[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

[archademode]

[Another thin exhale, and he moves to reach for her hand even as she keeps it tucked against fabric, uncharacteristically tame when he asks:]

Let me see it. 

[Glass might yet be trapped in the wound, after all, small as some shards tend to be.]

[littlemissfutility]

I think it's okay.

[ But she unwraps it from her shirt anyhow, coming a step or two closer so she can hold her hand out.

(That she hasn't pointed out he's unlikely to see much--he's wearing a helmet and it's, like, two AM--is its own sort of deference. Or at least an attempt to keep from starting a new argument.) ]

[archademode]

[He doesn’t endeavor to see, perhaps for that reason alone: instead he wedges his gloved fingertips across either side of the cut, pressing until blood wells fully— and then rolls his left thumb up across the wound to wipe away any debris that would’ve been swept up within it, like petals across a lake.

Though far sharper in their nature, of course.

And then, satisfied with his work, he releases her from his hold.]

When we return, wash it.

[Another order, of course. Invoke Byerly if you like, he’ll hold his stance on this.]

And bear in mind you’ve slain nothing tonight. No guilt need rest upon your shoulders.

[littlemissfutility]

[ She holds still, letting him squeeze her the pad of her finger without wincing. And then, with a roll of her eyes-- ]

You wanna tell me to do my homework, too?

[ There's no sharpness there, at least. Being able to wash her hands without worrying what the soap will cost her is one of the small pleasures of being in Riftwatch. For now, though, she'll just have to leave the occasional dot of blood on trash she's gathering.

Her voice grows a little softer as she adds-- ]

Just because they're already dead doesn't mean I didn't stab them. That's just how it is.

[archademode]

You did not.

[It's said— mildly. Not an intrusion into her own sentiments, only a faint counter to them.] Their plane is different than this one, they would have felt no pain, no suffering.

Were such things possible, trust I would have cleared the fete of them with my blade alone, and gladly so.

If it troubles you, if you are ill at ease, then set aside all guilt and know that as one of the ceaseless dead, I pardon all your endeavors.

[littlemissfutility]

[ Is that a joke? Coming from Gabranth, it's hard to say, but from anyone else, she might laugh a little. As it is, Beth's mouth tugs up a little at the corners as she glances his way. ]

What if we don't agree? Do we cancel each other out? The ceaseless dead.

[ She's still here, after all. She hasn't ceased. And, after a moment-- ]

Don't, um, tell anyone about that, by the way. I...don't really want everyone to know.

[archademode]

We would not. My judgment is sound.

[yours is not, being the unspoken portion of that claim— though it’s toothless, and quickly segued into something else.]

Why not? There is no shame in it.

[littlemissfutility]

[ See, that definitely sounds like a joke to her. And it gets a roll of her eyes in return, but no real complaint. It's weird, how quickly he moves from pissed off to friendly again; if not for the fact that his version of 'pissed off' only seems to involve snapping at her, she'd be walking on eggshells. ]

I don't want people to look at me and see a dead girl. I got enough of that when I was alive.

[ Beth bends over to carefully pick up what looks like half a punchbowl, a big, curved piece of glass she has no intention of cutting herself on. The rim's still smooth, fortunately. ]

And since I don't walk around in a suit of armor, people aren't gonna look at me and see something else first.

[archademode]

Many of those here are dead. It has not defined us yet.

[The past does not write the future, save for those who make it so— as he once did.]

But you have my word. I will say nothing lest you bid it.

[littlemissfutility]

The people who found me seemed pretty surprised by it.

[ Which is to say, are you sure about that? But he's been here longer, if not by much. ]

Thanks.

[ The big piece of glass goes in the tin bucket she picked up, a twin to his. It clinks against the debris in there already. ]

Can I ask you something?

[archademode]

There are blind amongst the enlightened anywhere. Perhaps take them not as example but exception. [Or perhaps, given her age, the news of death was made all the more startling to them. Difficult to say.

Still, though.]

Mm. [It's an assent, given by way of small sound and slow attention, glancing up from his own efforts.] As you would.

[littlemissfutility]

Does it get hard, wearing all that armor all the time? [ As explanation-- ] I saw you around the Gallows in it before. I just didn't know it was you.

[ What she means by hard, she's not entirely sure. Hot? Tough to see through? Heavy? Or something else, a kind of difficulty that's unrelated to physical comfort. ]

[archademode]

It is more difficult without it, I find.

[Who fears flesh and blood? Who is willing to rely on it? Where man is fallible, adamantine is not— and it is in that he pins the whole of his methodology.

He's known nothing else for far too long, after all.]

The duties I remain beholden to are those that cannot be maintained by a man, such as he is within the bounds of his own soma.

Therefore I do not suffer it. I embrace it.

[littlemissfutility]

[ Some of that, she has no idea what it means. (It makes her feel stupid, really stupid, even if she knows perfectly well that finishing high school and going to college wouldn't mean she'd be throwing around phrases like within the bounds of his own soma. Maybe she'd have some idea what soma was.) But the gist is clear: whatever plate mail means to him, it's important. More important than being comfortable, or looking like a normal person. ]

What kind of duties?

[archademode]

[It'd be difficult for most anyone, understanding archaic prose when all you've known is something else entirely. Gabranth, however, tends to make things all the more difficult. Something to do with his own penchant for dour drama.] Execution, intimidation, stewardship of the living by way of strict defense.

Those who desire to play their role must look the part, as some would say.

[littlemissfutility]

You're an executioner?

[ Holy shit. He looks the part, with the blank-faced helmet and the horns, but holy shit. ]

[archademode]

Someone must see to it. Though I will admit, I’ve not been called upon for the matter since my own arrival in this world.

[A beat, before he considers her a touch more carefully:]

I pose no threat to you, Beth.

[littlemissfutility]

...I didn't think you did.

[ But she's cautious, saying it, walls thrown up that weren't there when she was sassing him a couple minutes ago. Most people who're going to hurt you don't start by saying so--and when they do, it's usually a lot more immediate than this.

She keeps her hands busy, at least, balling up some bunting that'd been hanging up earlier. And it makes it easier to sound kind of casual when she asks ]

Did you always wanna do that? Be an executioner?

[archademode]

[He doesn’t answer right away. He imagines she already knows the answer— or at least suspects it. Very few children pin their dreams on blood-soaked swords and shackled obligation.

In the end, his voice is low, breath hitching only when he rises to stand once more.]

No.

[He cannot remember what he’d wanted to be, not even if he tries in earnest; it’s all been washed away by time, just as Landis itself.]