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

[paraselenes]

[ When she scolds him, he makes a token effort to hunch his shoulders, as though that makes him less visible. It doesn't really work. But fortunately, his body is easy to spot with how tall he is. Less fortunately, that means his head is probably easier to cut off, like a tall reed being struck down for sticking out above its peers.

And while it might be sort of really satisfying to watch himself get beheaded, especially when he's looking on the verge of tears, the person currently in his body would probably... not agree.

So he rushes off the stage with as much urgent speed as her asthmatic lungs will allow. ]

Here— [ saints, why is he out of breath already? ] I'm here!

[ He's still holding the lute in one hand like a crowbar as he grabs her (his own) arm and tugs, away from the throng of people, which are now being chased down by the headless horseman. There are terrified screams, whinnies, and the hard gallop of hooves that all roar past the two of them as he ducks behind the stage and away from sight.

But there's no escaping the riotous, awful noise. The stink of blood mixes noxiously with the smell of harvest food and ruined festivity. He looks to her, gripping her (his) arm with a look of fierce conviction and also kind of puffy hives, hair wildly disordered after his sprinting, voice low and stern despite its rasp. ]

—If it finds us, use everything at your disposal to protect yourself. [ Whether it means using his strength to fight, or his speed to flee. She could return his body to him with every bone shattered and it'd be fine as long as she's alive. ] I won't allow anything to happen to you.

[ Even if he has to learn how to bludgeon somebody to death with a new set of arms. Even if he has to teach her how to throw his fists around. Even if he's really, really itchy and his chest hurts from running, because apparently being a woman means to suffer in new and exciting ways.

But for now, their best bet is to hide and wait things out. ]

[oomfies]

[ Fuck, that lute is so so stupid but she's too happy to whisper anything other than: ]

Thank god you're okay..

[ He's already out of breath? How much has he been pushing her body to look so strained, like this?

Lottie's growing tense, her fantastic ability to overthink practically setting her brain on fire as he grabs her arm and leads the way to safety. Seeing her own body grab and hide her in the midst of this chaos dulls almost all of her senses. It's familiar, how little she hears, it's always like this when an allergy attack is imminent — but she can breathe clearly, from her nose and mouth. Can still smell that copper tinge to the air, can feel her own nails dig into the arm of this random dude's body.

It's both humbling as it is scary to see herself look so strong and confident, not in the way that she mimics it (clearly pretending, just an elaborate ruse for the internet). It's genuine, honest in a way she hasn't seen herself be in years. Has he seen himself? How can he make her look so cool when she looks so shitty? How can he make her feel safe when she knows her body can barely last running for a few minutes?

She looks down at him, calmer than she was before. Still just as antsy, still equally frustrated she can't completely reel in her emotions, but he's done a good job at settling her stomach. Enough for her eyes to hyper focus on her skin, the splotches of red that are no mistake: hives. Fuck, has he been scratching?? And he's barefoot.. What if her ankle gets sprained?!

That'll slow them down.. A very real, scary, possibility that could leave her body sprawled on the pavement.

Lottie grabs his (her) shoulder, thinks about all the times Sunny would indulge her on her whims of being held by him when she was needy or lonely. She is neither of those things, and while Sunny pisses her off for still being alive, at least he's helping her out now. ]

I'm carrying you. [ It's not a question, or a suggestion. It's a statement. ] I-I'm faster and I don't even weigh that much!

[paraselenes]

[ It's strange. Lottie doesn't feel fragile, but the strain from swapping bodies and subsequent mayhem makes all his nerves turn agitated—it's too easy to get winded, and the itchy patches are distracting as anything. If he'd been any more panicked, how bad would it have gotten?

He's scratching idly at one of his arms when she interrupts his thoughts. ]

Excuse me?

[ Well. He did just tell her to put his body to use, but this is somehow still unexpected. He blinks owlishly her way, looking at his most bewildered. It's a mistake. Staring like this, forced to fully take in her face—his face—is a little annoying. Nonsensically, stupidly, he almost wants to reject the idea, just to spite... himself. But the fierce clod of hooves somewhere doesn't leave him any time to argue. ]

...All right.

[ It does make sense, even if it's—frustrating. He doesn't want to be a literal burden; he wants to run against the current of the mob and towards the horseman, he wants to see how far he can push these lungs before they burn, he's worn himself down to the nib training every day so that he could be relied on for this one thing: fighting.

So jumping into someone's arms to flee is both unfamiliar and aggravating. But that's what he does. At least he can say the next thing with confidence—he's used to sprinting across a battlefield in full armor. This should be easy. ]

Run far, and fast.

[oomfies]

[ Lottie habitually runs away from all her problems, so it feels cathartic in a way to be told to do the same right now. By herself. This is so surreal that she can barely conceal the strange twinge of excitement in her gut at the idea.

Alright. She inhales through her nostrils, a fresh wave of that disgusting smell of blood and rain settles through her. Run far, and run fast.

She shifts her weight from side to side, as if they both have the time for her to feel out just how much weight his legs can carry (a lot, she thinks, because she's so light and bulky at the same time that it's, kind of cool?). She gives a quick sweep over her body, and determines the position that'll cause the least amount of chaffing is: ]

Stop scratching, and wrap your arms around my neck.

[ She sweeps him up far easier than she expects -- she actually gasps at how light her body is, how quickly he's flung up into her embrace. Or is it because he's that strong? She doesn't mull over that long once he's nestled in her arms, carried like a blushing bride. She's adjusting her grip real time, finding the best place to grip onto so he won't be jostled as she books it. ]

Good? Is this good?