[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

[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."

[heirring]

"On the contrary, I think it means exactly that. If nothing else, it is good to give that sort of one eye closed scholarship a taste of its own medicine on occasion. I will grant," she is quick to add, turning her face slightly toward his as they sweep along. They are very close, but it's important to meet his eye so as to not be interrupted halfway to her point. "That within the restrictions of his study that he hade a half dozen salient points. But if that is all it accomplishes, then the work may as well be relegated to footnotes in other more well considered texts. And how can anyone take seriously the studies of someone like Saurd who spends so much time in conversation with that very same half baked fellowship? Overlooking the Dalish? In the Brecilian Forest? Really, Valentine. It is hardly my fault that they each make the other more irrelevant by association. And I am not exaggerating. I can feel the heat of it even now."

Although maybe that is the wine, or the fact that she had been standing for such a large portion of the evening before this point and everyone knows a young lady ought to sit every half hour or so or risk fainting straight away.

"But I have decided already that I will forgive you for it, as I think your coat very charming. It is a very clever touch."

And here comes the next series of brisk footwork, the pattern of it sending her skirts swaying and the metal at the hem to melodic clinking.

[degenere]

"Historically," comes after a great breath, when Val finds his moment to work his way back in and add his paragraph after her paragraph, "we must not forget the work, and its place in the larger context and the early scholarly understanding, or lack thereof, and if it is good enough for a footnote than it is good enough to be read, or else how can it be cited? Ma petit ananas, are you advocating for inadequate research? For skimming?"

His narrowed eyes are fixed on her ear. This is not a glare. It might instead be the face of a man concerned for a lady. In particular a lady whose ear is not irritated that he can see. Perhaps flushed, a small bit, but that might be the wine, or the heat that comes of dancing, which is busy work even when you are very good at it and move without a single misstep, even when the footwork is closer to hopping.

"And yet I would forgive you, in turn, even if that were the case. I did not think you would have noticed the coat. Not so distracted by the--coins? They are coins, yes? All of them? I have been trying to determine as much, and have been very distracted by them. What is their purpose besides this?"

[heirring]

She has something prepared—no, she is not advocating for skimming; she is merely suggesting that eventually one must leave off one's relentless quest for context and simply dash out and do—but the question catches her off guard and swallows it.

To say Wysteria balks at it would be an exaggeration. At no point through the next array of steps is she particularly stiff or off-footed. But here now under his observation there is decidedly some color in her ear, as well as down the back of her neck and presumably reaching to spread beneath her collar.

"Oh that."

—is reflexive, and hastily patched over a moment later with something airier and lighter and altogether less mortified. As if reciting it from a book, she says, "It is a Kalvadan tradition. Ordinarily it is the sort of thing a bride's household does on her behalf and it acts as both a parting gift and a symbol for future prosperity. It is quite typical."

And Alexandrie and Adrasteia both had been so keen to ask after her wishes that for a moment she had allowed herself to be charmed or guilted into imagining she had them. But that is neither here nor there.

[degenere]

Perhaps the ear is irritated. But the neck? No excuse. No blame to be placed upon him for that.

"A tradition." There is real warmth to the word. Val glances down at the hem of the dress, which is hanging both heavily and musically. "I do enjoy learning of such things. Anthropology is not my preference of study, of course, but this allows it to be a sort of hobby. The knowledge of the origins of such symbolism makes them no less charming or pleasant, so it is a pity that many audiences resist hearing them. What other traditions are present, so I might look for them?"

The stepwork brings them closer together again. Val, very off-handedly, shrugs. "If I am asked, I should know, so I can explain. To not know could also be seen as husbandly, but I would know."

[heirring]

There is no reasonable cause for why any of it should be embarrassing. It is meant to have the appearance of something real, and so it is only natural that she should have insisted on some elements to make it so. Of course someone would have asked, and naturally she would have been expected to answer. But he is not meant to have inquired, just like he is not really meant to have had a new coat made.

But of course he is only partly serious. So why be at all sheepish?

"Well," is like mentally smoothing down wrinkles in a skirt. "There was the dessert with the fruit in it. That's meant to encourage the match to have lots of children. Which is obviously irrelevant, but was the first thing which sprung to mind when Alexandr--when Lady Asgard asked what sorts of things were served in Kalvad. It is a very different sort of food, between there and Orlais, and I could think of no immediate way to reconcile the two. And the dress is mine, for it's poor luck to be married in a borrowed one. But the shoes are new as you're meant to break them in during your first year of marriage and then save them in a box after. But I like these, and I believe I mean to wear them for longer than that. The stitching on them is very charming."

And of course in a few weeks, accepting certain legal hurdles be cleared, they will be done with this. No need to wait a whole year.

"And that is the sum of them. It is only a few, really. For color, as it were. I hope that is satisfactory to a hobbyist."

[degenere]

Val listens to this with the air of a man taking mental notes. He is still himself, so the dessert gets a ah!, and he nearly interrupts but then doesn't as they veer to children, which gets a little sneer, and then irrelevant gets a yes!, and so on, and so on.

"For convincing color, and it is so. I feel that the touches are quite appropriate, and give an account of someone having organized a wedding quickly and efficiently without entirely sparing a personal touch and attention to meaningful detail. I find it very satisfactory. I think that I had the dessert--I did, I think--I did not recognize it, but I do enjoy eating foods I do not recognize, and so I chose it. I found it to be very enjoyable. I was unaware of its superstitious properties at the time, which I suppose would make little difference either way. Put out your foot," and he shifts his grip as he issues this order, so that she can safely comply without entirely interrupting their steps. By now they have nearly made a revolution of the dance floor. There is still more dance to dance. "As a hobbyist, I wish to see these shoes and behold this stitching."

[heirring]

"You will hardly be able to mark it while in motion, de Foncé," is a very minor quibble and made even as she briefly detaches one of her hands from where it belongs to help hold back the fall of her skirt as they go.

One of the shoes (boots, really) in question is produced via a not entirely graceless longer than usual stride. It is, it must be said, a very cheerful red color—some fine grained leather with buttons up the side on a sensibly sturdy sole. Presumably the vaguely floral decorative pattern punched into them involves the stitching in question.

"I have decided to give up soft soles. They're very hard on a carpet of course, but I have had enough of being caught unawares and having to run about in delicate shoes."

(This will, annoyingly enough, turn out to be something of a prophetic statement.)

[degenere]

"Don't tell me what I will be unable to mark," Val counters. To prove himself, he cranes his neck and uses the momentum of the dance to lean a little forward and behold the boot as she sticks out her foot. The glimpse is but brief: a flash of red, a simplistic impression of embroidery. He makes an appreciative noise anyways and allows the dance to right him once more. No graceless tumbles forward for him.

"Very good. As a hobbyist, I approve, and now understand more of this tradition. As a participant, I will be able to speak of the custom in no uncertain terms--perhaps a little uncertainty, in order to be entirely convincing. I think there is such a thing as too knowledgeable. Do not fear, I well know how to balance such things. On shoes, in the general--" As this is entirely normal conversation to carry on with one's bride at one's wedding, Val continues on. "--I myself have never understood the purpose of a soft sole, except perhaps in a slipper worn around the bed. Why would you not want a shoe or boot that could be used if you were to have sudden cause to run? Of course it should not be a slab of stone that you walk upon, it should have some suppleness to it, but even so. How did you find this venue, incidentally? Did you say?"

Incidental to what? It doesn't matter.

[heirring]

"I did not."

And for a brief moment—say, the time it takes to separate and perform some slightly more complicated element of the dance before she returns to him, drawn in close again by some requirement of either the style of dancing or because they should be seen to be near to one another or both—, it seems like she might leave try to leave it without further explanation.

But no, of course she can't do that.  Not when she'd been so clever to find the place to begin with.

"I have recently taken up reading about architecture in the Towers Age before I go to sleep. You're familiar with Gauthier's work on the subject, of course. —And yes, before you say it, I have also made myself familiar with Vidal, who I think we will both agree is rather broad on the subject. But I found it an appealing inroad. In any case," she says, near to his cheek as they've reached a point closest to the musicians and she wishes to be clearly heard. "After we come to our agreement, the subject happened to arise in one of my frequent conversations with Madame Waite who is one of the clerks in the Viscount's office. I dearly hate every appointment I have with her, and so try very hard to find something enjoyable to discuss while I'm there, and she lamented the loss of a great deal of Kirkwall's architectural history but led me through a grand tour--on a map, mind you--of likely sites where I might still see a few things, which naturally led to the subject of allowing old places to go to ruin, which evidently is a great passion of hers. She was rather reticent to mention this place, however. I suspect it is to do with some fear she had of me going out alone to look at it. But I had it out of her in the end."

She takes a short breath.

"There is a very pretty series of rooms east of here. You should slip away and take a look at them when you're able."

[degenere]

Satisfied firstly that she is going to answer--imagine, being given the chance to speak on one's achievement, and declining to do so!--and, secondly, that she has given proper deference to both Gauthier and Vidal, whose name Val was prepared to defend, had Wysteria taken any longer to cite him--Val manages not to interrupt.

He is therefore mor than ready to speak his piece when the time comes.

"I believe the Towers Age to be the greatest period for architectural design in all of the Ages. The completing of the Grand Cathedral in the Age prior ushered in the achievements and styles, yes, that cannot be argued. Its inspiration indelibly shaped all that followed. Gauthier has the right of that point. The developments in philosophy that went on so separated and heightened the relation of the divine to the culture, and fundamentally changed the way in which we, the people of the Maker, related to Thedas--to the world!--through architecture. Too much cannot be said of it. And this--" He loosens one hand from its grip on hers and flings it out to take the space into consideration. "A stunning example, truly. The trilobate arches! The gilded fluted columns! The domes--truly dating the structure in the Towers style--higher, grander, more decorated than any that came before or after! Even in ruin, the eye is drawn upward, giving one the chance to gaze toward the heavens. Perhaps your Madame Waite wanted to keep such a place to herself, in selfishness. Should I truly depart this wedding to look at rooms? It is not often such advice is given at one's own wedding, I think. You will forgive my mistrust, I hope."

Forgive and follow along with him. By now Wysteria must be accustomed in at least a small way with Val's method of folding conversations into other conversations, without pause.o

[heirring]

Follow along she does. It isn't so difficult, really. Not once one has already decided to simply allow the great tidal wave of whatever Val de Foncé has to say wash over them, willingly buffeted in whatever direction it pleases.

"It's true that these things are by and large for the guests more than they are for the married couple. However, I also suspect that any fault someone might find in the thing easily excused given your well documented interest in the subject. Which I would happily explain to anyone who might ask. Or—"

There are always options in matters of subterfuge, you know.

"We might simply go to look at the rooms together. That would neatly resolve any questions before they were even asked. —You will pardon the implication, of course."

[degenere]

"Mais bien sûr," Val says, graciously, "no pardon necessary. We are both of us sensible and if we might use the presumptions and assumptions of others to our benefit, then we should do so. For is that not so much of what we are counting upon?"

He nods around them. This, itself, the well-planned and entirely suitable façade that will be difficult to argue, and will get them to the goal. Of course, as façades go, there are far worse ones. Val might even intimate this, but for the fact that none of it should be said aloud. The music is quite loud, and they are within their own contained conversation. Yet someone might still overhear.

"I do prefer to first behold such things in the company of another. Second viewing is always best conducted by one's self, and those that come after even more so, but the first viewing is best suited by companionship, in order to facilitate observations and spark debate. As this dance concludes, we might make an exit."

[heirring]

If she is pleased, it can only be on behalf of her own cleverness. Well done, Wysteria. It has all been so thoughtfully done. After all even the details of de Foncé's very fine blue coat are, in a sense, a product of her scheme. True, he has performed admirably but it still required that she cast him in the role.

Maybe she will say so later. It would be impolite not to congratulate him on his commitment to the part. Not just on behalf of the coat, but for his general good humor. It is remarkable how a person so thoroughly immune to any attention to detail can become a veritable font of them when motivated. But for now—

"I will do my best to pretend not to have seen it already, then. Which should be easy enough. Warden Adrasteia made a very fine companion for reviewing the place's suitability, but I suspect I've some of debate left in me yet. Speaking of, let us return this Saurd business. As I was saying—"

There is not so much time left to the dance, but it is more than enough to still wrestle over semantics. And far more pleasant to do, now that she has remembered to be so self-satisfied.