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MOD EVENT #001

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Quietly, D lies in the straw with his hand on the wing and listens. It’s familiar. It resonates.

All he says at first is,] I understand. [As a dhampir, old in time, who believes he has nothing left of value that isn’t offering some kind of liberation to humans when they ask it of him. Finally, he adds:]

It’s why I’m a Hunter.

[Not for the money, that’s only a stipend, and not for the necessity it places on himself.

But because of the humans who take the time to thank him, who live, who have better lives or family, the ones who gain some semblance of happiness and peace.]

( he exhales. )

Then you would not give it up either, I take it.

No.

[He doesn't look over, but his lashes lower a bit over his eyes.]

I never have.

Then I can see eye-to-eye with you.

Did you want to touch more? ( he wriggles his wing a bit. ) You can, as long as you don't pull.

[His hand rises as the wing moves, like he's worried it'll pull from that alone. He opens his mouth, maybe to refuse by the twist of his brows, but something wrestles with stopping him.

He pauses, frowning. Against better judgement, he says,] Yes. [He rests the hand on the wing again momentarily.]

( he readjusts himself, moving closer so he can reach his wing even laying down as he does. sure, he might be in his personal space, but - well, so what? D wanted to touch, so he has to get close. besides, aspen is very light. he swipes his hair over his shoulder so the curled ends of his braid isn't bothering him, letting his wing drape over the bale of hay and part of D. to the touch, his feathers are soft and warm, elegant from how wide and delicately built the feathers are. they taper off into softer down and tinier feathers that make up the bulk of his topmost feathers, all clumped together like a sheet of plush velvet.

on the backs of his wings, there are lines of iridescent feathers that glint in the moonlight, like mother-of-pearl or soap bubbles. )

This is my good wing, so you're free to touch. Have you seen birds up close?

[Carefully, his hand moves away to allow Aspen to adjust on the straw. D doesn't actually mind the closeness really, even if it seems as if the Grablenuts play a part in why he doesn't shift away. Aspen hasn't appeared to mean him any harm, so the shrinking of the distance between them doesn't bother him.

He waits patiently and quietly until the wing has settled over him again. It's so odd to him how much it thrills him to feel it on top of him. He can coherently understand the nuts are wild, yet he craves this all at the same time still. Okay.

The surprisingly warm, long fingers sink gently back into the feathers, unworried they'll burn him this time. He brushes his hand over it as if it's made of the finest glass, as if he'll break it. The fingers trace the strong outline of the wing's top, the bend, the velvet coverts. It's a nice wing! For some bizarre reason, he is infatuated with being able to touch it and also with it being on him. Embarrassing.]

Yes, I remember them. There aren't many left on the Frontier anymore.

Hm? Why? Is the area too hostile?

( what a curious predicament. he'd thought that birds were common in other places, but maybe that's why he seems so enthralled now. aspen relaxes his wing and silently undoes his braid, closing his eyes. )

I'm surprised. You seem very gentle.

[He slows his hand so it merely rests in the plush down of feathers, holding the wing against himself lightly like it’s a coveted heirloom.]

The humans destroyed much of the planet trying to destroy each other long ago. Much of it is a wasteland now. The radiation mutated many of the animals that existed before.

And the vampires genetically altered many of the rest into mutants.

[He does not say anything about being gentle.]

( it's cute, the way d acts. plus, the touch and closeness soothe aspen's mood naturally - no nuts needed. )

'Genetically altered'? I'm afraid I don't know what that means.

[Thinking about how he just called Rosa a mutant even though he did not mean it badly, that is simply what they are called…

Very clinically, he says:]

Their genes. The Nobility modified the ones altered by pollution through experiments, creating servants for themselves. Allowing them to interbreed and become strong.

( he tilts his head, confused, like a cute little cockatiel.

and then - it clicks. he jerks upright. )

Oh! Like crossbreeeding plants.

... but... with sentient beings?

[He turns his head just enough to glance at Aspen with his eyes.]

It's similar.

[In a way.]

The Nobility thrived with their sciences, but had little morals. They would harvest mutant DNA, sometimes mixing it with human or vampire DNA, and grow many things in the preservation chambers in their laboratories.

( aspen scrunches his tiny nose. )

That seems... I think they call it 'playing god', don't they? Those poor people.

Many Nobles believe they are like gods, yes.

[Aspen isn’t wrong about that.]

But their reign has come to an end. Because they aren’t gods at all.

Is that... who you hunt? These - nobles, you said.

When humans hire me to, yes.

( quiet.

and then, aspen shoves his face fully against d's chest. it's almost a headbutt. )

Don't do that here. You won't, right?

[?!

He had already been so still, but his hands lift a little at the sudden movement, and he pauses.]

You don’t want me to hunt vampires…?

I don't think you should hunt the others here. We should rely on each other and hold each other accountable, but -

Hunting ourselves, I think, would be difficult... and it would turn others against you. We should be united.

I only hunt Nobles who make prey out of humans. I haven’t seen any here so far.

[His hands sink down on Aspen again and are still.]

I don’t intend to hunt Restless. Only specters and unaligned Reapers harming them.

( phew. d can undoubtedly feel the tension seep out of aspen, muscles becoming slack. )

That's good. Those Reapers have it coming.

[HELP. Aspen is so funny. DON’T JUST THINK D IS A RUTHLESS MURDERER. “Isn’t he…”]

Did the Reapers attack you?

( last time on nightfell tv: "don't kill random people :c" "... ok. i wasn't going to anyway" "ok /cuddles" )

Mm... ( he sounds displeased with the question. ) They had me in chains. Is that an attack?

[Aspen really threw away the reservations so quickly in favor of headbutting a pair of edgy, leather-clad tiddies.]

Yes. [ASPEN.] They were trying to take you to the Forges?

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