logs | 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

I don't believe so, but I am unsure. It could be residual in nature, or causative.

[ Regardless, he knows how his "Shadow" reacted, when he'd tried to lay his hand upon it -- the deep unhappiness, the vibrant sense of disgust and the pitched demand to touch that not! you're always grabbing things without putting any thought to it, it's always getting you into trouble!. ]

Whatever it is, the well of darkness within me doesn't like it. I plan to collect some, when able to, and announce it to the others.

[ The sound of feathery wings beating does alert him, he snaps his head towards the sound just before the rasp of the harpy's talons meet the branch. A sneer begins to crawl across his mouth, the baring of one tooth almost territorial by the way he glowers at it. If it makes a move, he's ripping it to shreds. He'll defend this area until he's done with it, let the beasts wait their turn. ]

-- why would I grow numb to death? Being a war god is not at all a commendable position, but my task as a slayer of men is equal to my duty to remember them. I lost sight of that, not too long ago. I can't again.

[ Now, he draws the corpse along, and rests it with the others. For now, it is the last of the explorers he'd found in this place. Arms dark with gore, he approaches Claude again with a steady saunter, the unwavering gleam of his red eyes eager to follow any flinch, any twitch, any shivering stillness that might be held fast by the archer. ]

You're unhappy.

[ Claude is more unnerved by the harpy than he is by the dead bodies or the blood on Set's arms. Senseless death is always tragic, and he won't deny the frustration he feels toward the Puck. Why would any creature stir up mischief that would result in death? Why do they have to fear death still, even here?

But the problem is that Claude is extremely motivated by staying alive. The harpy is more of a threat than a corpse, and therefore earns more of his attention.

He keeps his gaze on Set as he approaches. ]

You wasted your time as a god killing mortals?

[ He plans to pursue the residue on the corpses and the effect of has on their Shadows, but he might a still ask while Set had offered up some information about himself. ]

[ Then, it may makes what Set does -- easier to stomach? For, as he draws closer to Claude, his arm slides past the young man's figure. It barely brushes along his clothes, reaching further beyond him instead; he does not seize Claude's person, but instead places his arm like a steel bar, between Claude and the cruelly-whispering harpy.

The way someone might seek to come between danger and the vulnerable. She croaks: 'Killer, killer. Dead and buried. You're just a wish.' ]

I am endless, Claude. Time isn't wasted on an endless being.

[ Technically, he's only endless in his mind -- reduced as he is, dead in this realm as he is, there is an end to him. Not in his soul, though; he is truly made in a way that a mortal cannot grasp.

He knows what's being asked of him. ] I killed, all the same. I don't deny that.

[ Ever-so lightly, he slides his body into the space between the hunched harpy and Claude. ]

Did you find yourself a handsome weapon, archer?

[ Claude supposes that makes sense. He likely can't grasp the weight of life, and how much it might mean to someone as long-lived as Set. To Claude, it feels so pointless; if he were all-powerful and ever-living, he'd never touch war again. He'd leave the world to the mortals and see what lies beyond the skies and explore the stars. What would it matter to him what petty lords were squabbling over what resources, and which countries wanted to eke their borders ever further outward?

Maybe that makes him callous; to have all that power and not help those in need. But there's a fine balance between help and harm with that much power at your disposal, and it's all to easy too make things worse with meddling.

In any case, his fantasies are just that. Set has had his own experiences, though his words don't necessarily turn Claude's opinion of him. His hands are plenty bloody too, and he's only lived twenty years.

He goes tense when Set draws in closer, angling his body away. ]

I've got a kitchen knife and a bow I made myself.

[ The glances up at the harpy, and it shows now sign of moving from its perch, instead cackling at the sight of them.

"Dead! Dead! Rotten failures." ]

Are you going to extend that chivalry of yours to me next?

[ There is a distinct division between the mindset of someone who is born and will die, and an entity born outside of the boundaries of mortality. Outside of the sway of time itself, and it is the same line that will always be drawn between himself and those around him. The only souls he's found that might conceptualize it are the young divinity Zagreus, and the immortal dhampir, D. Even there, they both lack the weight of what it is to ascend to true godhood, and the understanding of sacrifice.

However, like Claude, Set was an unfathomably free god. A traveler who did not often remain within Egypt's borders, but instead went beyond them to see the world, brought home only when called upon. And slowly, that freedom had been taken from him, replaced by duties and responsibilities. He was the protector of Egypt, long before he was a war god -- and he barely remembers it, while simultaneously he has never forgotten.

Claude angles away, and Set's mouth curls a little. Amused, maybe knowing. ]

Actually, I was going to ask you to shoot the damn thing -- it's annoying as hell.

[ Whatever amusement that Set might be feeling doesn't escape Claude's notice, and he frowns in response, chest heaving a sigh; unbothered when he breathes in the rank smell of blood and rot. It's about what he's used to anyway. ]

Are you the type to kill a creature just because it annoys you?

[ He asks without judgment, asking mostly just to be annoying since he half-suspects that Set made the suggestion without much gravity.

Claude supposes that he could kill it—it's voice certainly is grating—but it's not saying anything untrue (at least, to his ears), and he's long since grown accustomed to tuning out jeers and attempts to catch his attention by pointing out his flaws.

The harpy jeers again, and he turns his head up to look at it. ]

It's probably just upset you're getting in the way of its meal.

[ All the bodies that Set was gathering are a veritable feast for the creature. ]

Of course.

[ Claude might ask it without judgment, but Set is that type of person. Maybe once, he wasn't. Maybe once, he had exercised far more caution and consideration before setting loose an arrow into the breast of a waterfowl that had grown too brassy in its quest for a mate. Maybe once, he hadn't put his blade through someone merely because they begged too meekly. ]

It can't have them. I won't permit such a thing.

[ Instead, he holds his hands out. ]

Give me your bow. Neither you, nor these people, are going to fill some hag's belly.

[ Claude doesn't mind handing over his bow. It's a fairly rudimentary weapon; one that he'd had to make himself from harvesting branches and linen. It's not designed to last long, lacking the craftsmanship of a master, but it suits his purpose for now. At least he's not entirely vulnerable while wandering these woods.

Eventually he'll try soulforging something a little more exquisite. ]

Are you going to shoot every bird in these woods?

[ He gives Set an arrow too—just one—before stepping out of his way and toward the bodies. ]

How will you dig the graves, your hands?

MOD EVENT #001

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