[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

[poleaxed]

Jone snorts out a laugh (impression of the mage he might have been, classic Si) which distracts her just long enough for a bony black void of a cat to crawl into her lap. Jone takes a moment to carefully pet Thot, as though trying to please a totally alien creature. She's never had much contact with mousers, as she doesn't like to be around mice, but she's more than sure this animal is different, magical, a cut above.

Like Silas.

"We all feel like that sometimes," she says, "least, I do. How's it go for you, if you don't mind me asking. For me, it's, well-" a huff, it might be laughter- "I done too mant terrible things, and I'm too lowborn, y'know. Typical bollocks."

She assumes Silas' reasonings are more complex, because Silas is more complex, but she also reckons anybody could feel like they're less alone in this moment. And that goes double for Silas.

[nonvenomous]

“My people have more in common with the Qunari than they do the humans of this plane. They’re cold by nature. Dispassionate.”

This he shares very reasonably with the big ginger hugging him to her side. She’ll feel him sigh to himself against her while Thot twists and arches beneath more careful contact -- sleek, bony, and insistent.

“Fortunately for the two of us, birthright probably won’t factor into our role in the fate of this world as you know it.”

[poleaxed]

Jone considers that a moment, keeping her eyes on Thot. The creature is far more friendly than she'd initially feared. In that way, the odd little cat reminds him of Silas.

"Didn't know you weren't human, Si. But I reckon you can feel happy, if you can feel lonely. Don't make sense to gut only the good feelings."

She doesn't comment on birthright. It's more complicated, she thinks, for her, and nobody wants to hear about that.

[nonvenomous]

There’s an impulse to deny or deflect from how quickly she’s arrived at the idea of his otherness, offset by how little it seems to bother her. In the end he says nothing, the empty glass in his hand let to rest at his knee while Thot burbles (strangely) and purrs, her ears flattened back just before Jone’s fingers smooth over them.

Eventually she’ll roll over into a goblinoid toss of limbs and teeth and tail.

Eventually also, Silas will toss his glass down the hillside. It bounces twice before smashing itself against a jut of rock.

“The someone you remind me of was a princess.”

[poleaxed]

If he looked less visibly human, or there were any other clues she could have picked up on, Jone would react with more of a shock. There is not being human, yet entirely human shaped and acting like a human (in Jone's opinion), and then there is something else entirely. She has met elves and dwarves. She thinks she knows whatever it is to be nonhuman. Her respect for Silas keeps her from arguing-- if he says he isn't, he isn't, but it doesn't register to treat him anything other than how he looks.

Jone's trust, a rare thing new to her heart, overrides many of her cleverer impulses.

So Jone can only snort out a laugh when Silas-- good old Si-- makes that remark. "Low standards're everywhere, I guess." She can't fathom the comparison. "I'm sorry you lost her."

Hand roving over the strange skinny softness of Thot, she hadn't missed that use of past tense.

[nonvenomous]

“You have a higher tolerance for me than she did.”

On the subject of low standards. Not that Rah-Shak had much time for anyone outside of the Orcish god of war.

“She was closer to Loxley.”

Technically true. The longer he mulls it, the more something in his throat twists and squeezes slippery tentacles tight under his adam’s apple. He looks over to watch Thot rolling like an otter in the wash of Jone’s attention; judgment carves into the lines around his mouth. Resigned.

“You don’t seem resentful about being forced by circumstance to be here.”

[poleaxed]

She sounds like a bitch, Jone is clever enough not to say. But if the comparison is really as true as Silas thinks... she was probably worse than a bitch. You have to match.

"I was," she says, thinking it over. Thinking about why she thinks and feels things isn't her strongest suit; she prefers not to, since, "people don't generally... give a wet glove what I think, so it ain't really worth bringing up."

But she assumes he cares. So it might be.

"Orlais had better pay, so I missed it. Took me a while to see how bloody miserable I was."

dUSTS

[nonvenomous]

Dick tips a brow in unspoken kinship to the idea of late realization of misery. It’s mild, keeping with the veil of distance he maintains between thought and expression. He just knows the feeling.

“Riftwatch is comprised primarily of ‘folk from the gutter.’”

Her words.

“You may have to get used to them seeking your input.”

[poleaxed]

They don't, but that would only slam him down, wouldn't it? And she doesn't feel like explaining gradations of gutterhood-- being poor isn't the same as living next to the tanning pits. The gutter is where vileness flows. It's an apt metaphor.

"That your way of saying you give a shit?" Her expression is sly, self-satisfied, and ultimately facetious.