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

[wrists]

[ he waits for the convulsions to begin. for aspen to fall on the ground unconscious. for his wings to start shedding, grotesque. none of it happens. his eyes instead light up — still hazy — and his expression turns to one of joy. laurent doesn't budge. ]

Well? Tell me how it feels to die. It only makes sense that I familiarize myself with the signs.

[terraria]

Mmm, I don't think you'll die how I did. It wouldn't make sense to warn you.

( it's blithe - a strange sort of peace. )

You should try these. They're much more filling than I thought they'd be. Savory but with a sweet aftertaste. I don't taste any poison.

[wrists]

People didn't pay whores because they were good at thinking.

[ his way of saying tell him anyway.

he supposes aspen would know the taste of poison, and despite the questionable footing of their relationship, he doesn't believe the little bird is at the point of plotting his demise just yet. he is well acquainted with the signs, anyway.

against all his better judgement, but perhaps because his decisions have already led him on a path that likely leads to the gallows in the end, he brings the nut to his mouth and takes one careful bite. chews. swallows. fastidiously wipes his mouth with the edge of his finger and waits.

it's calm. everything feels calm, which is unnatural in itself, because the inside of laurent's head is never calm. his outward impassivity is just a front for the constant pull of tension, a hundred rushing thoughts plaguing him at every moment, the stress of keeping his walls not only erect but reinforced at every given moment so that no one catches a peek at the damage or unfulfilled needs within.

a bit of strain unlocks, a sliver of relief. without thinking, he takes another neat, careful bite. ]

It's adequate.

oh no laurent what did u do

[terraria]

( his own chewing slows.

after several moments, fat tears cascade down aspen's cheeks. he cries completely silently, the sort of cry someone does when the body is so overcome they can do nothing else but sob. )

I know I'm stupid.

( he mumbles it almost petulantly, angrily taking another bite. )

Master Phelans called me 'birdbrain' as well. You're not the first.

send him to the gallows

[wrists]

[ it's hardly the first time laurent has reduced a man to tears, but it's typically an intentional, calculated thing. the sight of aspen's wet cheeks takes him by surprise, an uncomfortable knot pulling tight in the very center of his stomach. ]

If you were truly stupid, you would not have survived your days as a courtesan. We would not be sitting here, eating foul nuts and having this conversation. Many slaves, particularly the young ones, die in strange beds because they can't work out a plan to survive the horrors of their station.

[ too much. it's far too much. laurent has no idea why he would say such things, only that he felt on more than one occasion that he would die in his uncle's bed, and had known even then that he must find a way to endure.

without thinking, his mouth moving before his mind can catch up — ] Come sit beside me.

his true crime!!!!

[terraria]

( he sniffles a bit but tries to hold it in, eyes narrowed. he's an emotional eater and he's never been that good at keeping himself from eating - and it shows with the way he keeps snatching glances at the sundrop cake he'd abandoned, and is thinking about eating once more.

it's only the suggestion that makes him glance at laurent with his still-wet eyes. like this, though, he looks more like he's pouting and cautious of a strike. aspen's always had a bit of a baby face, but it's especially bad when he's mad or upset. he seems to think on this a bit but he eventually slacks and scoots over. the warmth of his wings radiate near laurent as he does. )

I was murdered. A human slaver found our island and killed me and others.

( once he remembered, he also remembered why he'd tried to forget. )

He wanted revenge for taking their chattel away. That is why I said... you wouldn't... need it.

[wrists]

[ the truth settles between them as aspen comes close. a story not uncommon. an uncomfortable weight pulls at him. there was so much left undone when he came here, his kingdom at the mercy of a man who would abuse the most defenseless of their citizens, who would surely lead them into another war. he finds his thoughts turning to damen and carefully seals them away before any uncomfortable feelings can arise. ]

I know what it’s like to be hunted. [ a confession that startles him. he decides not to speak, since he’s unsure what words might come out next, instead focusing his attention on the warmth of aspen’s wings, fluttering mere inches from him. laurent does not get close to people, even physically, as a general rule. it’s a well known and accepted fact in vere, something he no longer has to explain or ask for. trying to sidle up to the prince was a good way to end up on the cross. his men give him a wide berth and satisfy themselves with baseless gossip instead. but suddenly there is a body, and laurent has not felt that sort of complicated warmth in so long.

his hand moves, the slightest of tremors in his fingertips, and nestles into soft feathers. he expects it to feel quite like a pillow, but aspen’s wings are impossibly soft, warm beneath his hand, quivering and alive. laurent’s breath has taken on an uneven quality, his entire body taut with tension, his heart rabbiting in his chest, as if this tiny act costs him a great deal. ]

[terraria]

Really? I wouldn't have thought...

( something like that, said to laurent, may have been spoken with scathing sarcasm if it were anyone else. really, if aspen were in a worse mood, he may have taken the low hanging fruit that was pointing out laurent's salt and vinegar personality would bring many enemies. right now though, aspen just closes his eyes and hums. )

I'm sorry.

( aspen's heart bleeds for him. he wouldn't wish what he went through on anyone.

is he sorry enough that he'll let laurent touch his wings? apparently, yes. he spreads it out a bit for him to touch. )

[wrists]

[ wouldn't have thought that a prince would be hunted in his own palace, cornered and made voiceless by a man who should have offered him comfort and protection after the death of his father and brother. of course not. laurent ignores aspen's comment, his eyes consumed by white, his fingers still nestled in the softest feathers he's ever touched.

he doesn't remember ever feeling this warm before, not in recent years. in fleeting moments with damen, perhaps, before the twist of the knife in his gut each time to remind him of who he really was. laurent has never been able to relax to this point. he doesn't know what's come over him now. ]

What does it feel like? [ a quiet murmur. genuine curiosity, for someone who doesn't engage in any sort of touch by choice, and certainly nothing like this. ]

[terraria]

( he closes his eyes, silver lashes fluttering shut as he thinks and relishes in the surprisingly tender touch. )

It's nice. It's soothing... it's warm. Feels nostalgic. Like...

( he struggles to come up with something similar. )

Like someone washing or brushing your hair, maybe? Though this is my bad wing, so it feels... farther away.

( his entire wing is soft and warm and the bones beneath thin skin are delicate - but some places have small holes. gaping scars in skin between bones - well-healed, at least. they're hidden under piles of smaller feathers. )

It is - pfft... haha! ( aspen doesn't normally laugh with laurent, but it comes out as a twinkly bell sort of laugh, utterly delighted. ) W-wait, my winter feathers are still coming in there! It's - it's really ticklish!

[wrists]

[ laurent starts at the laugh — it comes unexpectedly, and he's unused to anyone doing such a thing around him. people in the palace know better. aspen does not, or just doesn't care. his hand freezes, still buried in feathers. winter feathers. he doesn't yet know how seasons work in stygia, but back in vere, the daylight will dwindle, the first snows powdering the grounds of the kingdom. he wonders if he'll ever see it again, and wonders if he should feel a bigger throb of emotion that he might not. ]

I don't mean to tickle you. [ his voice is honest, verging on uncertain. he doesn't mean to, truly. doing such a thing never even occurred to him. he removes his hands, only to find himself lacking warmth. aspen had called this his bad wing, said the sensation felt further away, so laurent reaches for the other, slowly, his fingertips grazing closer to his back. ]

[terraria]

( it's so strange to hear laurent as vulnerable, and aspen mildly decides he doesn't wish to discourage it. so instead, even though everything inside of him tells him to bat laurent's hand away from his back, he shifts in his seat.

it means exposing his back for a few brief moments before his good wing is in laurent's reach. )

It's not bad. ( he finally admits, holding his stomach. ) They're just quite sensitive, and sometimes itchy. It's growing pains, in a way.

After feeling my other wing, no doubt you'll feel the difference.

( once laurent does, it is clear what he means: this wing is much more plush, more densely feathered. it's warmer, but not all by much. one could bury their hand in his down and just barely see it. unlike the other wing, there are no patches of skin and no holes; it's all quite healthy, even when the feathers are raked back or fluff up like they're doing now due to the chill. )

I wrap this one around me on cold nights first.

[wrists]

[ it strikes him that this is the most intimate touch he's shared with — anyone, maybe. surely willingly. he's never caressed another in this way before, even if it's not entirely a human appendage. it's warm, humming with life, and aspen is close, close enough that he can feel his presence in a very explicit way that he does not normally allow.

damen had come this close, taken liberties, and laurent had flared like a lantern, incandescent with an uncontrollable rage that had nearly killed the other man. just the thought of it brings the prickling of heat beneath his skin, at sudden odds with the warm, glowing thought of aspen wrapping his full, decadent wing around himself on cold nights. it's the sort of achingly gentle notion that laurent cannot place in his experiences, though he imagines it now, the lush feathers pressing to his skin, his slender hand nearly disappearing in the thick, downy depths.

and stops. something in him causes him to recoil, despite the softness and warmth, despite his desire for such fleetingly sweet sensations. a sharp breath seizes his throat; he just barely tempers it, sitting still and attempting to appear blank-faced despite the flurry of disquiet taking rapid flight in his chest. ]

I don't want to touch you. [ something dark and sinister threads its way along the lines of his throat, twisting his tongue. ] I don't require a slave or a pet or a winged whore.

[terraria]

It's a good thing I'm none of those things, and that you touch of your own volition.

( aspen responds as quickly as a ripples form after a pebble's thrown; call and answer. he doesn't look directly at laurent as he speaks, his tone quiet; )

I understand. After such a long time, touch can be... difficult. Many don't feel as if they can reach out... and even fewer feel as if there's any good reason for it. When that was a weapon turned against us, why would we try? There does not need to be a 'good reason', though. Or a reason at all.

I won't judge you for what you will or won't do. I just think... that for all your talk of slaves and pets, you seem to be the one caught in chains the most.

[wrists]

[ a weapon turned against us. his heart, already beating so rapidly he fears it might burst from the cage of his chest, thunders now. how can he know? laurent has never spoken of the shame marking his youth, the stains that won't lift even now, the tainted rot of his bloodline at his uncle's hands. tension holds him so tightly he could shatter at a single touch. he fears aspen will touch him and it will be his undoing, his blue eyes wide in the darkness, his breath tensely measured.

he moves first, before the thought can fester, his hand wrapping around aspen's throat to slam his slim body back against the hard edges of the table. a series of hollow cracks sound as aspen's bad wing is crushed behind him, laurent's knee pressed with relentless force against his ribcage. ]

You take liberties. [ his fingers tighten around aspen's throat, hard enough to leave the imprint of bruises against delicate flesh. his rage blinds him to all logic and reason, feeding into one singular desire to mask the agonizing intimacy of his own shame. ] We don't share a story. Presume as such again and I'll toss you into the Tempest.

[terraria]

( though aspen winces, the pain on his face is not quite what it should be. his bad wing is used to violence, as is aspen himself - his pain tolerance is far higher than it should be, and as much as laurent is hurting him... at the very least, he's not bleeding.

this is just like some of the other aurain. with laurent choking him so fiercely, however, he can't really get it out. normally he'd put his focus on healing himself, but if he can't even breathe, he'll have to refocus and get laurent off of him first. he grips his crystal staff once more. this time, there's no scent - no telltale lemongrass - but aspen glows gold and forces a barrage of emotions from himself into laurent, as if he wasn't already in turmoil.

and what is carried with them is shock. visages of uncovering skeletons picked clean by foxes, of strewn dead bodies on a battlefield, of a silver ring forced on a trembling hand, of home decimated and burned and salted so even his plants couldn't grow. it's meant to make laurent peel his hands off of him, and even at the slightest movement backward, aspen shoves his staff between them to push laurent fully off of him. )

I was an elite courtesan. ( he speaks, voice a bit weaker. he tries to cast a healing spell, though it fizzes out halfway. with a shake of his head, he straightens, shedding his usual aura to something more commanding. ) I was subject to decades of learning how emotion and ideals are shown on a person's face, to the punishment of a flaming whip if I was wrong. I was tasked with uncovering the depths of foreign visitors true motives, of unearthing treasons against the crown. Say we don't share anything if you like, but ever since I met you, I saw myself - from a year ago, hell-bent on revenge and the goal of a crown. Perhaps listen to someone who is already past that point in their life.

[wrists]

[ a physical attack would be more welcome than this. his body has already been through the worse sorts of abuse, and he's sharpened his tolerance for pain into crystalline points, able to silently compartmentalize his agony. but this sensation is different, a battering ram heaved against the edges of his mind. all of a sudden he's bereft of his most reliable weapon — he can't think. his thoughts are effectively scattered by the rush of images and searing emotion, his grip on aspen loosening with immediate effect.

it's deserved. he would have crushed the fine bones of aspen's throat, driven his knee in hard enough to crack his ribs, left his wing broken and mangled by the hard edges of the table. for what? because aspen sees him, and that itself is unbearable. he doesn't know the truth, and yet he feels too close to uncovering the shame he's carried since his youth. ]

Does it please you to sit there and pass judgment? [ laurent rights himself, on his knees in the grass. at some point during their struggle, the nuts have been upended from the table, now scattered on the ground. his eyes narrow. the food. his stomach turns; he feels violently ill at the though that any warmth or comfort he felt in the closeness to aspen mere moments ago were brought on by a substance of the netherworld. ] I don't seek revenge or a crown for glory. My brother was killed. My kingdom stands to be stolen and destroyed by war. You may have the luxury to be past that point, but my life is dictated by duty.

[ he stands, his rage leashed now, but barely. brimming over the heat of his anger is an old hurt that he does not wish to feel, the sting of wishing for something he can't quite place, can't name, because he's never had it to know it. ]

The touch was not of my own volition. [ he doesn't mean to say the next part, a throb of childlike hurt coming out. ] You took advantage of me.

[ and before he can imagine finding the nearest blunt object to hit aspen's angelic face with, he turns away, his demeanor once again like stone. ] We're finished.

[terraria]

( the only thing that would hurt, that properly injured him - )

I would never take advantage of you. Not like that.

( manipulation? sure. little white lies? yes. but actually manipulating someone else into going against their boundaries - no, never. )

- but I won't stand here and let you suffocate me to prove a point! I'm not standing by and letting a human kill me again. Not even you.

( if he's turning away, aspen won't stop him, planting himself down to try and tend to his crushed wing. it's clumsier as his adrenaline wears off, but at least he can do it. )