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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"The wind," Mobius insists, though in the tone of voice where even he clearly doesn't quite believe it. The doors are large and sturdy in their own right. But the storm is whipping wild out there. Maybe opening the door loosened it up to boot. And slamming it shut re-stuck it?

The sconce lighting itself is something he has less of an immediate answer to. Besides 'magic', because of course 'magic' would be the go-to for him. But without seeing a source for it--

He scrunches his crooked nose, gives a little sigh. His cloak is soaked, as is a lot of what's under the cloak, but he keeps it on for now. "Do we know where this is?" Less 'where we are', because they do have a good idea, and more: "Who lived at this estate?"

Julius, well aware of how close his cloak came to being caught, is investigating the door more closely. He evidently doesn't buy "the wind," based on the fact he's bothered to don the night-vision goggles he'd packed to get a closer and clearer look. (The itch in his palm to try dispelling it is, for now, one he ignores.)

At Mobius's question — and possibly the lack of answers yielded from studying the door — he glances up. "I confess, I don't know much about the area. But the size suggests some things." This large and clearly a home meant wealth and, more than likely, prominence.

Moving the goggles up to his forehead in the scone's flicker, he adds, "I don't think we're getting back out without effort, and it's still storming. We might as well see what we can find beyond the front hall in the meantime."

Also not buying "the wind," but not willing to try very hard to get back outside and into the rain, Clarisse just shrugs and starts wiping water out from the creases in her coat.

"It's probably some rich family's old summer home. Or winter home." One of those.

Either way, "I agree, we should check things out." Even if whoever lived here wasn't hoarding a bunch of riches away in a back room somewhere, there's bound to be stuff they can use in here. Supplies, or something.

To that point, "Do we know it's unoccupied?"

Abby's voice is low. She's not bothering to wring herself out either, seemingly fine to stand there in the hall dripping from her cloak, ears straining to catch any foreign sound — but it's impossible to hear anything other than the wind and rain battering the shut doors. They're the only people in the entranceway.

What lit that sconce up, though? Who?

Doesn't seem right.

"We should act like it is." While they're shuffling around together in the dark, that is. Well, in the sort-of dark — her attention has turned back to the sconce. She starts to go toward it.

Julius dons the goggles, and Viktor—also wet, and resigned to it for now—pulls his pet-project thaumoscope from his satchel nearly in unison. He's been preoccupied with it for most of today, mostly while frowning. The status of the new upgrade hovers around a dubious hand wobble, as he'd explained earlier, with little improvement despite his constant tinkering with the thing—no thanks to the working conditions of a travelling wagon—and hopefully the mule is happy with that hastily chosen shelter outside, as there now appears to be no choice but to leave it—

"Agreed," he's saying, and flicking the device with his middle finger. Percussive maintenance. "Best keep our wits about us."

Squatters, he's thinking of, but Mr. The Wind may not take kindly to visitors, either.

That Redvers inhales and calls out, "Anybody here?" is not meant as failing to keep his wits. Aside from the location, it's a fine house, not so completely dilapidated as a few they passed along the way. If whoever owns it isn't here themselves, enjoying the last weeks before the cold sets in, they might have a permanent groundskeeper. Some kind of staff. Even in the entryway, the place doesn't look looted or smell pissed-in enough to have been empty for long.

But his voice is on the quieter end of calling out. For someone to hear him over the rush of rain they'd have to be just down the hallway, in the darkness just beyond the reach of that mysterious sconce, waiting to be called out to.

With his goggles, Julius will perceive that the hallway in which they stand is lined with portraits of glowering aristocrats: another burst of lightning, striking somewhere nearby, is enough to enlighten the rest.
No one returns Redvers' call, and it's clear by the brief illumination that no one else is in the hallway with them.

It's too long after the crash, coinciding more with the resulting clap of thunder, that a second sconce lights: this one, directly above everyone, casts them into a damp, sickly light that seems to make the adjacent darkness all the blacker.

"Beg your fucking pardon," mutters Teren, who crouches like a nervous spider just out of sight, calling attention to her shadowy presence only by the dripping of water she's wringing from her rain-soaked braid. "I say we go no further," she continues, hushed, and doesn't elaborate.

Edited 2024-10-03 04:12 (UTC)

Yeah, yeah, everyone be skeptical of the not-wind. He doesn't hear anyone else offering up explanation, though.

The lightning illuminates unfriendly faces on the wall. The light above them lights up, and Mobius stares. "That," with a little point, a little thoughtful bounce, "that I don't particularly like." At least, not in terms of anything he's seen in Thedas. On other worlds, one need only touch a small lever to make light simply appear, or even by motion alone. It could be some kind of lasting magic set by stepping into an area, maybe, but that would have to be extremely sophisticated, and the energy to keep such a spell at the ready...

"Agreed," to Teren's quiet suggestion. "Plenty of space for us here to set up, and now we've so kindly been given light. If there's someone around that doesn't take to our presence, then they can be instructed on how to shut a gate and lock a door."

Julius doesn't do anything so overt as frown, but he projects an air of dubiousness at this suggestion all the same. "It could be a long while to just stand here soaking wet," he points out. "And we may have to find another exit regardless, if we're not able to force the door. I think proceeding cautious and politely is certainly merited, but my experience with aristocrats suggests that if there is someone in residence, they will take it equally well or poorly if they find us here or somewhere else nearby. We're already inside."

It doesn't have the air of a lived-in place, in his opinion. On the other hand, the door and the sconces are worth a bit of caution. Julius can't say that lingering in the hallway feels appreciably more secure to him.

He adds, "I suppose if we feel differently, we could break into smaller parties. A few of us go in and perhaps report back on what we find to those who'd prefer to stay here."

Clarisse is nodding. Staying here under the creepy sconces that are lighting up all by themselves = bad. Standing around near a door that slams itself shut and can't be opened again = bad.

"If we're going to be punished for trespassing, we've already trespassed. And this," with a wave toward the lights, "is either rigged somehow," which she doubts, but she's not throwing out the possibility, "or somebody is controlling it."

She doesn't need to add that if it's the second option, that means whoever it is already knows they're here.

"We can at least find a room with a fireplace," Redvers says.

He's not drying his clothes on the sconces. They're too small. Also, creepy. He's not searching for comfort when he reaches for the rune-engraved fire starter in his pocket and holds it up to ignite the flame—just a bit more light than they currently have, with mixed results, the shadows undisturbed by the addition of a new little lick of flame.

But once lit, it's a good reminder that there are explanations for self-starting flames that aren't frightening. Or the wind. So he keeps it lit.

The timing of that second sconce's ignition is... of note... but, as Clarisse suggests, and Redvers demonstrates, there are ways to rig such things, magically or otherwise. On a related note, that fire starter now limns his ongoing failure to make this device work like so many ornate furnishings. Is he also a little annoyed about some perfectly functional goggles, now, in retrospect? Maybe.

"Improvising a campfire in the foyer won't inspire any hospitality," he grumbles, in oblique agreement.

Teren's lip curls, because they're right, and she hates it.
"Fine," she mutters, unfolding to stand, and-- just in case-- turns to try the door again, slipping a pin out of her sleeve and inserting it into the keyhole.
It's not even locked, not formally; something else is holding it closed. Better to move on.

She begins to skulk in the direction of the lit sconce farther down the hall, keeping it in her periphery as she (and whomever else) steps past it. A door stands in front of them, cracked invitingly, with pitch darkness beyond: Teren balks, scowling.

Drying off in front of a fireplace does sound nicer than sitting here in the foyer. Unfortunately. "A lit torch or three wouldn't go amiss," he eventually says in acquiescence. "Could we at the very least more or less stick together? Estates are huge, and if there is someone around," however unlikely at this point, "better we're not all individually poking into where we shouldn't. Plus, we're really just waiting out the worst of the storm. It's not a scavenger hunt." Not yet, anyway.

Sure, yes, it's dark in the room with the door open, but it's opened enough, and surely somewhere near must be a common area, living or dining or a kitchen, which would surely have a fireplace to start with. It's not spooky, it's just empty and dark is all! Gosh! "Hello?" Called out in a similar not-too-loud manner as Redvers.

The light emitted from a spell wisp Julius conjures is faint, admittedly, barely visible while it's within the glow of the sconce. But he can send it ahead of them a bit, which is a small advantage over Redvers's fire starter.

He steps forward, next to Teren, to gently push the door a bit farther open and send his wisp into the room. The result is probably not going to help anyone who is already a bit unnerved, as the wisp casts everything in a faint, blue-green glow. On the other hand, at least no one is immediately going to trip as they move forward. (Hopefully.)

For his own part, Julius pulls the night-vision goggles back down until they can arrange some brighter lights. Ones that aren't attached to the walls and under someone else's control.

"Anybody got something for a torch?" Abby has pivoted on her heel by the sconce, scanning for loose wood, but this isn't like a house from her apocalypse home. Nothing is split or cracking, easy to break off and take. She mutters, "Should I break the bannister, or something...?"

Only kind of a joke. But since they've already decided that they're making noise even though they're trespassing, they could put the breaking into breaking and entering, huh.

Can the sconce come off the wall? She'll try to get it down, using a bit of force. She's not gonna stick her head into that dark room without a good light source to go with her. Rip to the wisp but she's different. Call it survivor's instinct.

Clarisse shakes her head in response to the question. She comes up behind the three in the doorway, pulling her own runic lighter out as she does and holding it up. The amount of light it creates is minimal and doesn't improve the visibility of the room ahead any, especially not compared to the wisp Julius sent in.

But it is, at least, a light that looks natural, and it's making her feel a tiny bit better that she has it. So.

Maybe there are more lights that will turn themselves on once they step into the room, if this is actually some kind of freaky motion activated thing. Orrr maybe Abby will succeed in prying that sconce off the wall and it will be a non-issue, ha ha. Either way, they can't just stand here forever.

"Let's check it out." She's going in, with or without the others. Preferably with them, though.

The wisp drifts gently into the room, brightly visible from the crack in the door despite how the darkness seems to press in around it. Abby is able to remove the sconce from its bracket with no particular trick to it, which, aided by Clarisse's lighter, casts a brighter glow around the party as they approach.

The door creaks open, to reveal that Mobius wasn't entirely wrong-- there is someone around, so to speak. The light catches on a shiny, sticky material that puddles on the floor beneath dark, crumpled shapes: and if their nature weren't obvious by sight, the smell of rot that suddenly washes over the party is evidence enough.

Despite the presence of both wisp and flame, the darkness around them seems to press inward, limiting what visibility should naturally exist.

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.

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player plot: chateau d'onterre

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