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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.
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.
ghosting;
[For all their talk of desired action, Gabranth hardly intended for it to be so soon, much less— this.]
On your feet. [It’s a coarser tone, the one employed as he moves in beside Byerly with purpose, no heed paid to their differing statuses: when need and drink combine, the end result is that Gabranth would rather focus on having a grip of the situation over propriety itself.
Though gods know he wishes he’d maintained propriety only a day prior.
Regardless, if there is an exit to be found in the midst of this dawning chaos, he's determined to see Byerly to it.]
no subject
You're not going to make me fight them, are you?
no subject
In your state the only man you would hurt is yourself.
[Somewhere nearby, so loud as to be jarring, a glass tray is toppled by nothing visible, spattering the flooring with shards that look like stars. Combined with the scream of a woman who lacks a face, it’s a far cry from jovial music and wedding celebrations.
A little more industrial grunge, perhaps.]
no subject
[ Then he puffs out his cheeks and squints at the kerfuffle. There are people in there, he thinks, who can't defend themselves. Not that he's in that much better a position, but - ]
Come, good man. We must help them.
no subject
[It’s the start of an argument that never fully forms. Selflessness is an overriding cause, even if Gabranth's own instincts would have priorities reversed for the sake of directorial security. Instead he exhales, turning his attention towards broken dining ware and guests fenced in by mist and hunched specters. The way some rush fearfully in flocks away from contact they can feel, not see.]
If you remain set on this task, I must demand to see you rise, and hold yourself steady.
[Because if you can’t, Byerly, he’s approaching this another way.]
no subject
[ By stands. And he sways. It's a far cry from steady, but he is standing. ]
no subject
But...it’s enough. Fine.]
Better to usher them away from anything sharp enough to be deadly if displaced. And—
[There is a harsh pause as something heavy brushes itself across his ankle, prompting a quick turn alongside a snarl that would seem more fit for a hound disturbed than a man— passing once he finds nothing at his back (of course) but empty air.]
Mind the mist. There is no knowing what it would do to those trapped within it.
[This will go quicker if they divide themselves for a time, and to that end Gabranth draws away, clearly intending to leave Byerly to shepherd on his own.]
no subject
Oh, it's all right. Stay calm. It's probably just a trick of the light. Come on - Come this way.
no subject
I need you.
[Somewhere beneath that helmet he thins his lips on approach: the fog appears thicker now than before, the party more grim-bodied— and if he sounds exasperated, it’s because he is.]
There is a woman who will pay me no heed. Already she has struck me twice with two costly vases, yet remains convinced I am no more than a grim specter come to claim her.
[This, coincidentally, might explain why Gabranth is currently dripping wet across his shoulders and sporting a few thoroughly crushed flower petals tucked here and there amongst his own given regalia. But that's beside the point. You, Byerly, are better suited to this.
And you have a face to comfort her with, besides.]
no subject
Did you consider taking off your hat, dear fellow?
no subject
[With a heavy hand, he swats Byerly’s own away. Stop that.]