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

[damnpire]

[Set's perfect face looks back at him when the head turns, even if the expression matches the usual placid one D wears. D isn't repulsed, but there is still a sadness there understanding the unspoken offer. It's different, Set is right. It isn't a human. It's a god. Even that worries him, though. Imagine drinking from a god, something immensely stronger than a human in vitality, in power. Set's eyes turn back toward the parade's revelry, brows pinched slightly in a contemplation that's heavy.] I don't know what will happen if it's your blood. [He thinks he can guess. The unbridled strength in this body, the vigor. It's so easy already to fall over the line into Nobility when he lets himself. And it's hard to bring himself back sometimes. With the Shadow now, too. The craggled voice pipes up again from the left of D's body:] You don't even know what you're offering! You can't just let vampires bite you. Foolish. And definitely not while you're in his body. Who knows what would happen? He'd turn you right into a Noble maybe. Pah. The chances are almost zilch, but you might even become a thrall! And this ol' husk would probably go on a full rampage. That'd be wild, huh, D? Tasting a god's blood. That's what he'd love to do. You'd be a lot like him then, wouldn't you? [Set's red eyes narrow into the distance. The tone of Set's voice is icy and sharp when D says,] Be quiet. [The scarlet eyes shift to glance at Set, at himself.] It's too dangerous.

[redsoil]

[ He turns D's body, feeling the first drag of disorientation between his ribs (D's ribs? his ribs?) as the world swims before his eyes, he finds he is no longer looking upon his own expression - weighed down by the choices D must make: feast or famine. He is looking to the parade, he is feeling his own structure; his divinity, muted as it is, pulses with the return of his soul to where it belongs. The phantom of D's senses, his hunger and the snickering of the parasitical organism within him still echo in his mind.

Perhaps it is best, that they traded back. Before Set could act rashly and set D's teeth to Set's own throat, without consideration of consequence - just to do something, cause something to happen, make some catastrophic decision that would cost no one but him. Except that his action would cost someone else. It would cost D, it seems. ]

What if we were bound together? Do you think that would change things?

[ Even woozy in his own body, tucking himself back among the foliage before his knees give out, he insists. ]

[damnpire]

[The sensation is incredibly wild. To feel himself splitting in a way, not in half, but duplicating. Stretching. Being in one place at one moment, in one body, a different one, looking at something... then be changed in another moment.

The relief he feels when the whole of him settles in the cupped warmth of his own flesh is something he may never tell anyone else. But Set probably understands the unspoken wash of gratitude, despite all the sickening disease of self that awaits them. The things they hate about themselves most of all.

He lifts both hands a little, glancing them over, curling and uncurling the fingers. It's him. His clothes, his hat, the weight of his existence, the parasitic voice in his head, and the surly and tumultuous one of his Shadow. The croaking voice says slyly,] Welcome back. [Then it snickers a little at Set's questions. Finally, D looks up and over at Set who is now Set once more.]

I don't know. You don't want to be bound to someone like me.

[But he reaches out to take a hold of Set's arm carefully just above the elbow, to keep Set from collapsing onto the ground. His grip is strong; he knows his body even having been jostled around.]

[redsoil]

And yet, I offered. If I did not think it an acceptable thing, I would not have said so.

[ He's really not in the business of saying what he doesn't mean; even when gripped by madness during his years as tyrant, he would argue and accept that the cruel things he had said and done were not lies. They were blemishes upon Egypt, horrendous deeds he would pay for, but not lies. ]

Besides, I could say the same to you.

[ Who would want to be bound to an evil god? One whose crimes would outweigh any sense or rationale, one who could hardly bear the touch of another, let alone the thought of binding some part of the fabric of his existence to them. He was judicious, cautious. It's not an offer made lightly; nor, really, is it one made with full honesty. At first glance, D had reminded him so much of his child - all grown, with the rich tumble of curling, dark hair. The dark eyes. The somber, ever-serious brow. He was patient, enigmatic.

Being inside of his body had given him a deeper, more full glimpse into the dhampir's life than he might have ever gotten from simple conversation; D, then, would have been able to feel much of Set's pains as well - the ever-present despair, the effects of anxiety and agony upon his physical body. Ill health, which should not have existed in the divine form, and yet did. ]

Perhaps if I, or even others, could shed blood into the pills you take. I do not believe there is only suffering for you, D. I only ask that you consider it.

[ He folds his own hand across D's, where that strong grasp has found his body and steadied it. ]

[damnpire]

[Honestly, Set has him there even if he would deny it.

Slowly, his lips thin.] I would like to remake the artificial plasma pills, but I don’t know if this world has what I need. I can study your blood perhaps, to see if it’s viable to replicate artificially. [Through Hale, with references from the library and the academy in Serene.]

I don’t know if my body can withstand how long it would take.

[He is quiet for a long moment or two, thoughtful. He’s still not keen on the idea of being linked to someone else like the Hierarchy wants. It isn’t even that items vulnerable, but that it’s dangerous to give someone else the weight of his existence.]

…If it has to be anyone, I would rather it be someone like you instead of someone human.

[He’s between a rock and a hard place. Not wanting to burden others, but not wanting to attack anyone in a fit of madness.]

I’ll consider it.

[redsoil]

Do so.

[ D's touch does not make his skin crawl, in this moment. It may, in some time, but he is wholeheartedly focused on a matter that keeps his own mind from falling back on the ghostly echo of too many hands, too much contact with his form. There are other things to think of, like the dim ache of his existence and the lingering tension within D's - the pain the hunter was in, the chaos buried just under the surface, aching and seeking any breach in his devotion to the calm.

To think of D, losing his control, is devastating. Both to Set, uncontrollable and wild, and to his idea of D -- so very kind, so very in need of something to help. He can help, as a god and as someone who was shown consideration without ulterior motive. That is what he hopes he can offer, in return. ]

Although we are both eternal beings, do not take forever to decide. And tell that damnable parasite to mind its tongue. I won't have it mocking you for the things you do to --

[ The words stick in his throat, briefly. Croaked weakly, in a voice suddenly hesitant. ]

To have peace.

[ It feels like trespassing. A god of war, seeking to protect someone's peace.

Suddenly, the whole situation is far too much for him, and he steps back; draws his limbs with him and turns his red gaze away, hiding behind the green of the foliage and the tumble of his hair. He looks like a sprig of red blossoms, in the ivy, or a splash of blood against the stone below. ]

[damnpire]

[It surprises him to hear Set take up for him. Left Hand doesn’t bother him; he’s lived with the thing’s goading and taunting for a long time. But regardless, he never expected Set to really bother.

His head turns, and he watches Set sink back into the vines, still sticking out like an exotic red wax stamp.]

You don’t have to worry.

[What little his reassurances may do. Carefully, he reaches across to take the hat deposited before in the concealing brush. It goes back on his head, situated neatly.]

I’m sorry.

[He isn’t sure what the apology is for exactly aside from Set having to endure existing in his horrific body for a short time. It just feels worthy of an apology. Out of politeness.]

[redsoil]

Save it.

[ Perhaps it is insensitive of him to reject D's apology so quickly, but he is in no mood to hear an apology - especially for something that was under neither of their control, and was resolved. His curled posture is defensive, elbows and forearms pulled in around his lower ribs, fingers laced together around a patch of greenery he works on shredding the leaves from. Irritable, perturbed and in need of some manner of destruction to soothe the hollow thing within him.

( Sekhmet would simper and bray in delight, to see him once more in her clutches. ) ]

It was easier with you, than when I was inside of Jonas Ward. He was so fragile and human, I knew I would leave such scars within him. At least with you, we are...

[ Similar? ]

Compatible.

[damnpire]

[It's fine if Set rejects the apology; D only cares he is polite enough to offer it at all. So he isn't offended.

He understands what Set means about Jonas. He hasn't traded bodies with the young man, but he has spoken to Jonas before. A bizarre, long talk when he was influenced by the silly nuts and Jonas was blitzed from all the other food.

Slowly, he reaches out and puts his hand over Set's own, though only very briefly, just long enough to still the hands tearing into the leaves.]

You're tired. I could feel it when I was in your body.

[Like Set, he's not keen on prying into others, but it was something he had no choice but to feel and experience.]

Consider it only if you want to, not because you feel you need to for my sake.