[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

beth.

[littlemissfutility]

Look, Beth's not going to turn down a party when she's invited. Even if she's not all that prepared to dress up nice, she manages to find pants and a shirt that aren't spattered with blood--and, out in the middle of nowhere, she figures she can probably get away with the hunting knife at her waist.

She hangs back for a lot of the dancing, though it's less for lack of interest than lack of experience. And she's a little fascinated by the food, trying little bites of everything and maybe asking you if you know what this or that is.

She sings at least one song for the sake of the festivities. Maybe more--maybe up on stage, maybe just for an audience of one or two.

It's when the ghosts come out that things shift. The warmth drains from her face, replaced by a brittle sort of determination, clenching her knife and her jaw both. When she fights a ghost, she always aims for the head. And she's as quiet about everything as she can possibly manage.

After, once whatever happened is over, she finds a quiet corner to hunch up in, an empty dark window to stare out of while she hugs her knees to her chest.

[ ...or something else, hmu or wildcard it. ]

[archademode]

It would be best if you left.

[Most have already gone, requiring no additional cause or care in the wake of the wedding’s ghoulish conclusion. He lingers still to ensure nothing further goes awry— that the work of those who put to rest restless bones will stay as such, and that Wysteria and her betrothed will sleep at least a touch easier tonight knowing there will be no long-lasting repercussions.

He stands near when he approaches her tightly coiled figure, armor still fitted with lingering blood and a few specks of fragranced debris. He’ll tend to it later.]

There is nothing that remains here to be seen to.

[Says the man that remains, seeing to a great deal.]

[littlemissfutility]

[ The stars outside the ruined window are unfamiliar--weeks here, and she's never seen a constellation that makes sense. Beth keeps looking anyway, though now it's to practice spotting the shapes people in Thedas recognize. The Sacrifice, the Voyager, the High Dragon...

She doesn't turn her attention away from the black sky, or the little pinpricks of light that dot it, when someone approaches her. What's the point? The hunting knife is still gripped in her hand, and she can see the shape of him in her peripheral vision: he's not a threat.

His voice sounds familiar, if muffled behind the helmet he's wearing. And the helmet and armor aren't like the City Guard--he'd stuck out earlier in the night, dressed like no one else she's seen in Kirkwall. She didn't stare, but it was hard not to notice the guy who dressed up like a knight going jousting for a wedding. ]

I know. [ Whatever they did to fix it, it's over. She's been trying to tell herself as much ever since. Her answer comes out evenly, quietly: ] I'll go soon.

[archademode]

You will leave now, Beth.

[He knows her. Not by face, but by voice— and the subtle dip in tone that saturates it when dismay seeks her out, for surely he has been the one to evoke it in the midst of discussions regarding hope and heart.

Still, he bears no harshness. No cruelty. When he speaks, it’s with the quiet calm of concern made real by a man too used to authority.]

This place holds nothing for you.

[littlemissfutility]

[ Well, that puts the hairs on the back of her neck up. Everyone kind of knows everyone around here, and maybe he heard it from someone else, but she still doesn't expect her name out of nowhere.

His demand does, at least, get her attention away from the sky. She looks up at him from where she's perched on her crumbling ledge, or windowseat, or whatever it is. In the darkness, only the vaguest details of her are visible, but the rest, he might have picked up earlier: blonde hair that's gone frizzy as the night's worn on, blue eyes framed by fresh scars, an unseasonably thick scarf wrapped around her neck. A frowning tilt to her brows, for that matter.

It takes a moment, but it clicks. When you talk to someone without seeing them, you just don't usually picture them in a suit of armor. ]

Gabranth?

[ If someone asked her now, she wouldn't be able to describe what she'd assumed he looked like--she'd only know the answer was not this. ]

[archademode]

[A fair estimate, even in this world.

He knows he is made strange by it, his steadfast adherence to a past that no longer exists. Even so, he’ll not abandon it. Not for himself, nor anyone else.]

Indeed.

[Hi, Beth.]

[littlemissfutility]

[ The confirmation softens the look on her face a little--still creepy, but. ]

You don't have to worry about me. I'll be okay.

[ That's why he's telling her to get out, right? It's her best guess, anyway. ]

[archademode]

The stars exist beyond this place. Gaze upon them there at your leisure.

[It hardly counts as a suggestion when there’s no mistaking his meaning: get out.]

[littlemissfutility]

[ It's not hard to catch hiss drift, and it's getting her hackles up just a little. Makes everything else on her mind recede for the moment. ]

Are you leaving?

[archademode]

Not until I am certain the danger is fully passed.

[It has been quiet for some time, true, but that means little when the whole of the wedding party had taken up near hours before chaos sought to make itself known.]

This duty, however, does not extend to you— and I’ve no desire to pay witness to any further damages.

If your soul seeks peace, this is not the place for it.

[littlemissfutility]

[ Okay, scratch "just a little." She's visibly bristling, her hand closing tighter around her knife. ]

I can take care of myself. Same as you.

[archademode]

That is not the point.

[Nearly all of Riftwatch is capable of handling itself, either by necessity or by experience. This hardly matters to Gabranth, who hadn’t taken her slight figure to equate to frailty.]

What remains is disarray and resting dead. Your presence, without purpose, only furthers the slights against their easement.

Find respite elsewhere, or help tend grounds. These are the options I leave you.

[littlemissfutility]

If we want the dead to stay down, then maybe we should, too.

[ The isn't the first time I-- but if she says that, she'll have to explain, and she's pretty sure that bringing up walkers will only make things worse.

(One of these days, she's going to have to figure out what to do if she dies here. Someone will have to know to stab her in the head. One of these days, she's going to have to tell someone. But God, she really doesn't want to.)

At the moment, what she'd really like to tell him is where he can shove his options, but it's as much a risk as anything she could say about the dead. He's pissed, and he's covered in armor, and even if she doesn't mean to consciously, she finds herself analyzing arguments in context of could I win if it turned into a fight? these days. She wouldn't win against Gabranth. ​]

...Fine. What're we tending?

[ She doesn't actually get up, mind, and she still sounds like she's spoiling for a fight. But fine, she's chosen. ]

[kantikoy]

Adrasteia had noticed the young woman who attacked ghosts with a singular sort of focus, keeping quiet throughout; considering the sheer amount of people screaming about this, that, or the other, that stood out to her.

However, that type of skill. It doesn't speak to anything good in the girl's life, does it?

The elven woman appears, being sure to make enough noise to be heard heading Beth's way with a cup of spiced wine, heated in between her hands. "Here," she offers, "it might help." With feeling more calm, at least.

[littlemissfutility]

Beth takes what's offered, looking down at it. The liquid is dark and fragrant, warm through the walls of the cup. It's tempting, especially as it's gotten late and the air's gotten chilly. But--

"I'm okay." She holds it back out to the woman. "But thanks."

[kantikoy]

"Alright, if you're sure." She doesn't want the spiced wine to go to waste, however, and so takes a sip herself as she keeps her eyes on Beth. "I saw you fighting, earlier. Very impressive."

[littlemissfutility]

Not having to explain is nice. The corner of her mouth tugs up a little, too, at the compliment. "Thanks."

For a moment or two, she thinks, trying to remember if she noticed the woman among everyone else in the chaos. But nothing particular comes to mind. Most of what she recalls is the dead. So she doesn't try to offer a compliment in return, just says, "I'm Beth."

[kantikoy]

Adrasteia knows a little (via experience) of youth, combat, and trauma; she's not going to press for answers, or make demands of the poor girl.

"I'm Adrasteia. Grey Warden and Riftwatch's Morale Officer. It's nice to meet you, Beth." Another sip. "Are you going to remain camped up here with everyone else?"

[littlemissfutility]

"Yeah." It's too long a walk back otherwise--a lot of energy expended when everything's fine now. "Are you?"

[kantikoy]

"Yes; I have to make sure to get all the furniture and things back to Riftwatch in the morning, plus cleaning up from... everything." A little sigh as she glances around. "There's so much broken crystal I think perhaps I could make glass figurines from it as wedding favors."

[littlemissfutility]

"That'd be pretty." Her gaze shifts to the space around them, all the bits of glass that still glint in the torchlight that's left burning. More than enough, probably. "And I bet Wysteria'd appreciate it."

Not that she knows Wysteria all that well, but she seemed enthusiastic about coming out here.

[kantikoy]

"Do you think?" Adrasteia had meant it as a throwaway remark, but now that she thinks about it... reshaping glass is mostly an application of heat and air, isn't it? And if there's something her magic can manage, it's heating.

"Do you want to help me gather some of it up? See what we can come up with?" Seems like it might be a more fun exercise than sitting here, in the dark, staring at nothing.

[littlemissfutility]

"Sure." Sitting in the dark, staring at nothing, has a lot to offer if you have stuff to think about--what if this is my fault?--but Beth knows perfectly well that it looks weird. And unlike at home, she has reasons to want to make friends here. So she stands up, looking around for something to gather up pieces of glass in.

After a moment, she settles on a big bowl that got knocked to the floor sometime in the earlier scuffle. "D'you know Wysteria and Val pretty well?"

[kantikoy]

Adrasteia makes a little humming noise of consideration as she picks up fractured glass and crystal from the grounds.

"I wouldn't say pretty well. I've had more opportunities to interact with Wysteria than Val, though I have been on several missions with them both. But I only got here at the beginning of the year. What about you?"

[littlemissfutility]

"Wysteria found me when I got here." Her shard's covered by some well-placed bracelets, but Beth's got a feeling everyone in Riftwatch kind of knows what it means when you just show up and have to be rescued. "She's pretty nice."

Unfortunately, she can't exactly claim to know her well, either. "Maybe you could do, like, a heart. Out of the crystal. Since we don't really know what they'd like."