open | holiday spirits

[cozen]

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.

Comments

[armd]

Oh god she has to count on her fingers.

"... Half a year."

Since when. This is a good distraction already.

[inkindled]

"Which is long enough that you've got some experience with the way things go. And long enough to make an informed wager. Right--"

Even though his sidelong glance had taken in the counting-on-fingers bit, there's no judgement from Matthias. He tips his head as he does some maths of his own.

"I reckon before the night is out, we're going to see... eight impossible horseshit things. That means no rifts, which are possible, and nothing that's got humans or elves or dwarves involved directly. Pure impossible bollocksy horseshit."

[armd]

"Eight, huh," once she's stopped laughing. That's some sorely needed levity, thank you.

"I don't think you're aiming high enough. I say ten. At least ten." The weird voices probably don't count as seeing something impossible but she has faith in this place, and the weird situations Riftwatch always seem to find themselves in.

"What're we playing for?" Don't say trauma even though it's right

[inkindled]

He raises his eyebrows at her guess, gives an impressed whistle.

"Maker's balls, you're a cynic." It's said too warmly to be an insult. "All right, you're ten, I'm eight. And if the count goes over or under, it's a wash. Let's say we play for--well, boasting rights, 'course. That's a given. Mental anguish, another given. And..." He taps his finger on his chin. "Let's call it six Sovereigns?"

[armd]

And to his eyebrow, she waggles both. "What gave it away?"

But she agrees to the terms, and– "If we're splitting up, I'm guessing this is going to be an honor system thing?"

Six Sovereigns in it, now. Better establish some more rules.

[inkindled]

"I dunno about you, but me, I'm full of honor."

He touches a hand to his forelock and inclines his head in a sort of bow. Very knightly. The crow around them is sounding a bit more panicked now--word is getting around that the portcullis is shut--and there's an unsettling noise being reported from somewhere in the keep, a screaming that doesn't end. It would be cheating to count any of those things for this bet, of course, as they're only bits overheard, not actually seen. Matthias and his honor would insist on that.

He holds his hand out to Abby for a handshake. "We've got to find each other after to settle it. Which means surviving as well, I s'ppose, but that's a given."

[armd]

"I'm not." And she isn't joking either, but how could he possibly know that when she's still grinning? Matthias doesn't have anything to worry about though, and Abby shakes his hand with a good, firm grip. This is a competition. She's not gonna cheat, she's gonna win.

Also she's ignoring that screaming in the background... out of sight, out of mind.

"'Kay. Good luck, then." They're gonna need it.