faderift | open | holiday spirits

Entry tags:

open | holiday spirits

WHO: Whoever, plus some spirits.
WHAT: Everyone spends an evening regretting the past. So basically a normal night.
WHEN: Wintermarch 5-6
WHERE: A castle in the mountains north of Kirkwall
NOTES: OOC post including less vague/pretentious haunting mechanic descriptions. Fantasy violence and swearing and so on are assumed, but please use content warnings in your subject lines for things like explicit gore or sex, slavery content, body horror, etc., if you go any of those routes.

THE CASTLE

Their convenient shelter from the unexpected blizzard that whips up around them in the mountain pass isn't too convenient. Anyone with a reasonable detailed map will find it marked there; reaching its clifftop location requires a slight detour. When they approach, it has no warm ethereal glow or suspiciously welcoming lit torches. The windows stay dark. The portcullis is raised just high enough to be ducked under, but the heavy doors of the keep don't swing open to welcome them.

The only immediate sign that something is amiss is the thorough, all-encompassing emptiness of the place, and it might take some investigation before that begins to feel strange. The fortress' abandonment seems recent and abrupt: ample firewood has been cut and stacked for the winter, nothing has been done to protect the furniture or strip the beds, the kitchen is fully stocked and even has some perishables that do not seem close to perishing, the stables are equipped to comfortably keep any animals along for the journey, and a chess board before the hearth in the (humble) grand hall seems to have been left mid-game. But there are no messages, no bodies, no footsteps dimpling the crunchy layer of old snow accumulated in the bailey beneath the fresh snowfall.

As they search, the castle's visitors may begin to find signs that the castle hasn't been entirely abandoned. It begins with whispers emanating from the dark ends of corridors, voices they recognize and others they don't, or faces both familiar and unfamiliar flashing in still water or window panes when firelight hits right, or forms moving on the edge of vision but vanishing before they can be looked at directly.

By the time this becomes worrisome enough to drive anyone back out of the castle, the portcullis has fallen shut and won't budge. Neither will any other doors to the outside. The windows won't break; doors won't give way even to makeshift battering rams. The only walls that can be climbed or reached by stairs face out over a deep ravine. It might be a survivable climb, if the wind and weather allowed, but it would not be a survivable fall.

THE SPIRITS

--so back inside, then.

The keep is built like the Gallows' towers, square and tall, and it won't take long for Riftwatch to notice that whatever is wrong is more wrong the higher they climb. The whispers and glimpses on the lowest floor become voices and lingering shadowy figures on the second. Someone might turn and find their hand briefly held by an unfamiliar man's, warm and real for the moment it takes him to say, "Come with me." Or behind them, a woman's shocked and seething voice says, "What are you doing?" Or maybe it's a hand they do know and a voice saying something they've heard before.

As people venture to the higher floors--whether intrepidly seeking the source or involuntarily herded onward by spirits--these moments will begin to last and linger and repeat. And those who don't dare venture higher won't be exempt, confronted by stronger spirits that emerge like ants from a kicked hive as the upper floors are disturbed.

As they approach the uppermost floor, reality will begin to slip away from them. They may find themselves lost in a maze of rooms, even though that shouldn't be possible in so few square feet, and ultimately enveloped in comforting worlds where they didn't do that thing they regret and that, like dreams, feel real until they suddenly don't--until something is too unbelievable, until someone interrupts, or until a demon is holding them under the water of the warm bath they were tempted into, shoving them off a balcony, or whispering into their ears and minds, let me in and you can keep it.

The hauntings will continue until ~~morale improves~~ the eldest, most powerful demon has been dealt with.

THE END

When it ends, it ends abruptly. Weaker spirits vanish; stronger ones retreat into the dark. The lesser demons on the upper floors linger, and some may put up a last-ditch physical fight, but without their superior, they've lost most of their mental pull and emotional sway. The castle has changed, too. Its abandonment no longer looks so recent. The food and firewood is gone, along with any sense of warmth or satiety anyone used them to acquire earlier. There is dust where none was before, mildew and rot, and a few scattered, unfortunate skeletons.

The sun is not quite up, the sky a faintly luminescent grey. But the weather is survivable, though it will be slower travel than it would have been without the fresh snow. The doors will open, and the portcullis will raise. Everyone can set off on their cold, hours-long journey back to the city. Talking about their feelings or avoiding eye contact the entire time: the choice is theirs.

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The key to making it through this has been to never be alone with one's ghosts, which is easier said than done when everyone is exhausted and on-edge and chasing off after their respective disembodied voices.

Stopping behind Matthias with a sigh through his nose, Benedict glances about and gives a little nod.
"It's not," he agrees, as his own ghostly companion sobs onto his shoulder, plucking pathetically at his shirt. He avoids looking at her.

But instead, that means looking at the shadow in front of them, and Benedict feels his stomach drop.
"...who's that," he asks, without thinking.

If he looks around--when he looks around, because this is not real--it helps, then, to look at the ghost stood by Benedict's side. She keeps her form. Someone Matthias does not know. This isn't real.

"Nora."

--And there is slightest sound of the rope creaking, which Matthias hears before he realizes he's answered, also without thinking. He pulls a face at himself for saying her name. "Annora," more correctly. If he's gone and said it he might as well actually say it. The rope creaks again, the dead weight at its other end swaying in the breeze, and the long shadow moves, gentle. "But I don't hardly remember her. Who's she?"

Because Matthias isn't looking at the open door. He's kept his eyes on Benedict's ghost, the translucent tracts of her tears on her face, and now he nods to her.

"The Queen?" Benedict asks in dull confusion, more to keep the conversation moving over that dreadful creaking than to seek actual clarification. It's rude, he realizes after a moment, to brush off something like this, however led by desperation the brushing off was-- but perhaps he's just following Matthias' lead, he tells himself.

"Micaela," he offers in response, giving just as little explanation. The ghost at his side, a middle-aged woman in simple clothing, warbles something in pitiful Tevene as she buries his face in his shoulder and clings to his upper arm. Despite knowing it's all an illusion, he can't bring himself to shake her off, or even tell her to leave.

Edited 2022-01-11 06:13 (UTC)

A shadow of anger crosses Matthias' face. He ought not to be angry and he knows it--it's only his lightness that's made Benedict answer in time--and no indication from him of the importance of Nora. All the same, he can't suppress the feeling and he turns his glare on Benedict.

"Yeah," he says, "the Queen," and the words have a little bite to them. The creaking of the rope is in his ears. He makes himself look at the weeping ghost instead. Can't understand a word of what she's saying but she's clinging to Benedict like nothing else.

"Hello, Micaela. Didn't he get you anything nice for Satinalia?"

Looking back at Matthias just in time to catch that glare, Benedict isn't quick enough to not look a bit defensive in return-- it had seemed a tacit agreement, to not address the obvious horror in the room.
But perhaps he misjudged, as he so often does. The weeping seems to grow more desperate as the doubt trickles in, try as he might to stand strong against it.

"She's not real," he grumbles in response, refusing to look at her. "...she's fine."
A beat.
"Like, really. ...I. I think."

"What, like--" He jerks his head at the curved tower wall. "Out there, you mean? She's fine?"

Does it work on proximity? Because he's stood close to Benedict, he can hear the crying--so presumably because Benedict is stood close to him, he can hear the rope. It doesn't matter except that the crying has grown louder. Matthias lifts his shoulder and rubs his ear against it, briefly contorting himself.

"Only I reckon if she's fine out there, then she wouldn't be here."

"Then I suppose you'd better stop reckoning before you hurt your head," Benedict snaps back, the combined crying and creaking grinding on his nerves. He casts a furtive, irritated look at Matthias again.

"She's safe, she's free. I freed her, so there's nothing to..." he gestures brusquely at the spirit, "there's no reason for this."

His heart is racing, and he's saying stupid things before he can stop himself. He knows the inclination well, and also knows the best way to deal with it is probably to leave, but for all his bravado he doesn't want to disturb the woman on his shoulder.

"You freed her and she shows up here to haunt you as a bloody spirit?"

There's nothing furtive about Matthias' look. He gives Benedict a once-over, scornful--and then the spirit, still leaning on him and bawling her eyes out, and his look for her is similarly unimpressed, though really he means that toward Benedict--who he very pointedly looks back at.

"And very freed she looks, too. I s'ppose you might just ask her to shove off, then, or at least stop her bloody racket."

"Right, because it's as open and shut as that," Benedict grumbles, the panic in him rising. What if something is wrong? But to cave now, while he's being poked at, it would be too, well. Predictable.

"And I suppose that means Queen Anora over there is your doing, too," he says before he can stop himself, gesturing to the dangling figure, "can you tell her to shove off? Oh-- wait-- looks like she already did."

Edited 2022-01-14 18:27 (UTC)

A hot surge of anger rises in Matthias. The shadow isn't Nora, Nora's been dead ages, he knows that, but the barb still hurts. Benedict knows fuck-all, and as he gestures, Matthias lashes out and grabs for his arm, intending to twist it cruelly, push him away.

"Why don't you shove off, dicknose?"

The grip on his arm invokes a similar flash of outrage, and Benedict manages to override his initial response (to cower) in favor of asking himself what Jone or Gabranth would say if he caved so easily.
He wrenches his arm back and brings one hand around to cuff the side of Matthias' head, rather more like an offended cat than a trained fighter.

"Dishing it out's all right, but can't take it, can you?" he hisses, struggling to create some distance between them.

"Fuck off--"

The blow is little more than glancing, a momentary sting. It's the indignity that gets Matthias more than anything--the indignity, yeah, and more than that, the tension that exists beyond the two of them--his sister hanging by her neck, dead, and this other spirit globbing big wet tears all over her front with a face like old jelly--Benedict can't strike both first and last in this moment, it's not on. Matthias is determined to prove himself.

He kicks the back of Benedict's knee. Good solid kick, that. He knows what he's doing. If he wants some distance, let him have it on the floor.

It's not like Benedict can say he didn't expect retribution, but he still gasps in alarm when it comes, his leg buckling as the rest of him crumples to the floor.
The kick is solid, but not solid enough to be felt too clearly through the adrenaline now surging through Benedict, which has him back on his feet in moments and whirling on Matthias to stride forward and give him a good shove.

"You fuck off!" he snarls, mindless of the foolishness of the moment, of how unlikely it is he'll beat Matthias in any sort of physical altercation.
If he had a moment to think about it, he'd likely chalk it up to this being worlds better than attending to their miserable surroundings.

The shove drives Matthias back against the wall and he lets it, uses the wall to bounce himself back and go for Benedict with a right hook aimed for the jaw, all his momentum in it. He grabs onto the chance to fight, letting his anger keep him afloat and above the spirits and the creaking of the rope and the terror he feels deep, deep down, sick and rotten in the pit of his stomach.

It's much easier to punch Benedict instead of face all of that.

Not the face--

Benedict goes sprawling, but manages to stay on his feet, clutching now at the point of impact from Matthias' fist, spitting a bit of blood onto the ground from where he bit his cheek.

He takes a moment where he is, his eyes streaming despite his best efforts; he's been punched in the face before, but never because he struck first. It's a destabilizing and shocking feeling, but he's done enough sparring to know it's not the end of the world: all his teeth are still here, the only bleeding is internal, he won't scar.
It hurts, but the pain is louder than everything else that's going on, and that's all he could really want at the moment.

He straightens, directs his dark gaze back to Matthias. There's no vengeance in it, not really-- but there is a desire to prove something, if only that he won't always run away from conflict.
He comes back over to him, still rubbing his jaw, but lowers his hands. Pausing to make direct eye contact, he shoves him again.

It's nothing personal. Maybe this just needs to happen.

It shouldn't feel good to see blood--and it doesn't, really--but there is something satisfying in it. Comes of proof that you've struck a hit, done some damage. But unless you're dealing with a real milksop it'll mean a hit back, and so Matthias is ready.

He takes the shove, but before Benedict can step away, he grabs hold of his shirtfront with one hand, and punches at his ribs with the other--once, a good one, and then a second if he can. Fuck off.

Though he is a milksop, or at least has been, Benedict needs this as much as Matthias does. He expects the hit and takes it into stride, doubling forward and sinking to the floor as the wind is knocked out of him.
Neither of them has much padding.

"How typical of you," comes a voice from behind them, and the sobbing ghost has changed: she's a proud and elegant woman, tall, with long shining hair and high cheekbones, her dark and calculating eyes an echo of Benedict's at his best.

"I can't think of what would be worse: that you're a massive coward, or that it's by design you simply let life happen to you."
She rests her hand on Benedict's shoulder and looks at Matthias with sneering distaste.

"Finish the job, won't you? And put us all out of our misery."

Matthias pulls up short at that order. Confusion mingles with distaste, suppressing his anger at least for the moment, and all of it worn plainly on his face. He is not good at disguising how he feels even at the best of times.

"What?"

Somewhat comically, his fist is still clenched, and still held behind him like a great windup to a punch that is maybe someday going to fall. It's a dumb pose that leaves him vulnerable, probably--if Benedict is clever enough to seize the moment, but he likely isn't--which means that Matthias agrees with this spirit, which isn't right. Because it is a spirit, and spirits aren't meant to be trusted.

He looks at Benedict--then back at the woman--then at Benedict again, all of it very quick and wary, as if his face might also change in a moment.

"What's this?"

The break in momentum is enough to prevent Benedict from striking back, at least immediately, his eyes closing in a deeply frustrated, full-body sigh.

"This is stupid," he mutters, clambering to his feet and dusting off his knees, doing his best to wave away the woman behind him, which, of course, completely fails.

"Won't fight you, won't fight me, won't fight for anything," the specter declares, folding her arms in a look of imperious triumph, "what's the point of you, Beni?"

Benedict seems to take the question into consideration, staring tight-jawed into the middle distance, his own fists balled. Fuck.

"He's in Riftwatch," Matthias says, defending the honor of the person he was about to beat the piss out of. Defending his honor to a spirit what's not even real or there, even worse.

This is stupid.

He looks back at Benedict once more and, at last, drops his arm.

"Hit me."

Benedict is about to ask what, or why, but he sees on Matthias' face the same irritation he's feeling, resignation and resolve somehow colliding into something that just wants to be let out.

Given express permission, he puts Jone's teachings to work: he returns the punch to the stomach, demonstrating a decent amount of follow-through for someone whose mother is picking at him in ghost form.
He doesn't seem to relish it much, instead just standing there and waiting for something in return. Anything to make her shut up.

It's not as if being punched feels good, even when you're braced for it. Matthias grunts in pain as Benedict's blow connects. Stooped slightly, he expels a ragged breath.

"Ooh, but you're better'n I expected." Ow.Not as bad as it might've been but still not pleasant, right. He sucks in a breath and stands properly again so he can face down the spirit with a little scowl. "Happy now?"

"Scrapping like a guttersnipe," comes the haughty reply from the ghost, but Matthias' reaction is enough to break Benedict's concentration, and he can't help but smile a little-- he did it, and it wasn't the worst.

Right behind that thought is the notion that, united in as stupid a way as they are, this is no time to make a proper enemy.

Hesitating a moment, Bene then comes forward to solemnly extend his hand, "Look, I... shouldn't've said all that shit. About your friend."

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open | holiday spirits

dead past

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