however... the newly Madame de Fonce asked for my help, so I did the best I could."

At the end of the table sounds the tell-tale tinkling of glass on flagstones. Adrasteia sighs.

[novokribirsk]

In order to stop herself from scoffing at Morale Officer, she asks,

"Grey Warden?"

[kantikoy]

There's a war on. Morale is important!

"Ah, you must be a Rifter." Because there's not a soul in Thedas who doesn't know what a Grey Warden is, in her opinion. Maybe some poor folks in Tevinter, slaving away under the Imperium, but that's neither here nor there. "Have you been informed about Blights, their nature, any of that?"

2 spooky;

[archademode]

“Mind yourself—”

He’s quick to fit himself before her, not out of assumed need (her magick seems sound enough by his estimate; he’ll not question her ability) but rather to direct attention elsewhere: between the mist apparitions gather like fanned smoke as seconds pass, and he’d prefer not to see her surrounded.

Intangible as they are, the effects they seem to have on the world around them— however minor in nature (the odd clatter here, the shattering of something fragile there)— might not remain so for long.

And besides, between the two of them, he imagines he's much better suited to endure a swath of wayward blood.

[novokribirsk]

She slams her arms down.

He may stand between her and the bloody body, but he was right to note that there are many more. There's a figure wreathed in shadow off to her side, human-shaped but wrong, clawed and bleeding dark smoke. The dark sky overhead rumbles in response to her will — it's possible Gabranth's ears pop — and then a bolt of lightning sparks from above, dances across her fingertips, and burns towards the shadowy spirit.

"I don't need a walking wall ornament to tell me how to handle myself."

[archademode]

He moves at that, only just. A single step to the side and then—

“No. But you’ll not disperse them by force alone.”

Not even by way of greater elements. Somewhere in the aftermath of her spell, a separate thing from it, silverware screeches as it dashes itself against a nearby wall. Yet the apparitions continue on, and he lifts a hand to gesture to them— only to be bespattered with a nearby splash of blood.

Ah, well.

“Trust I have already tried.”

[novokribirsk]

"I trust," she growls, "nothing."

Which is, perhaps, overly revealing. But that isn't a thought she entertains as, stubbornly, she summons a wind burst at another ghost.

[archademode]

“Then you waste your strength and breath on folly.”

His own temper bristles for it (tongue catching against teeth along the span of sharp consonants), a thing too quick to kindle unbidden, smothered with a momentary glance instead towards rolling mist as it draws ever-nearer.

—and so reaches out to take hold of her wrist, knowing full well it is an intrusion.

If she won’t relent, if she won’t listen, then what choice is left to him? He’ll not abandon her to this chaos, even if it means drawing her ire.

And Gabranth, aren’t you one to talk of stubbornness.

spoopy.

[poleaxed]

A headless body is new, but armored arseholes tend to have consistent weaknesses. Jone would know from experience, having been one with recent frequency. If she'd known the party was going to go this way, she'd be one herself.

As it is, she's been making weaponry out of the table wear. A long, sharp knife for cutting neat, thin slices of ham hock is thrust into the dead man's armpit. Old, dead, cold blood dribbles down Jone's arm.

Standing behind him, her head bobbing up where his ought to be, she hears the other woman's comment and laughs. "Ask him again; we've a stronger bargaining position, now."

[novokribirsk]

It's a smart move, targeting the weak points of the armor. Zoya can appreciate that, as well as the nerve to attack the thing at close range.

"Are you going to finish him," she asks, lifting an eyebrow, "or do you need me to?"

[poleaxed]

"Finish- him-?" She says the words in time with jolts from her hand, still wrapped around a bloody knife shoved into a dead man's armpit. "What'd you reckon? Off with his head?"

[novokribirsk]

"At least you're enjoying this," she says acidly, reaching for a nearby table.

She grabs a knife — not much time to differentiate it for a butter knife or something more useful — but it doesn't matter; because she throws it at the armored thing, then summons a blast of wind to drive it in the gaps around one of his knees, hard.

[poleaxed]

"Why wouldn't I be?" Jone makes an over exaggerated frown, expression still above a headless neck.

And then there's a stab, and Jone's smile is back. Violence is so easy. You always know where the stakes are, how to win, how to lose. "Creative," Jone says, appraisal positive. "You've something for armor. Now, how d'you stop a dead man's heart?"

party - exploring

[wearyallalone]

The man she catches up short is tall, with a soldier's bearing even though he's dressed for a wedding and not visibly armed. He turns back. "I wasn't planning to, I only wanted to get away, briefly. I was wandering, I suppose." She may not have been in Thedas long enough to place accents, but he doesn't sound like he's originally from Kirkwall.

He pauses, then glances up. "Do you think it's likely to fall without being disturbed? Given the amount of alcohol flowing, it might be best to put up a barrier of some kind. But I confess, I know little about architecture."

[novokribirsk]

"It's likely stable enough, as long as it's undisturbed."

Not that Zoya knows much about architecture either, truth be told. But these ruins had been scouted, cleaned up, prior to the wedding — nothing is exactly a hazard so much as a might be.

"But if someone deep enough in his cups tries to throw it open — "

Probably bad news.

[wearyallalone]

"Well, I suppose as long as you're here to issue a warning, it's no immediate danger," he says, giving it a final assessing look before turning back to her. "Would you like someone to relieve you at some point, or are you comfortable as you are?"

[novokribirsk]

She arches an elegant eyebrow.

"You mistake me. I'm not here to help any idiots keep themselves from get killed, and I have no intention of staying to do nothing else."

[wearyallalone]

"My apologies," he says. "It was meant to be lighthearted, but I've been told my face rather undercuts my ability to make successful jokes." It sounds like he might be quoting someone in particular. "I'd say it was a hazard of my former profession, but I'm afraid the face came this way."

forgive my tardiness

[rezni]

And speaking of invitations—

"How many hearts have you broken tonight, Zoya?" is a teasing, easy greeting, heralding Nikolai's return to her side.

If the dark navy of his jacket compliments the shades of her dress, it is only because they are who they are, because they both know the importance of a united front and because the blue is flattering on him as much as it is on her.

His hands are empty of drink, though some trace of dirt and dust can be seen on his palms still. It will take very little prompting for Nikolai to share his opinion on the ruins.

[novokribirsk]

She tosses her head as she looks up to him, says,

"You expect me to keep track?"

She sounds serious enough, but the truth is — fewer than might be the case at a similar function in Ravka. She's grateful for it. The last thing she needs is some fool getting it in their head to romance her, as if all she needs is a few soft words for a gentler side of her to unfurl.

"Have you been enjoying the party?"

A distinct note of irony, there. As if she hasn't kept some track of him, as if she didn't know when he ventured into the rest of the Hall.

[rezni]

"I'm enjoying getting a sense of our new comrades," Nikolai answers her, which isn't the same exact thing as enjoying the party itself. "It makes a nice change, doesn't it?"

The kind of off hand comment that's sure to make Zoya narrow her eyes at him, so in some minor attempt to avoid it, he clarifies, "Considering our track record for grand events."

Massacre, or the looming prospect of taking the first step in a forced marched towards the altar. Surely a small wedding of two people who seemed reasonably fond of each other surrounded by those who enjoyed their company is an improvement.

[novokribirsk]

She narrows her eyes anyway, apparently little mollified by his hasty addition. She could almost laugh, bitter, at the notion of track records. Should she enlighten him about her history with weddings? Should she confess how selfishly relieved she'd been when Genya and David, when Nadia and Tamar, had forgone a large ceremony?

"I hate weddings," she says sourly. "The music is terrible, the food is worse, and most people use them as an excuse to act like twits."