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

[philandery]

[ if it makes felix feel any better, sylvain does entertain one or three regrets behind his shit-eating grin. like... this is so dank he's kind of worried about his stomach lining? when he manages to gulp down the last of it and takes a fortifying breath, the stench continues to circulate in his lungs.

—but then, the worst of it suddenly passes. the world around him seems to go rosy, the sun (or moon??) shining just a little brighter above. whatever worries he carries melts away from him, tension bleeding from his shoulders. he even manages to overlook the nasty aftertaste sticking to the roof of his mouth. ]

Yeah... heh.

[ Heheheh. he laughs softly, completely unprompted, and begins to drift away from the crowd. he finds a empty patch of grass to lay down on, and sprawls out as if he's in the snow instead, about to make an angel with a sweep of his arm and legs. ]

Isn't this so great?

[ assuming felix followed him. though, it wouldn't stop sylvain from talking up at the sky, anyway. ]

[boarwitness]

[sylvain goes all gooey, and felix's expression, already soured from the concoction and hijinks, knits into something outraged. he opens his mouth, full of Words With Which To Tell Sylvain Off With--

--and everything shifts. any cares he possessed seem to fly away from him. why would he be angry? why would he feel anything other than pure enjoyment? he blinks, and his face shifts to something rather still.

what was he thinking about before? it must not have been important. all that matters now is sylvain is going somewhere, and he should follow him, just to make sure he's okay. everything is so fine, so warm and bright. it's the perfect time to spend with those who are important to you.

as sylvain makes grass angels, felix sits, arms loosely wrapped around his knees in front of him.]

Yeah.

[what seems like a long moment to him stretches out between them, and he blinks. his voice is low, tone so mellow it's almost unnerving.]

Did you know?

[what the drink would do.]

[philandery]

[ that's the softest indoor voice sylvain has heard from felix in a while, and he'd almost mistake him for being on the verge of conking out. (good! just as planned. felix is usually all tension and sharp edges—doesn't hurt to ease up once in a while, now does it?)

that said sylvain is too far gone to have a rare "i told you so" moment, or, on the other hand, to pretend he didn't do this on purpose. ]

Yeah. Don't be mad, 'kay?

[ he says as if either of them are capable of experiencing even a single blip of negativity right now. ]

I just think after all that's happened... It's nice to relax.

[ together! a social activity that doesn't involve bloodshed or grievous injury or guerrilla tactics. he rolls over onto his stomach, more or less hugging the grass now. he reaches over to give felix's arm an amicable pat-pat, and totally misses. ]

[boarwitness]

I won't.

[how could he be mad at sylvain? how could he be mad, period? they're having a nice time, and it's a nice day. he taps his hands on his knees and watches the redhead completely flub his genial gesture.]

You're having fun.

[and so is he, now that felix thinks about it. well. maybe fun wasn't the right word? doing things that give you a sense of bliss and peace—that was what he was doing right now. when had he last felt like this? when he was a child?

he stares at sylvain for a long moment, who is still fully embracing nature.]

No more war, huh. [he's not even aware he's said it until it's out of his mouth. how is this the first time he's thought about it? but he doesn't dwell on it long—instead, he closes his eyes, as if he's basking for a moment in a warm light.]

[philandery]

[ there ought to be something bittersweet about that statement, and sylvain ought to respond with something wry in return. (all that struggle, just to end up here anyway.)

but it never comes. he just feels... free. unburdened. happier than he's been in a very long time. he flops over again on his back, stretching enormously before he resumes sprawling. ]

We're done. And we don't have to go back.

[ no more worrying about invasion, about casualties, about survival. he's here, and his friends are here, and they're at peace. it's a beautiful thing. ]

Will you miss fighting?

[ in a weird way, and very faeghus way, war also gave them purpose. ]

[boarwitness]

[no more war. it's unthinkable, a frankly insane concept, considering how long they've been at it for. but in this moment, it feels incredible—like someone lifting a heavy pack off his shoulders. had they ever really been free of the weighty burden of the eventual next battle? in faerghus, for as long as he'd ever known, there was no real peace—just time spent in limbo, the soft diplomacy of governance once the hard "diplomacy" had got its point across.

now there was no faerghus, no war, no dukedom, no king—the realisation nearly bowled him over. it really did feel wonderful. everything was possible, now.

at sylvain's question, felix's eyes go distant, but not bothered. simply thoughtful. the response is immediate, though.]

Yeah.

[he plucks a blade of grass, and twists it, staring back into the throng of people making merry. with one shoulder and his head, he gives a little half shrug, twirling the grass between two fingers.]

I don't think I'll completely stop. [it's more reflective than anything.] We can always spar.

[philandery]

[ sylvain isn't bothered by that response—had been expecting it, in truth. felix is who he is, and that constant is a reassurance, especially with elysium involved. this too, makes him glad, that not everything has to change—that even with the world pulled from under their feet, felix still has whatever it is he needs to keep going. (this is the end, and yet he still propels himself forward however he can.)

sylvain has... well, he has a comfortably full stomach, a soft bed of grass, and all the time in the world (a few minutes left of this liquid-induced high) to figure it out. ]

Maybe.

[ it's not a bad idea to keep their skills honed, especially with reapers on the lose, and when most forms of work require a bit of elbow grease. ]

...Another time. Now's for enjoying the party. [ !!! ]

[boarwitness]

[there's something so reliably familiar about sylvain dodging sparring for a party. what would normally make him irritated instead makes him rather glad. even here, even now, it's the same sylvain. and why should they be the same? they're their own people.

he's about to ask sylvain what he plans to do, when sylvain moves the conversation past it, like he sensed the question coming.]

Right now, the only thing you're enjoying is grass.

[it's not said unkindly, but rather good-humored.]

Have you been staying out of trouble?

[philandery]

[ at felix's commentary, he flaps his arms and legs on the grass some more for show. ]

It's not where you are, it's who you're with.

[ he grins wryly as he casts another sideways glance over at the person in question, as if to say u rite, not much of a party at all.

still, while felix may not believe in good old fashioned fun, he's one of the very, very few people sylvain can be at ease around, with or without rancid drinks. he laughs at the friendly question-accusation, and fires it right back ]

Hey, I've been on my best behavior for six years now. [ no he hasn't ] Are you keeping outta trouble?

[ he sees u picking fights on soul tinder... ]

[boarwitness]

[grassvain is the first pairing felix has ever approved of. he catches sylvain's wry smile, and stretches his legs out, putting his hands on either side, and finds himself humming something, although he's not sure where he heard it. the greenhouse, maybe. sylvain was right, though. who you're with. and here they were, in superhell, together. things really weren't that bad.

but even his bliss-filled bubble can't let sylvain off the hook.]

Hmm. Six minutes at most. [he plucks another blade of grass, breaking this one into little pieces.] And I've been making myself useful.

[he's been sparring anyone who'll meet him. the thought of this warms him.]

I'm glad for the feast, though. [he says it rather casually, with no agenda, and pats his side.] I just bought a sword.

[and he's all out of rabbit.]

[philandery]

[ if felix can have his sword than sylvain can have his grass... (his brows perk up when he hears the familiar tune. is that... one of annette's hit singles?)

the elysium must be starting to wear off by now, because a thread of melancholy manages to worm its way into his heart, thinking of their friends and comrades. it's short-lived, but it's still the first whisper of an emotion that isn't entirely euphoria.

...just enough time has passed that sylvain can settle comfortably into a liminal space between bliss and reality. in fact it's easier to frame his thoughts objectively this way, the residual and artificial loft from the elysium keeping him from spiraling down darker thoughts. there's balance. ]

It's nice to celebrate. And also kinda weird.

[ they haven't known excess in a very long time. faerghus is not an abundant land to begin with, and what victories they did observe were done so with modesty and moderation. as much as sylvain enjoys all of this feasting, he can't stop the drink from wearing off, or the encroaching feeling that maybe they don't deserve this—or at least, haven't earned it. ]

...You know, we made it all the way to Enbarr.

[ at least, he doesn't sound upset about it. just contemplative. they'd spoken only briefly before about the war—felix only remembering their victory at gronder, sylvain a bit more. but he had glossed over his knowledge of their future timeline—hadn't really had the right opportunity to tell him all of it. ...figured felix was still mourning his father. ]

That's the last thing I remember before waking up here.

[boarwitness]

Mm. [done with his bits of grass, felix settles into watching sylvain watch other people. a small non-blissed thought sprouts in his mind: someone's got to.] Feels like we're tourists, rather than a part of it yet.

[would they feel like a part of it in the future? people had been here for years and years, apparently. would they age? decidedly more thoughts of a more rational mind were starting to tiptoe in, albeit still laced with a hazy bloom of happiness.

but if anything was going to sober him, it was what sylvain swapped the conversation over to. even with where he was mentally, the part of him free of the elysium's grip was already leaning forward, causing a minute furrow in his brow.]

Enbarr?

[so they'd made it that far. it was nothing short of a complete miracle. mentally, he sorts through the details of the gronder fight, balancing remaining troops, weighing them against the reserved might of adrestia. several questions arise in quick succession, but he bats all of them away for the moment. the drink still had enough of a hold to mellow his response.]

So that's why you didn't tell me.

[it's considerably quieter than he'd be sober. with the implication, of course, being]

We lost.

[philandery]

[ sylvain can't know for certain, seeing as he wasn't there to witness the rest of their final battle himself. perhaps byleth (whom he hasn't seen in over a month, now,) had somehow cut himself free from the belly of death, as he had before when they were still students. perhaps he's made his way back to adrestia, now inside the imperial palace fighting beside the dimitri they both remember.

but that seems too much like wishful thinking, and with felix there's never been a need to sugarcoat his words. ]

I don't think we won, no.

[ he exhales, feeling the weight of that admission, the strange relief as well. something like this isn't meant to be a secret, and at present he can even feel a twinge of hope despite the sobering truth. (or maybe he's conflating it with the reassurance of having someone here who understands what they've been through. who's also fought against impossible odds.) ]

...There may be survivors, at least. If they haven't shown up here... I don't remember anyone else falling.

[ admittedly, because he has a habit of charging off on his own. ]

[boarwitness]

[falling. it's hard to imagine, hard to believe that sylvain could, too. he'd always expected to fall in battle someday, but sylvain was somehow different—he was supposed to live. yet somehow or other, even across time, they'd unfortunately kept their promise.

a part of him, waking up from a blissful slumber, wants to chastise him heavily. if he'd trained more, been less reckless, cared more about himself, if he'd just stayed close...

but instead, a uniquely calm felix just sighs heavily, shaking his head. bitter defeat. the concept doesn't hit as hard as it might otherwise, considering. or maybe he'd always expected it. a truly blind charge straight into hell.

but, speaking of the fallen:]

I haven't seen my father.

[it's been on his mind.]

[philandery]

(( cw: suicide ideation ))

[ for sylvain, it's a death long overdue. it's far more improbable that he's survived until now. before the war, too often the only thing that had kept him from making an irreversible choice, from rushing himself to a premature death during some of the worst years of his life, was a promise he'd made as a kid. so long as felix was around, sylvain was too—no matter how bad things were with miklan, with women, with his own, venomous self-hate.

of course, the war had been a different brand of hell, but it had at least shaken sylvain out of his self-centered misery. he stayed alive to fight alongside felix, for their home. there will be times he regrets it, and times he doesn't. times where their sacrifice holds meaning, and does not. it's difficult to take any single stance when you've been raised to live and die for your country—he holds as much affection as he does resentment for his home.

and while he won't presume exactly what felix does or doesn't feel towards rodrigue's death, sylvain can imagine he's torn in some way about it. felix has always spoken sharply against the ways of their society, critical of his own family, sylvain doesn't know him to be impervious to grief or loss for all his bristling discontent. ]

...I suppose it's possible not everyone who dies ends up here.

[ they'd run into swathes of their own soldiers, otherwise, the men and women they'd lost in their battalions, not just other generals and former academy graduates conscripted to the kingdom army.

...it's also possible rodrigue's soul has already been taken to the forges. but sylvain won't accept that, or give voice to it. ]

Have you forgiven him?

[boarwitness]

[somehow, the idea that everyone didn't show up here was somehow worse. where did they go, then? what different hell were they facing? or was there something more arcane at work? he and sylvain had come from slightly different points on the timeline, and dimitri from another entirely. what if people took years to show up, and without a guarantee of when? in a few months, would he encounter a young rodrigue who died in a battle with sreng?

the possibility of his soul having been claimed by oblivium, or worse, made into someone's tool, was not to be considered. instead, he rolls sylvain's question over in his mind, wondering if he should even answer it to begin with. after a long silence, he looks off, eyes unfocused on the middle distance.]

He was always going to die for his king in some damn fool way.

[the drink is nearly completely gone from his system, now—just enough remaining to bring the words out.]

I could never have stopped that.

[but it still... stings. and a part of him can't shake that it all could have been avoided, if only he'd found dimitri after his imprisonment. if he had been there, maybe he wouldn't have lost himself. and if he hadn't lost himself, his father might still have been alive.

it's a foolish thought, and he brushes it away—but the unease remains.]

There's nothing to forgive the dead for. A corpse doesn't care about your feelings.