[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

dick | ota

[nonvenomous]

PARTY:

Why.

Why is he here?

Silas is here because he was invited. The entirety of Riftwatch was invited.

He’s notable on the celebration’s outskirts only for his stillness, at odds with lively dancing and raisin-snatching while he watches the glitter of Wysteria’s dress while she whirls, raucous laughter over splashes of burning brandy, and so on. He has a drink in hand to blend, and is finely dressed in a dark blue jacket with copper buttons, no open evidence of any knives on his person.

Having obviously learned from past experiences, he is well back enough to avoid being snatched directly onto the dance floor while he’s busy skulking.

ALCOVE:

Caught out one too many times, or simply left to his own devices, he eventually retreats into a darkened alcove to smoke. The music is muffled from here, fiddle and all, traces of conversation and laughter harder to hear.

He raises the match before it goes out, lifting long shadows across mossy stone and flows of ivy trailing upward. After a time, Thot appears atop the edge of a crumbling wall to keep a lookout, black on black in the dark.

It’s not quite midnight yet, but who’s keeping track on a night like this?

alcove;

[kantikoy]

"Oh, you came!"

Adrasteia spotted Richard earlier but there were too many people between the two of them for her to say anything; she didn't want to scream towards him across the 'room', as it were, so she's pleasantly surprised to have found him again after he disappeared earlier.

She looks up and spots Thot and smiles before turning that same smile on to Richard.

"Would you be interested in dancing with me?"

Re: alcove;

[nonvenomous]

It’s hard to know how long he’s been here. Probably not very -- there are traces of ember still aglow in the cherry of the joint between his fingers and the stink of elfroot has pooled thick in the alcove with him.

For a human-shaped shade leaned up against a wall in the dark, he does a fine job of finding her with his eyes.

“Are you serious?”

[kantikoy]

It's been a while since Adrasteia has personally smoked elfroot, but she's tempted to ask for some of his now to calm her nerves at this party, except...

Well. His answer kind of breaks her heart a little bit.

"I wouldn't ask in jest." To make fun of him. That sounds terrible. Her eyes shine green in the dark. "But I also won't be hurt if you decline."

[nonvenomous]

She wouldn’t ask in jest.

He’d known the answer before he’d asked and asked anyway, skepticism pinched in near matching sympathy for the look on her face. A pinch at the joint brings it back up under the bristlebrush of his mustache; he drags while he considers her. Holding the smoke gives him a moment to think.

So too does offering the joint out to her before he furls smoke oily through his teeth.

“Why would I decline?”

He stifles a cough, eyes stung with smoke. YOLO.

[kantikoy]

Adrasteia takes the offered joint with a nod of thanks. "Maybe you don't like to dance."

Or maybe he doesn't like her, in particular; such people exist, after all, but saying so seems... well. If he doesn't like her she's not sure she wants to know.

She's also not sure that he wouldn't have just told her as much, by this point.

The joint is dragged in small puffs. What she's forgotten over time about breathing it in is remembered by the sheer amount of wine in her system and the smoke escapes from her nose, and then she offers it back. "Thank you."

[nonvenomous]

The joint is a grubby little thing on its last leg, lit and carefully stumped out some two or three times over the last week. Waste not -- he takes a quick hit and passes it wordlessly back for her to finish, insistent at a nod, should she be so inclined.

There’s no answer, on the subject of what he does or doesn’t like, and the greyscale of darkvision makes him harder to read while he watches her smoke. He’s a passive presence, lurking out here with his cat, barely even a satellite to the festivities.

More than anything he has the look of someone who might have made to slip out over a low wall, given enough time alone to think about it.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

some antisocial mix of the two? why not, let's be daring;

[archademode]

“She’ll not know it, if you choose to take your leave.”

Murmured through the echo of his helm as he weaves his own path closer towards emptied space, ever uncomfortable amongst a crowd unless he’s bid to disperse it.

The man is familiar, of course: he’d seen his face throughout their journey, kept watch on him from afar, noted his voice— but those who favor solitude are those not easily drawn to one another. Such is the way of things.

Here and now, however, it seems as though some rules were meant to be broken.

...at least a little.

[nonvenomous]

Having started to change direction at the sound heavy armor plate shifting along in his periphery, Silas rolls to a stop at the sound of the voice that inhabits it. He never saw Gabranth’s face through their journey, but he knows his voice, and turns now to face him. Caught.

“That’s the idea.”

He’s near to eye level, lean and trim and tidily kempt with a drink still in hand. His eyes are keen and bright, screwing into the shadowy pits punched into Gabranth’s helmet for the first time with a candiru’s skill for finding points of entry.

Surely there is something in there for him to sink into.

“But on a night like this, the same could probably be said for you."

[archademode]

“She is a bright thing. Her thoughts a vast ocean, her heart quick to beat.”

Even in the midst of nascent conversation, he does not press further into claimed space: what Silas has, he’s free to keep, as Gabranth would much prefer to do the same.

Particularly in the wake of a turbulent past few days.

“I do not know the man she is wed to, but before this night is ended I intend to.”

[nonvenomous]

“Mm,” a wry crook at the corner of his mouth for Gabranth’s assessment of Wysteria’s essence marks this single syllable as unsupportive on a deep and resonating level, right around the region of rock bottom. “She inspires poetry in us all.”

This is a little like pulling up a tugged trot line and finding a crocodile on the hook instead of a fish.

His prying eyes have gone cool for lack of purchase, giving up easily at first defeat. And he keeps the distance he’s been given, leaving it like more of a warning than a courtesy between them.

“De Foncé is an Orlesian, akin to our friends at the Thenuviet estate. He likes fine wine, wild animals, and the sound of his own voice.”

What else can he help with?

[archademode]

Whether fanged or sharp-eyed as they come, information given is information well-received when it's placed within grasp of a Judge Magister of Archadia— and though that helm betrays nothing behind an intentionally expressionless gaze, Gabranth’s own broad-set posture shifts slightly where he stands. A little more attentive at that latter reveal more so than anything else.

A little more interested.

“And what of his character?”

party

[lumelume]

On a ten-or-so-minute break between songs, the musicians scatter to refresh themselves. Mado, tousled and smiling with his face glowing from drink and adrenaline, appears next to Dick with a cup of his own. He clinks them together with absent cheer, taking a long drink after the fact and only speaking after he has wiped his mouth with the back of his hand:

"To the couple!"

[nonvenomous]

Doubtless, given his presence and arm’s length proximity to the festivities, Silas has seen Mado performing as a part of the band. He’s surely seen him bouncing with high-energy through the Gallows, maybe travelling on missions, or during the odd announcement, all without conversation.

Here, with his cup clicked, Dick drinks obligingly to the couple, and says dead-eyed and dead ahead:

“Please don’t speak to me.”

[lumelume]

In the middle of inhaling to say more, Mado simply closes his mouth and turns away, still smiling. He is nothing if not agreeable.

partyin'.

[poleaxed]

Jone is flush with enthusiasm (and wine), though it's not quite gone all to her head just yet. She smiles when she sees Richard, keeping to himself away from the main festivities. If he's kept an eye on the dance floor, she's been on it.

She's no great thinker, no reader of minds through magic or persuasion, but she thinks you'd have to be quite daft not to see how little the man wants to dance. She doesn't ask, though she assumes it's quite clear to anyone watching that she, particularly, does want more dancing in her life.

Instead, she grins and hands him a refilled glass. "Cor, the last time we had a proper show like this... it were just before that awful dream."

Give or take a few weeks. All told, the conclusion of last year has melded together in her mind, a fraught painting with runny, mutable details.

[nonvenomous]

For a man so seldom seen on one, Silas Atheris has an uncommonly keen eye for goings on around dance floors, and will have seen, watched, and taken mental notes from afar. What he ever wants at any given time is a card kept close to his chest, but he doesn’t shrink from Jone’s approach or bow up on defense as if in anticipation of being dragged with her -- a single thread of tension pulled and snipped before she gets to him, when he sees the glass.

“Thank you.”

Trade? No. He considers passing the empty off to her, only to perch it on some nearby decoration instead, where someone will almost certainly knock it over and shatter it later.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” Take a drink every time you’re passive aggressive. He drinks. “Is dance a common school of study among Ferelden mercenaries?”

[poleaxed]

Jone grins, laughs, and wonders if she's being made fun of. Well, if she is, it's by Silas; she probably deserves it. "Not the most elegant creature, no," she agrees with an opinion unvoiced.

"I like to dance," she confides, "reckon that's just south of obvious."

[nonvenomous]

“Elegance comes at the cost of character, but you carry yourself well.” There are no buried insults for Jone, no barbs or prickles at all, past whatever shades in behind his eyes when he looks away from her as if in search of an example on the dance floor proper. And that’s certainly not for her.

“I worked with a warrior previously who was well-versed in various traditions as a result of her mother’s royal lineage. I think she’d have been disgusted if she ever knew we were aware.”

[poleaxed]

Jone snorts, and it's not just the drink that makes the thought a funny one. Royal lineage. The hell kind of warrior would that make? (King Maric was a royal and a warrior, but the heroes of her youth, larger than life, are mythical in death.)

"I don't think I were ever taught to dance," she says with a shrug. "Just like everything, I reckon. You keep trying until folk take you serious. Can you dance?"

Not will you, can.

party and yes, I know the month is half over, it's important

[degenere]

Richard Dickerson may be well back enough to avoid being snatched directly onto the dance floor, but this means that he is in the perfect position to be snatched by the arm and dragged back further away from the dance floor by Val.

"What is a Judge Magister, and who in the name of the Maker Himself is the stranger who calls himself by that title and whose sight you set upon me, to approach me and then to pose vague and confusing threats to me at my wedding? Confusing, in that I think they were meant to be threats, but I could not understand why-- A man, so concerned with how fine a husband I would make, what dignity and coin I would find to keep Lady Wysteria working to the benefit of 'us all'--as if she were the only one who worked! As if I had ever beheld the man before in my life!"

--All hissed in the sort of undertone that is not very under-the-tone, when one wishes to both make a scene but be seen to avoid making a scene at the same time.

[nonvenomous]

Dick is easy to find, tall and balding and surveying the branch of two dark hallways, working to recall which of them he and Jone used to reach the open hillside beyond.

Interruption stirs venom up hazy into the twist of his posture, the bore of his gaze turned on de Foncé: sluggish distaste for having been so handled, wiry muscle rolled beneath his jacket, resistant to being maneuvered any which way. Listening is a struggle, nevermind parsing this assault -- he is tired and he is miserable and he reeks of elfroot.

But Val has him.

Doubtless he’s wrestled unhappier reptiles out of darker holes.

“You’ve married Wysteria Poppell,” he says, arch, and making only a half-hearted effort to meet the same drop in tone, “I’m not sure what you expected.”

[degenere]

"I have married Wysteria Poppell, and so I should expect to be cornered by rough characters at my own wedding?" Val's laugh is short and derisive and calls much more attention to him than his half-whispers. He does not seem to care. And in any case, he and Richard and now turned away from the dance floor, and a few steps away besides, a safe distance by which to hold this conversation. "She is not so popular. Indeed she can never name a single friend if you put the question to her. It is very sad and I have told her as much. Now I am forced to wonder: is this reticence because, all along, she has judges instead of friends? This would be no less sad, but does seem the sort of thing that should have been disclosed during the nego--"

--tiations, negotiations would be the word, but Val stops himself there and grabs hold of Richard's other arm so that they are facing one another. The distaste has either not registered or is immaterial.

"Who is this person? You must tell me."

[nonvenomous]

“She’s certainly held in higher regard here than you or I -- “

He’s interrupted by Val’s laugh, and resentment clouds dark in a glance away, down, aside. If he’d just committed to a direction -- something in Val’s ongoing diatribe pulls him back in. Dismay piles on with the rest, bleak in a shake of his head. Late. Processing delayed.

“Why would you tell her -- “

He is grabbed. Jostled. Turned.

The boil of his fuse crawls slow up to his ears, and in a blind, ringing surge of had it up to here, he rips one hand back full force to crack it flat across the flank of Val de Foncé’s perfect, stubbled jaw.

[degenere]

It doesn't not hurt. Certainly, Val has experienced worse pain in the course of his life to date. Yet even a minor pain is still pain. Surprise, shock, betrayal, these all make the sting worse.

All of which is to say that Val recoils, releases his grip on Richard to touch his face. He stares, affronted. Ow.

"What," he says, and then, "Do you know where we are!"

--Very close to do you know who I am. Stranger, though.