MOD EVENT #001

[oblivium]

A CHAOTIC RESPITE

It isn't rare for the seasons in the Netherworld to be a little erratic, though many days have passed now without much of a hint of its typical mercuriality, a good and a bad omen all at once. This respite is commonly referred to as the proverbial "calm before the storm", but it also marks the beginning of merrier celebrations. The Moons above are gilded silver, the twilight sky edged with faint pink and orange -- a sunrise phantasm, spilling over the horizon. It's an infrequent spectacle, accompanied by a dulcet breeze and light drizzles that seem to encourage growth nearly everywhere. Unfortunately, under its influence, people seem a little on edge, quick to anger, but no matter; around Stygia, Restless have begun hanging decorations and ornaments on trees and windowsills, left to catch the moonlight and give off marigold and ginger glows, warmly lighting up the city. Rather than fish, the smell of freshly ground spices permeates the air in the Harbors, Mirth keeps its doors opened to all, but just before the festivities officially begin, a cacophony of chimes resounds all over, a transmission difficult to ignore.

On the screen of your cellphone, nothing; only a voice, ragged, out of breath...

“The woods... Oakwoods! They've come alive! O-One minute he was complaining about the water seeping into his boots, and the next he was... he was being yanked up into the trees! We didn’t see what happened to him, but we heard... the screams, ohh, the screams. Please! Come to Serene, I beg you. This is our safest sanctuary, and the lan... oh, no... wait, no, please... please... NOOO--”

...and the feed abruptly ends, a dull chirr of static. Will you ignore the stranger's call for help and feast, or venture into the woods?

► I. KNOCK ON WOOD (OH PUCK, HE'S HOT!)

When you cross the gates of Serene, an old woman welcomes you, palm flat against her chest and disquiet in her eyes. Myrtille, her name. Oakwoods loom dense and dark in the distance behind her, groaning low as leaves rustle without wind. The Mourning Lantern was stolen, and malevolence rose in turn, dooming them all.

“It was once kept here, a sacred Artifact crafted from the bones of Serene's first founder, who gave her heart’s blood willingly to the woods in an act of contrition. It's the absence of the lantern that is contributing to the wood’s unusually active malice, and if you lot cannot retrieve it, then we must sacrifice another. Go! Take these torches and go, before Oakwoods swallow us whole.”

So you've decided to be brave. Commendable, or foolish? The wood is dark and shrouded in mist, and the trees crowd around you, an absent wind somehow whispering foul nothings in your ear as dead leaves rustle around your feet. Your Shadow basks in the murmurs, sensing the malign presence in Oakwoods as a faint, garbled scream echoes in the distance. You wander deeper and the canopy thickens, thin streaks of moonlight peppering the woods in deep patches of darkness. Behind you, a creature you can't see hisses, and a fluttering of wings nearby alerts you to the arrival of snickering harpies lurking on branches. “Dead,” they croak, in a sing-song chorus. “Dead as daylight.” Oddly enough, they seem content to just watch and stalk you, perhaps expecting you to die quickly, an easy and effortless meal.

It's a frustrating errand if you've ever known one. You barely know what you're looking for, and your Shadow thrives in the dark, taunting, coaxing. You hear it then; a haunting melody, the silhouette of a boy on a fallen tree trunk, strumming. “Come,” he says, with a voice that shimmers like the sun on moving water. If you remember what that's like. “Rest a while. Forget your troubles.” For anyone familiar, you'll recognize him as a Puck, famous prankster, and from his hand dangles a lantern.

► If you attempt to take the lantern from him, he'll immediately drop it to the ground, causing it to break. You may choose to kill him and offer his blood to the woods, or let him go and bleed in his stead. Myrtille should be able to repair what's left of the lantern once the offering's been made.
► If you politely ask to return it, he promises that he will... if you indulge him for the night.

No matter what you choose, you will come across camps, either on your way in or on your way back: pitched tents, most moth-eaten, and some containing vestiges of prior expeditions such as putrid corpses or rotten food. You've been wandering for a while, and sleep sounds terribly inviting. Unfortunately, a wind finally picks up, and leaves begin to blow around you. A nick, then a cut, then a slash reveal the leaves to have razor sharp edges. Sleep well yet? If you've spared the Puck, he'll encourage you to sit with him around a campfire, where he'll sing and tell stories. Or are they. Perhaps you've heard of Bloody Mary before. Slenderman? The Devil that'll make you dance until you die? While the lantern remains in stranger hands, the thread between reality and fiction narrows; protagonists from the Puck's legends come to life, and the only way to rid of them is by quenching the flames of the fire.

Your journey unfortunately doesn't end there. The Puck has a riddle for you: I am a word that is hardly there. Remove my start, and I'm an herbal flair. What am I?

If you fail to answer correctly, he'll vanish before you, and you can bid the lantern goodbye. You'll be forced to gather the bones from the corpses scattered across the woods, and feed it your blood -- or a friend's -- before you escape and return to the woman. The offering will leave you drained and exhausted, weak on your legs. If, on the other hand, you do answer correctly, the lantern is yours, and you'll be teleported out of the woods with a boon in your pocket: a piece of parchment invites you to visit your home in the Shadowlands. There, you'll find an object (or a pet) that belonged to you in your world.

the answer to the riddle is sparsely! it's up to you whether you'd like your character to fail.
legends told around the campfire can be any of the ones mentioned above or any other that might strike your fancy! go wild, have fun!
remember that if you pick an item from your character's world as their boon, it'll eventually disintegrate unless reforged with a soul.

.

► II. GO BIG OR GOURD HOME

Welcome to the Frightful Harvest, a festival that marks the beginning of the Respite, a temporary period of tranquility between seasons. It acknowledges the blessings offered and the role that both good and evil play in the Netherworld. It is a time to give thanks, but more importantly, it is a time of reflection and warding. Warding against not only the darkness of the next seasons to come, but of the nefarious creatures and struggles that will undoubtedly follow.

Carved pumpkins and straw bales are placed everywhere around the city, and streamers and banners are hung from every home and storefront. Decadent cakes, candies, and pastries are made in over-abundance in order to accommodate everyone, and from the lush gardens of Radiance, an elderly, dark-robed man addresses the Netherwork. You'll learn by eavesdropping on nearby Restless that his name is Doran, the oldest among you and loved by all. His smile stretches kind, and while not an official member of the Hierarchy, it's clear he has certain privileges -- well-deserved, or so you hear.

“Let us gather, feast, dance and celebrate. Let us hold our glasses high for those who heroically perished, for goodness, and for the Ascended. May their journey inspire us to change our lives and the lives of others, to resist evil, and to triumph. To you, dear friends!”

And without further ado, let the festivities begin!

► BARDIC BLITZ
The bardic blitz is a friendly competition that pits talented musicians against one another in an attempt to win over the affection of the crowd through festive melodies or personal compositions. Although it can be hosted just about anywhere, the bardic blitz is normally held in a large canvas tent directly in the heart of Mirth, though smaller crowds also gather in Serene and the Harbors around bonfires.

► FEAST
Although all cultures around Stygia bring their own tastes and specific flair to the celebrations, there are a few staple trade goods that you can find at nearly any celebration of the holiday throughout the city. Many producing the various cakes, beverages, and cookies also use the time to test and perfect their recipes, teaching others or using them as guinea pigs.

► Firstdawn Tea: This revitalizing crimson tea soothes the mind and body and is brewed from the roots of the dawn flower, which only sprouts during the Respite.
► Grablenuts: These fist-sized brown nuts have a hard, stippled outer shell and soft, delicious spicy centers. A single bite will slightly lower your inhibitions, and you may find yourself seeking proximity and warmth.
► Elysium: A nonalcoholic beverage that smells and looks as bad as it tastes. Only those with the strongest will manage to gulp it down. Once drunk, the person experiences true bliss, which seems to last for hours; in reality, it's only a few minutes.
► Will-o-the-Whiskey: Whisky with minor hallucinatory effects, visual and auditory.
► Sundrop: A pound cake coated in a sugary lemon drizzle. No side-effects, just delicious!
► Shadowfell Candy: Chewing on this candy will grant the character a deep and rejuvenating sleep, during which they will appear dead to anyone.

. ► HARVEST HUNT
The harvest hunt happens in a corn maze located in Mirth's amusement park, specifically created for the occasion. Because of the labyrinthian horrors dwelling in the Tempest, some find the terror-free replica a little inappropriate, yet participants still abound every time. A favorite seasonal game of the exuberant and athletic, characters take on the role of either hunter or prey, racing through the maze to either corner their quarry or escape the hands of their pursuer. As long as Shadows behave, it's a relatively safe activity. Friendly spars sometimes occur, picnics, and star-gazing.

► THE PARADE
The parade is the activity most looked forward to by younger Restless. Citizens clad in colorful costumes walk the streets to the rhythm of festive music, and according to tradition, it helps ward away any lingering evil that might try to hide in the community. For reasons unknown, incidents where Restless unwillingly swap bodies sometimes occur.

► III. WAYWARD SUN

The Warding Ritual is a private affair, a behind-the-scene execution on the last day of the festival as you dance and feast and frolic, blissfully unaware. Something goes awry. First, a shriek in the distance, and soon, birds flying away in apparent surprise as the landscape rustles with the sounds of creatures and Restless alike fleeing. A vague sense of dread knocks the air out of your lungs, an iron grip around your throat. And you see it then, a headless figure shrouded in a black veil of cloth, sword in one hand and a bright flaming pumpkin in the other. Its head. It thunders through the night on its skeletal horse, its blade flashing in the moonlight in search of prey. Heads fall. You might get injured during the chase -- collateral damage. 10 members of the Hierarchy won't ever rise again, and the rider eventually charges into the Tempest, leaving behind bloody puddles and a slather of confusion. If you opt to help clean up the mess, you might come across stained sheets of paper on the ground, a painting of a white scorpion in the middle. Otherwise, it's time for you to go home.

---

ooc note

► Welcome to Nightfell's first event! If you'd like additional, more casual prompts, the Notice Board is right here! New prompts will be added next month, if you've already had your fun with them!
► You'll find some answered questions here, but if you'd like to ask something else, please comment below!
► For a little spooky ambience in the woods.

Comments

[janescayre]

[They could both do with new clothes. He to become inconspicuous, her to regain a sliver of dignity. As it stands they're a comical dinner pair. He in his noble finery, she in her tattered junior high uniform. Why couldn't the fucking Future Foundation spare some damn yen for suit? Being a mere intern should stop being an excuse when her panties are three inches away from exposure.

Whatever, they're seated right now so the worst damage is out of sight, and no one could possibly know which school her uniform belonged to. Enoshima was a true sadist. Did she wiggle all of them into their old clothes herself?]

Like in T-Tristan and Iseult? [Though that was a spear. It was more common in myth than in practice. Too difficult to dose, she suspected, or too easy to nick yourself applying it.

Spurred by his boldness, she chances one of the nuts. It peels readily, and would be the most difficult to mess with, so she figures it ought to be in the clear.

She pops it in her mouth just as Dimitri hits too close to the mark. She halts with the whole thing tucked in her cheek, like chipmunk.]

D-d-detail?

[Okay chew up, quickly, swallow.]

Just b-because I — p-paranoia is sometimes earned, you know! Accepting everything at face value makes you a prime target for total degenerates!

[paraselenes]

[ He eats his cake, which is... fine, pretending to enjoy it. At least she's feeling bold enough to (aggressively?) take on some food, and the drinks are warm; he sips at a curiously scarlet one as he lifts up a brow at her. ]

I've never heard of them.

[ But it's probably an analogous tale. Every nation has one: a story of a knight or noble or kill felled by a threat so small and sly that it's almost cowardly.

It's the small and sly things that can slip through the joins of armor plates. It's what leaves people afraid, casting glances over their shoulder. ]

And it's good to be on one's guard. I agree, mostly. [ he's not as victim blamey about it but he gets the spirit ] But it is incredibly taxing to feel unsafe at all hours. That can lead to problems as well.

[ Jumping at shadows is a waste of energy. It's all about balance. Which he is being a massive hypocrite about, but so as he says, not as he does. ]

[janescayre]

Oh. You haven't? [She supposes she knows nothing of his origins, and the fact that they can even converse is nothing short of a miracle. Dimitri is usually a Russian name, wasn't it? Fukawa wets her lips and takes a chance.] If it wouldn't b-be a total waste of time, I could maybe tell it to you? Or — actually I could wr-write it down, that would be far less p-painful for us both. I'm a much better writer than a sp-sp-speaker.

[As should be obvious. Besides which, though she wants very much to return to original work, maybe compiling various myths would be beneficial to everyone? Stories were important, regardless of what so many snot-nosed classmates had to say about her work. And there were people from many unusual situations here, perhaps they'd be willing to lend her their own fables?

It's a thought that warms her considerably, even in the face of their grim conversation.]

Sometimes you have n-no choice but to be on constant vigilance. There are situations where... [She trails off. Nevermind that. This place was dangerous, but not in the same way her home was. While she's concerned about where the rest of the lost souls are, she supposes she should be grateful. Sometimes the dead were better off lost for good.

But that leads to another bleak thought. Maybe that's what spurs her impulse to touch his shoulder, frail hand resting gingerly atop fine stitching.]

Hey. Did you f-find out anything more about those Forges? Or the c-captive souls?

[paraselenes]

You would write it for me? [ It's a nice offer. ] I'd enjoy that.

[ He's not exactly the type with his nose in a book every minute of every day, but he likes reading, and entertainment is slim here. What better way to learn about the other cultures here than to share in stories, anyway?

It's a nice thought, but the feathery touch to his shoulder grounds him; his drink turns his reflexes to ooze, and miraculously, he doesn't tense. Rather, it's the words that make his eyes narrow slightly, a hint of disdain slipping into his tone. ]

And I've learned only as much as the people here will share. These "soul-forged" items we hear of are aptly named, it seems. Even the coin here is crafted at the Forges.

[ So those people they saved might've turned into lunch money if they hadn't stepped in. ]

[janescayre]

[It's like someone flicked the lights on. For a moment she beams bright, defying the drab colours of her hair, her clothes.]

Of course I would! It would b-be my pleasure!

[Someone?? Wants to read her work??

Sure sure, the myths may not be hers, and she may have been a bestselling author back home. But no one was so kind to her face about it. Many fans had expressed open disappointment. All it took was one look at her to dispel the illusions of genius, of a dream paramour come to life. There were discussions online about it, and cruel lines in reviews like, "it's no wonder Fukawa can spin such wondrous tales of romance — fantasies are all she'll ever have, and so she invests everything in their invention."

Though that's not the reason her smile fades now.]

Items? [She doesn't withdraw, but there is a slight bob backwards. She looks with trepidation to their cutlery.] You d-don't mean...it's not everything, right?

[She almost put that in her MOUTH.

Excuse her, she's just gonna huddle in closer as the horrific implications take hold.]

That's disgusting. How can anyone c-carry on knowing that?

[paraselenes]

[ When Toko brightens, Dimitri answers with a little smile. It's nice to see someone bloom into excitement like this. Gilbert had accused him, none too gently, of losing his own passion—and at the time, it had stirred him up in wild agitation. He had, yes, but who wouldn't? How could he be expected to love the same things he once did, with the same fervor as a child he no longer was?

But it's apparently not like that for everyone. It's heartening to see someone who'd gone through the same as him—life, the struggle of it, and death—with her passions still intact.

Of course, the joy is short-lived in the face of a more gruesome subject, and the mirth slips away as quickly as it sparked. He takes a sip of his drink as though to assure her it's safe, though even the red-tinted tea isn't enough to completely dull his disdain. ]

Not everything, I don't think. But items of quality, such as a sword unlikely to rust or bend—from the sounds of it, those things must have a soul smithed into them.

[ He'd asked around when he thought he heard the coins in his pocket scream when they clinked together. It was something he could write off for a while—he's used to pretending he's heard nothing, sees nothing—but after a few instances he pokes around for the truth. He hasn't spent a coin since. They collect in a pile beside some of his tethers for safekeeping. ]

Needless to say, it was good that you spotted that ship.

[janescayre]

[These answers aren't ideal. Can she exchange them for store credit?]

G-great. So anything worthwhile in this musty hell-hole is p-probably wrung out of someone's eternally s-suffering soul. [It makes her feel a little better about being, well. Destitute. Even among the living, it was difficult to amass riches without squashing someone underfoot. Though — anyone Byakuya-sama may have squashed certainly had it coming.

Fukawa wets her lips and tentatively reaches for her own cup of tea. It's the same sort Dimitri's sipping, so theoretically, it should be fine.

Even as she takes the first drink, she doesn't sever from his side. If anything she's scooted closer. His warmth bleeds into her like a salve, and the tea makes her shiver, as if a kindly hand had run through her hair.

The scowl melts. Funny, though their situation seems more bleak than ever, she can't find it in herself to stay mad about it. Fukawa gently dips her head onto Dimitri's shoulder. He may be a lean and muscled man, but the lordly fabrics are soft on her cheek.]

I h-had hoped that maybe death would give us some peace. It j-just seems like more of the same.

[paraselenes]

[ There's a microscopic tension in his shoulder. He's not a cuddly person—it's rare that he's touched without intent to injure or kill. Even here, he sleeps sitting upright with his back pressed against the wall of his small flat and faces the door.

But the drink helps relax those tightly wound instincts, so he takes another sip and eases up. She can stay if it helps soothe her. And like this, maybe he could even learn to enjoy someone's proximity, though it doesn't cure the melancholy in his voice. ]

...I don't think death is a gateway to peace, no. [ It'd be nice if it was. ] But I did expect it to be the end of something, at least.

[ The finale of one book and the beginning of another. But it's more like a retelling of the same story: though the words are all changed, the meaning beneath them is no different from before. So what now? ]

I'd like to do something about it all. Though right now it's just amounted to hoarding. [ The more money he makes and sequesters in his pocket, the less of it is out there, in the hands of someone who might care less. ] I don't know if there's a way to... undo the soul-forging process.

[janescayre]

[Would you believe it? Neither is Fukawa. Human touch is as foreign to her as a stroll on Mars. The singular exception is one oblivious schoolgirl, but Komaru Naegi is still alive. How that's possible when Fukawa can't make sure she doesn't walk into an open manhole is a mystery, but the point stands. In any other circumstance she'd still be hunching away in her seat. Maybe she'd have bolted by now.

Yet whatever spell has taken hold of her puts her too much at ease. She doesn't notice him stiffen, she doesn't think about the impropriety. Only that it feels better to be here than anywhere else, and he hasn't said one cruel thing since he sat down.]

Maybe that's the real reason we're here. [She nibbles her lip.] It's hardly equivalent to our s-situation, but there's the concept of karma and rebirth in Buddhism. Once you die in one life, you're r-reborn into one of six realms. Into which and in wh-what form depends on what you've done with your life — that's called karma. Eventually you want to achieve enlightenment and leave the cycle of reincarnation, but it's incredibly difficult. Living c-completely virtuously isn't always an option.

[To say the least. She had wondered if being tied to Syo dragged her down to this cesspool. Or if it was her own miserly, selfish tendencies. That she hadn't been willing to turn herself in, once she'd matched the tallies on her legs with the death toll on the news. That she'd let the Killing Game carry on and shunned her classmates, instead of taking Naegi's stance and helping hold them together.

Where's that tea? Fukawa pulls off Dimitri to take a second sip, and the worry wilts away. What was in this stuff?]

Obviously w-we're still ourselves, so it's not the same thing. But, maybe...we're meant to help. Don't you think?

[paraselenes]

[ It's the second time someone's thrown the idea of reincarnation to him, though he can't imagine what an 'enlightened' life is. Being reborn doesn't seem like a blade being sharpened, honed into something sharper over time—can being reforged really bring them any closer to perfection when it doesn't make them any less human?

He doesn't think he's been improved here, or by death itself. Just as rotten, a little more lost than before. But she raises a good point—it's one that appeases him more than even the tea does. He shuts his eyes for a moment, his chin dipping into the fluff of his scarf as his posture slacks. ]

I'd like to think so.

[ It's easier to stomach this all if there's a reason for it. A purpose. Some guiding principle to replace notions of knighthood. ]

Maybe rather than improving ourselves, we're meant to improve this place. I would not presume I can save other lost souls—but it would be all too easy to fall into apathy after death.

It is better to remind ourselves that there is good we can do, even now.

[janescayre]

I th-think so too. [Nihilism is all too tempting in a situation like this. And if this were a more incorporeal form of death she might have already fallen for it.

It's the continued struggle that gets her. That she even has an appetite, that they bleed, that she hasn't met anyone she knows. And there should be tons of them. Her whole world had been thrown into calamity, and even still she can't find one familiar face?

It's suspicious. There must be a bigger plot at play.]

Or, it's n-not what it seems at all. Once you start considering the existence of magic, all r-reasoning falls apart. [In lieu of the cozy lean, she thoughtlessly winds her arm through his. She's terrible at retaining heat, and she misses Komaru so terribly. Byakuya-sama, though he'd never allow her this close. She had to love him from fifty meters away.

All these are afterthoughts. Underlying justifications when she thinks to question why she's doing this. Dimitri is just...kind. She's not used to her company being welcomed, much less sought out. Her words weighted with even measure.

Please don't let this be a trick.]

[paraselenes]

You're not the first who seems to think there might be more to this.

[ He hasn't had much extended discussion on it, but there are plenty of others who don't believe this is as simple as the afterlife, or are plain in denial about it. ]

...I have no real reason to believe I am still alive. [ He doesn't see reason to doubt that this is the underworld in his case. ] But regardless, there is much left to learn of this place.

[ Then he takes another drink of his tea, the warmth of it a balm against the autumnal chill and his own slight, twitchy awkwardness. Because Dimitri is not cozy, cuddly, or even very friendly; he doesn't know how to return a touch, not without breaking something, so he doesn't try.

But he's not unkind, either. He doesn't reject her presence—the thought doesn't even cross his mind. When he pauses to regard her, his reaction is simple. ]

Are you cold, Fukawa?

[janescayre]

Maybe so. [She purses her lips. There was probably some conflict in his world. Maybe an illness. He's definitely from a prior era, though she couldn't say which for certain. It would be natural to expect an early death. You could say the same of her world, too.

Yet she has her reservations.]

I just don't think m-memories alone are reliable.

[Most of her lost years have returned to her, but it still comes in patches and threads. The full tapestry may never be recovered. At least she feels her rightful age again.]

Hmm? [She looks up to him quizzically. Cold?

Right. Oh. Shit, she shouldn't be — her arm twitches, but she doesn't unravel just yet. Only the soothing tea can be thanked for that.]

I'm sorry! I didn't, um. I w-wasn't thinking. [She does shrink a little, bow her head in shame, twist away.] It's chilly, b-but — if it's too revolting for you I'll move away. I'm sorry.

[She pauses.]

I'm not a slut.

[Just to be clear.]