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

[coherer]

(they watch each other's expressions and jonas feels that he's too close to avoid spotting the shift that takes place in set's.)

I asked that, (he says defensively, his breaths coming too heavily; what's obvious in his reaction is how frightening the prospect of being held by hands that have not only killed civilians but their own brother.

still, while jonas knows he should be shoving set away and running from this, he accepts at the same moment that he has nowhere else to go. ironically, the memory of his mother is what makes him respond in a way he didn't think he could; she was the only one who cared about the reason why.)

I'm... I'm not just gonna make some random shit up. That's—I'm not like that. Tell me what happened or don't, that's your choice, but the "why" always matters.

cw hints of sexual trauma.....

[redsoil]

You realize that you are the first human I've really come to know, don't you?

[ Some part of Jonas must recognize it now, having been swallowed up within Set's divine nature, within the boundless might of his body; even demoted as he is, his powers cannot fully be severed from him, save by un-creating him entirely. They remain with Egypt, tethered to him and immutable even by whatever state of death or undeath he exists in. It must have been hell for Jonas, to be confronted by such a vast existence, the eldritch crawl of timelessness and purity of form.

He doesn't know mortal life, nor has he really ever grown attached to humans. Jonas is among the first, perhaps even the first. He knew his generals and warriors, but not in the way that he's come to look upon Jonas Ward. In this admission, he aims to avoid answering Jonas entirely; he would rather reach his fingers into his own neck and rip himself apart, than dwell on the truth of his murderous nature. He would rather throw himself into the abyss of the sea beyond Stygia's harbor, than tell anyone what happened. To imagine Jonas's gentleness twisting into disgust -- he cannot stand that thought any more than he can stand the thought of Nephthys's agony if she were to realize her husband was no man. ]

Look at me, Jonas.

[ It is with those murderous hands that he reaches for Jonas's jaw, to tip the young man's face upward. To look him in the eye. ]

Divine nature is unlike that of humans. We are or we are not, there is no mutability the way there is for you. You felt it, in the way that I felt all that you have. Potential, capability for change, such sweet freedoms. And I am a god of great wickedness and violence, but I promise -- I will not bring you harm.

[coherer]

(the first human.

how? how could that possibly be true? how could he be the bar standard?

existential dread robs his next breath from him, and jonas attempts to cope with the weight of the crowning title that's been inadvertently lowered onto his shoulders. as his face is guided by hands so that he's forced to behold set, ageless and divinely perfect, stress-induced tears add a new dimension to reddening eyes.)

You keep saying that like I'm not going to believe you. God of War, God of Assholes, God of... God of—whatever. Who gives a shit anymore? (his voice splinters as his tolerant mask does, and it's jonas' shadow who pulls set's soft fingers away from his jaw with his own. at eighteen, his are already more weathered by use. his grip squeezes, holding set as securely as he's able.) If you're trying to convince me that you're evil, I believe you. You harmed your own family. I believe you, and I don't care.

(spoken by anyone else, it'd sound spiteful and sinister.

spoken by jonas, it sounds childishly sad. his voice swells with repressed emotion that hits surface tension and begins to spill from its container, considering what he was robbed of and sent here without. everyone else's problems seem so small in comparison, and he seems to know the thought's uncharitable because he scoffs in the wake of it.)

But to say "there is no mutability" is such a cop-out. The universe isn't black, white, or shades of grey—it's a spectrum of colours and vibrations and frequencies and waves, and each of us is responsible for the shit we take in and send out. Gods... Humans... Since the dawn of civilization, we've been explaining away our sins or using them as excuses not to be better than we are; not good or evil, just both sometimes... and neither.

Maybe that's why we're here, man, sharing the same death sentence but nothing in common.

(in this state, he's driven by his whims. releasing set and standing with a pronounced sway, still dizzy from their aggressive swap and seeing eternity in set's vessel, the shadow stands before him, soul bared.)

Take back your promise. Make me one that's real:

"I will try not to bring you harm, but even Gods make mistakes."

[redsoil]

[ Something is spinning to life in Jonas's head. Some manner of insecurity and injury that Set had felt in the fabric of his body, that he remembers because he was there within Jonas's tattered existence and he thinks, in some part, he knows what it is to be human a little better than he did before. They are unlike the gods, born with the freedom to become anything they desire, born with the ability to make decisions both good and bad, and to live with them. His siblings were able to look upon their humans as vibrant things, each unique from the next; what was wrong with Set that he could not see them for more than a teeming mass, cattle for the slaughter?

Why was he born so wrong?

Even now, his innate wrongness affects Jonas. It drives something inside of him, swollen and ragged, and Set tugs at his hands - held in those rough, young, human hands like he is the thing that is breakable, that he needs to be held together. That is not the way of the world, and he wishes Jonas would understand that. Even if he wants to believe in what this young man says to him in return. ]

You're asking me to unmake myself.

[ He says it, so quietly.

To admit fallibility, to admit he is more like a human than the grand divine nature of his existence, is akin to shedding a heavy mantle, a collar and beautiful chain that binds the nature of a god to a particular orderliness. He imagines what it would be, if Ra herself were to step out before the humans and tell them she had made a mistake -- the agony it would cause, the chaos it would sow. The dark thing she fought in the night, driving her barque against it in surging, bloody battle, it would win.

He looks at Jonas, regretfully.

He can't make that promise. The sound of it does not even build in his throat, paralyzed by the miserable, terse adages that Jonas says to him. In Set's silence, he is both a uniquely fragile thing, eldritch and unknowable, and so very much like a human being -- one that still remains imprisoned in their own heart. He swallows before Jonas, who bares his whole soul and asks him for such a simple, such an incredible thing.

And he feels so unseen, so unknown. ] I will, try not to bring you harm.

[ We do not make mistakes, he wants to say, we make choices, and our choices are immeasurable.

Instead, he curves his shoulders and lowers his brilliant head, pressing his face to Jonas's rough, seeking hands. Apologizing wordlessly, for failing him -- for being unable to give him this one thing he asks for. ]

[coherer]

"Unmake" yourself?

(is that what he's asking? initially, all jonas wanted was an ear to rave into about the selfishness of the universe. gods and humans, alike and too dissimilar to measure, putting each other into impossible little boxes. he realizes that he too has done this to set, and he has seen him in monochrome the way he desperately wanted to avoid.

it makes him want to laugh and cry in equal measure.)

No, I'd never ask you to do that. Not intentionally, anyway. (still, despite their mischaracterizations of one another, he feels it necessary to amend his statement:) ... It sounds nice sometimes though, doesn't it? Staying here, letting go, feeling... normal. Feeling like you're not such a total fuck-up.

(after that, there's a silence that stretches between them. he has begun to analyze an anxious stirring in his gut, wanting nothing more than to lie down for it and give up entirely.)

It's okay, Set, (jonas relents. his hands are bowed against and, while there's something unspeakably heady about having the egyptian god of war and chaos and storms at his fingertips, even jonas' shadow is made uncomfortable by the earnest, unnecessary apology. no part of his soul—even in its darkest recesses—has ever been intentionally cruel.

affected, his hands are taken away from set's face only to return to broad shoulders, an arm winding set into a tight hug to the chest of a soft sweater.)

I'll try not to harm you either, alright? C'mon.

[redsoil]

[ Feeling like you're not such a total fuck-up.

Yeah. ]

More than you might realize.

[ There is so much to him that he gives to despair and madness. Something once good in him that was broken down into ragged pieces and left scattered across the floor of a room, like a spray of desert flowers and pieces of shattered, pale clay with the heads of guardians upon them. It is humiliating, how he is poured out into such a brittle state; unsure, faltering in his steps though he moves onward and forth.

What was taken from him was so much more than just his pride.

At the least, he seeks to regain some measure of masculinity and power-- Jonas draws him in, closer to his body, and Set shifts his posture to better gather the young man into the crook of his arms. He slides them across Jonas's ribs, curling his forearms up into the juncture of arm and torso, immovable in his strength as he hooks himself around Jonas. ( Another hook into that torn soul. ) ]

As if you could. You're as threatening as a kitten, Jonas Ward.

[ His voice is a little hollow, but he does his best to put that snide little scoff into it; the idly playful, potentially mocking twist of his mouth as he prods his fingers into Jonas's ribs and takes the moment as it is. ]

[coherer]

(held securely in the arms of a god, his eyes cast a solemn stare out over the harvest festival then close. hot breath presses through his sweater's thick fabric to his chest, a spot for him to concentrate on instead, overwhelmed. the sadness, however, isn't allowed to linger long enough to fester.

his stomach dips at set's sudden tickle. whether or not it's intended to be one, jonas can't help but dash the somber mood further by sucking a sharp breath in that comes out of taxed lungs in a shocked and offended huff. now of all times?

he's grateful.)

I know, I know— (jonas lifts his arms and grasps for wrists whose offending hands are determined to keep him laughing warmly over the crown of set's head.) Stop, you psycho! Words... words are worse than a slap in the face. Words stick, and I... I don't want to hurt anyone anymore. I don't want to be that anymore.

The hugs help.

(it's serious, though it's said with a great deal of levity. perhaps boldly, jonas returns set's previous gestures, leaning back enough to take a perfect face in careful hands—to pinch and pull divine cheeks away from white teeth, stretching his mouth before squeezing it together to make fish lips.)

Wow, oh—yeah, I'd worship you for sure.