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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.
no subject
"You expect me to keep track?"
She sounds serious enough, but the truth is — fewer than might be the case at a similar function in Ravka. She's grateful for it. The last thing she needs is some fool getting it in their head to romance her, as if all she needs is a few soft words for a gentler side of her to unfurl.
"Have you been enjoying the party?"
A distinct note of irony, there. As if she hasn't kept some track of him, as if she didn't know when he ventured into the rest of the Hall.
no subject
The kind of off hand comment that's sure to make Zoya narrow her eyes at him, so in some minor attempt to avoid it, he clarifies, "Considering our track record for grand events."
Massacre, or the looming prospect of taking the first step in a forced marched towards the altar. Surely a small wedding of two people who seemed reasonably fond of each other surrounded by those who enjoyed their company is an improvement.
no subject
"I hate weddings," she says sourly. "The music is terrible, the food is worse, and most people use them as an excuse to act like twits."
no subject
It doesn't deter him.
"Will you forgive me if I act like a twit, just for a moment, and prevail upon you to dance with me?"
no subject
The rejoinder comes easily, her gaze sliding from him to the crowd. Nikolai is handsome, and titled, and charming; even without his easy ability to adapt to whatever people want of him, he wouldn't be a difficult sell, even here.
(More the shame he's been so resistant to the idea of finding a bride. Meaningless, in Thedas.)
"I was under the impression that Ravka is in no position to turn away friends. Isn't that why we're here?"
Quoting him back at him? Absolutely.
no subject
Not even Zoya. Ha, ha.
"But surely no one would fault me for saving a dance for my general. Everyone knows it's best to keep her happy."
If Nikolai believed that than he wouldn't have pestered Zoya into attending. He tips his head toward her, reaching for her hand.
"One dance, and then I'll devote myself to the empty-headed girls."
no subject
The fact is: that this is a ridiculous request, for a ridiculous occasion, and she isn't particularly inclined to humor him.
The fact is: that she is not the kind of girl to be found dancing with a king. This is no fairytale, and she is no princess. She's a general, a Grisha, a fighter, and her place is on a battlefield, in a war room.
But if they're here to engender some familiarity and good will with the rest of Riftwatch, it makes sense to dance at least once. And this is Nikolai, who always has a reason, and who is so conscious of appearances. How strange would it look, to mingle with strangers and not the woman who arrived with him? There's nothing of sentiment in this.
So she lets him take her hand, and she stands.
"At least I can trust you not to step on my feet."