faderift | player plot: chateau d'onterre

Entry tags:

player plot: chateau d'onterre

WHO: Teren, Abby, Clarisse, Julius, Mobius, Redvers, Viktor
WHAT: The Gang Gets Stuck in a Haunted House
WHEN: ~Harvestmere
WHERE: the Emerald Graves
NOTES: Please track the post and keep to one thread, which I will re-up with a new starter periodically!

It's a dark and stormy night.

The party was on their way from the eluvian to a rift at Argon's Lodge, but, having been caught up in an especially nasty squall, has been forced to seek shelter somewhere nearer than either. Lightning flashes, too close for comfort; it illuminates a flash of metal through the overgrown trees, perhaps a sign of civilization. They draw nearer, and are able to identify a large and elaborate gate, hanging slightly ajar. Inviting.

Thunder cracks furiously, and with little choice but to duck within or to remain out in the downpour, the party chooses the former. A short stone walkway leads up to an enormous building, impossibly concealed by the forest and even now partially obscured by mist and rain. Redvers tries the door, a construct tall and grand: it groans open.

The entryway is pitch black as they pile in, the occasional flashes of lightning enough to suggest the accoutrements of a personal dwelling, albeit a large and wealthy one. Julius, the last one inside, has barely drawn his dripping overclothes through the doorway when it slams shut of its own volition, and cannot be opened again.

Down the hall, about ten paces away, a sconce flickers to life.

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They have all likely seen bodies enough even in the dark to not think twice about what they see.

It's the suddenness of the smell that turns Mobius' stomach. "Maker preserve us," a little breathlessly, both a reaction to keep from retching and to what of the grisly sight they can see. He pulls some cloth out (even now somewhat damp through the torrential rain, no wonder torches might be a little difficult in the immediacy) to partly cover his mouth and nose as he steps further, gingerly, in.

After all, trembling, I step forward, in darkness enveloped. Not that the Chant will help him see any better.

"Maybe an attempted robbery gone wrong. Haven't seen or heard any demon activity...unless there was a rift around here at some point."

At the first whiff of rot, Viktor's will to sulk is flushed away completely. He was not among those who went right up to the door moments ago, and that telltale odour, unmistakable for anything else, does not inspire him to do so now. It's strong—must be the humidity.

"Was it recent?"

The death, he means, not the guess at a rift—though that does prompt him to return to his adjustments in earnest.

"Let's see," Redvers says.

He's holding back for a moment first, holding his runestone aloft with his anchor hand, adding the sickly green glow to the weak warm light of the sad little flame and neither doing much at all to penetrate the inky shadows, while with the other hand he fishes out and pops open a tin.

Sliced elfroot for nausea. Peppermint for—well, for chewing on to keep occupied while standing around not talking to people. But crushing it into a handkerchief won't go amiss for dealing with the smell. He offers the tin to Mobius—Templar solidarity, even for the weird ones—before ducking down to get a closer look at the body, gingerly trying to move what parts need moving to search for a wound.

All the elfroot and mint in the world wouldn't stop him from emitting a quiet yeugh.

Redvers crouches down, and his field of vision is met by a nearby fireplace abruptly blazing to life, which casts a gruesome light on the scene before them: three men dressed in drab practicality, leather armor and the like, their decomposing bodies lacerated by five-pronged slashes through their clothing and skin. A burlap sack lies by one cadaver, partially filled with valuables.
On closer inspection, the burglars have probably only been lying here a few weeks, untouched by anything apart from whatever killed them.

The sharp-eared will notice, around this time, that sounds of the storm have completely dissipated. The room they stand in is a massive gilded gallery bisected by a grand staircase, with portraits lining the walls on either side of the first floor and what appear to be bookshelves atop the landing of the second.

The fireplace lights itself with a sudden woosh of flame, revealing just how old the bodies lying in the room are (like the smell wasn't enough of a clue), and Clarisse jerks, hunching her shoulders up a little closer to her ears. She is officially no longer banking on the lights being rigged to detect motion, but she's not sure what other answer there could be, either.

"Look." She crouches and points a finger at the nearest body to her, at those slashes that go through the clothes and the skin. "A trap?"

Something shoots out of the wall, maybe? Or someone, watching.

There's a brief moment when the revelation of the corpses freezes him. (The smell, mostly; he's been on a variety of battlefields since then, but advanced decomposition in an interior space is apparently never going to stop making him think of Kinloch Hold, if it hasn't after decades.)

But the fireplace roaring to life seems to restart him and he moves farther in, away from the door to let anyone through who hasn't already come into the room. He doesn't go far, but he's aware he won't add much to the examination of the corpses. Instead, at Clarisse's suggestion, he mentally traces a line from the corpse to the nearest wall and examines the area for holes or other signs of a potentially lethal deterrent.

Seems like it would be asking for trouble to bobby trap one's entrance gallery in a house that is clearly meant to host guest, in his opinion. Then again, the nobility can be odd, and sometimes paranoid.

Mobius takes some offered peppermint with a nod of thanks. They shouldn't linger too long in the room; the stench will only get worse, they might carry with it some unknown disease, and also...whatever did this might still be around.

"Someone's playing games with us," he muses. This could all somehow be set up, playing into some kind of trap the would-be burglars wandered into, but he ganders at the slashes and feels like there's a more obvious conclusion. "Someone or something might've mauled them. Slashed right through."

Might mean a vicious animal (or demon) loose around. Might still be around, might not. Given the strangeness of the lighting situation, something demonic feels more appropriate. And given it's a dark and spooky...

...huh. He lifts his head, looking around ceiling-ward, straining with focus. "Did the storm die off so soon?"

"Fuck," is Abby's opinion. She's brought her sconce closer to the bodies (though she hardly needs it now thanks to the fireplace mysteriously roaring to life) to have a better look. The smell and sight of the bodies doesn't appear to bother her, the only tell being the scrunch of her nose as she crouches down.

Her first thought was an animal too, actually. It's why she says, "Whatever — whoever — killed them didn't come back afterwards." They're intact despite the slashes. Their bodies haven't been looted, as evidenced by the burlap sack resting almost innocently on the ground beside one of the bodies. She turns toward it, setting down the sconce so she can open it up and root through.

One of the good parts about being here rather than at home is that the corspes don't have jeans pockets you feel obligated to go through, in case one of them had a lighter or something.

Edited (my spaced em) 2024-10-10 23:15 (UTC)

The sudden flare and flicker of firelight has drawn Viktor to the door, and presently through it, no handkerchief raised as a muzzle, though he's known to carry one. Comfort is less a concern than the particulars unfolding before them.

He has no answer to the question of the weather. Storms come and go, wind calms as suddenly as it gusts. Doors open and close. Fires are set. People die, often gruesomely. Each of these events is perfectly plausible on its own, and together... still plausible, but admittedly very weird. (His pulse seems to agree.)

With a smooth pull, the copper antenna extends to the length of his arm. He turns a dial, points it at the closest body in search of any sign of arcane activity. Points it at Abby, too, necessarily—but there shouldn't be any interference, as, for the moment, this particular thaumoscope can't pick up the signature of an anchor shard at all. (If it could, it would have been pipping away all day for the incessant prickling in his palm.)

Abby will find little of interest in the burlap sack: some flatware, a candlestick, bejeweled bits and bobs the like of which is commonly found in the home of a wealthy family.

The party can still clearly see the fall of rain and flash of lightning through the windows down the hallway, but it's as though the sound on it has been turned down-- as well as that of their voices, which come out close, dampened, like the air itself is heavy.

Viktor's thaumoscope, activated, begins to vocalize wildly, the dial immediately turning to the highest setting and remaining there no matter where he points it.

Making an uneasy noise in the back of her throat, Teren's eyes scan about the room, her feet rooted to the floor. Fuck this.

Well, it's a space big enough for all of them and then some with a fire, though Mobius imagines the smell--and even for removing bodies, it will linger for a time--might be enough to drive some off. If they keep hanging around, they might be next for whatever didn't come back or is lying in wait or...is simply taking up shelter. Or something.

Nothing ate them. They were just left there. Ugh.

The books upstairs are, naturally, very tempting, but he can scarcely imagine perusing through tomes at the moment. Viktor's device going absolutely insane, however, snaps his attention.

"Why is it doing that?" He's in Research. He knows what a thaumoscope does and why it does it. That does not change the question or the tense way he asks it. Even for as muted as his voice seems even to his own ears. "Maybe we need to move on." From this room. This floor. This building, maybe! Perfectly defenestratable windows right there--

As anyone in Research (or adjacent) can attest, Viktor usually has an answer ready for whatever he might be asked; his thoughts are quick, his memory prodigious. His is an analytical mind and he's generous with its products. True to form, he answers without delay:

"Uh."

The thaumoscope is, indeed, going absolutely insane, its feedback clicks blending to a single grinding, tearing note, sustained. Perhaps it's gone the other way and become too sensitive? Surely a malfunction—it's like they're sitting under a rift—

Now moving slowly away from the others, aiming the device here and there, "Just... give me a moment..."

Abby, ever alert, jerks her head quickly in the direction of the thaumoscope. It has immediately become the loudest thing in the room, more so than Mobius' question or Viktor's discomforting reply—

"Get rid of it," she says urgently, dropping the sack on the floor. There was nothing in there of significance other than the candlestick; she takes up the sconce again and gets to her feet. "Turn it off!"

They're practically advertising their location!

Julius had been working his way along the wall, increasingly concerned by the lack of any traps, but the thaumascope jerks him away from that too. He doesn't immediately demand its silence like Abby, but it's clear the alarm puts him on edge too.

Coming back into the room more fully, he pitches his voice loud enough to be heard: "If we think there's someone actively spellcasting, I have some things I can try, but it still doesn't look like anyone's here." And there's no visible rift, which he assumes they can all see well enough that there's no need to state the obvious.

Clarisse doesn't pay much attention to the research side of things, so she has no idea why the thaumoscope is going berserk, but she Doesn't Like It.

"This is messed up," she says, stranding up straight again and gesturing with one hand toward... well, everything. Especially the bodies, though. "I know it's raining," is it still raining? She can't even hear the storm anymore, "but we should get the fuck out of here before something finds us."

She doesn't even notice that she's started thinking of it as something instead of someone.

As Mobius glances upstairs toward the bookshelves, he catches a flicker of movement on the edge of a shadow: it's something solid, like a person or an animal, moving slowly enough that it makes no sound as it disappears back into the blind darkness.

In his journey around the wall, Julius can make out some of the title plates below the gallery's portraits:
Jeanette d’Onterre, Matriarch of House d’Onterre
Nanette d’Onterre, Beautiful Rose of House d’Onterre
General Mathieu d’Onterre, Feared by Dog Lords
Antia Chayeau, Beloved Grandmére
Lord Abel d’Onterre
Lady Colette d’Onterre

A group portrait depicts the immediate family, Lord Abel and Lady Colette with their daughter Nanette, a young teenager with a haunted stare.

"Aye," Teren agrees with Clarisse, and, taking matters into her own hands, moves toward a window. It unlocks easily, but when she tries to open it, it doesn't budge.

"...Something might have already found us," Mobius says quietly. Even without all the noise, lights and sounds and talking and moving about must already attract something.

They really should leave. Teren can't even get the damned windows open? Is everything locked into place? They'll simply have to chuck something through the glass, then. One of those portraits. A heavy tome.

Sure. He can go get one. Up the stairs and toward the flicker of movement. Did nobody else see that? Maybe not with all the fuss. No, it's fine, he decides when he moves. It's fine because everyone's still together and there's at least some light, and he keeps a hand casually on the hilt of his blade as he moves toward the stairs. Up them. Toward the books atop the staircase, yes, and also more importantly to the what feels like unnaturally deep shadows beyond that the fire's light doesn't reach.

Don't worry about it. They can handle a creature. Surely.

Spurred mostly by Abby's swift rebuke, Viktor has since disabled the device, and now holds it close to his chest as though in mutual protection, flicking glimpses of self-conscious eye contact to anyone who happens to look at him. This is now his emotional support arcane energy detector. Also: whoops.

His gaze presently snags on Mobius taking the stairs, follows him as he ascends.

His credibility may have been scuffed just now—even if only self-imposed, he feels it regardless—but he's taken worse hits for more embarrassing reasons, and this is hardly enough to knock him out of his role. So, with his eyes still raised, a slight turn of his head toward Julius, he says, "By all means, try."

Edited (i accidentally half my tag) 2024-10-14 22:17 (UTC)

Clarisse follows Teren to the window, assuming that if anyone can get it open, it's her. She grips the sash with both hands and tries to push it up, but nothing happens. She puts more muscle into it, straining until her face flushes and she has to stop and catch her breath, but it's not budging.

Normally that would be embarrassing, but even Clarisse is getting too freaked out by all of this to care much about being embarrassed. Whatever is keeping the window closed, it's stronger than she is, and she doesn't like that.

"Shit," she mutters under her breath. She turns to watch Mobius head up the stairs, torn between going with him and trying the window again.

Edited 2024-10-18 03:39 (UTC)

"Fuck," Teren snaps simultaneously with Clarisse, and, reversing a dagger in her hand, smashes the pommel of it against the windowpane. If someone were standing at her shoulder, the ricochet off the glass would have driven the dagger right into their face: fortunately this isn't the case, but Teren looks properly humbled by the attempt, jerking her head toward Clarisse to meet her eyes. what the fuck

Mobius' adventure continues upstairs.

Edited 2024-10-18 18:32 (UTC)

Splitting up feels like a supremely bad idea, but before he can turn to follow Mobius, he at least has to give it a go. He levels his staff (not concerned with Clarisse and Teren's proximity since the spell won't affect them negatively no matter where it lands), and the end glows green as he tries a simple Dispel Magic on the window. He's not sure it will do anything, but he can't think of a way that trying the spell will hurt anything. And if they can get out, they should.

Edited (fixing a misreading) 2024-10-20 14:11 (UTC)

The door is barred and held shut; the window is impossible to open. Abby watches Clarisse struggle with it and feels something in her stomach sink, cold and awful. To watch her give up on it a moment later is pretty damning: that window's not gonna open. There's probably no point to wasting any more time in this room.

Mobius has disappeared up the stairs. Abby's poised halfway between the stairs and the window, still holding the sconce and candlestick aloft — there's something tugging at her, some bad feeling that says they shouldn't be splitting up.

When she opens her mouth all she says is, "I hate this." The magic Julius casts washes over the window and, to be sure, she takes another step back, gaze automatically going to Clarisse.

Edited (I read for a living) 2024-10-21 20:21 (UTC)

Julius' spell shimmers against the window, and energy crackles in a manner that suggests he's hit on something: however, whatever magic holds the manor in place is far too powerful to be dispelled by one single mage.

Clarisse exhales through her mouth in a frustrated huff as the spell doesn't appear to do any damage. At any rate, the window is still shut. She looks around, meets Teren's gaze with a shrug and then looks back at Abby for a moment before averting her gaze.

This sucks.

"Guess we're going upstairs." She is, at least, following Mobius up, though it seems more due to frustration than curiosity on her part.

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