logs | (no subject)

(no subject)

INHUMAN COURTESY

I. PUSHING UP DAISIES

cw: depiction of hanahaki, mention of blood, mild body horror

The Frightful Harvest ended on a bloody, eerie note, but the Respite's most welcome interlude has proven exceptionally fruitful. The sky's darkened again, moons struggling to glow through turbulent clouds, but crops all over Stygia have grown dense and healthy, herbs and plants and flowers aplenty. Normally, it'd be a time to rejoice, even as sleet pours and winds grow bitterly cold -- and it might have been, had greens and stems and petals NOT elected to blossom inside you. Your lungs, specifically.

It's an uncommon side effect of the Harvest, affecting those who foster affection or attraction towards another, triggered only by a stray thought. Almost as if punished by Oblivium for harboring any kind of positive feelings. The worst part is that the object of your desire doesn't even have to be in the Netherworld for you to be afflicted. Over the span of three months, you'll gradually experience various degrees of the "harvest's curse", depending on the source of your feelings:

► PHYSICAL/EMOTIONAL ATTRACTION & REQUITED LOVE
It starts with an itch. Your throat tickles, an odd sensation in your lungs, slightly constricted. Allergies? Not quite. It worsens overtime, and days pass by, perhaps weeks. You cough, a little more every day, a little deeper, and then it happens: petals, stuck to your lips as you wheeze and try to empty your chest. Marigold, carnations, daisies, peonies... Thankfully, for you, it's more of an annoyance, sporadic at best and leaving you exhausted at times, but you're in no immediate danger. Unfortunately, not all Restless share the same luck.

► UNREQUITED LOVE
It doesn't matter whether it is truly unrequited; as long as you think it is, whether you're fully convinced or distantly resigned, you get the whole package. It starts the same way the lesser variation does, gradual, and with unsavory (!) additions: lilies and dark red roses. The first slowly spreads its poison in your body, inducing fevers, skin rashes, blistering in your mouth and stomach aches. The second pricks your throat bloody, making speech difficult and breathing even more so. It spreads throughout Stygia, and if most wound up meeting their end in the past, some speak of a highly hypothetical cure. It's believed that if the object of your affection confesses equally strong feelings for you, the curse should rapidly subside. If this option isn't viable, Doran promises that all Healers in Hale are working extremely hard to find a solution. In the meantime, symptoms can be partially soothed with poultices and spells that you can find in the Marketplace or in Serene. Some merchants might even take pity on you and offer them for free.

if your character has heard of similar diseases in their home world, they're absolutely welcome to share their insight on the netherwork or anywhere else
the evolution of the disease can be as gradual, as fast or as severe as you wish it to be
a mini quest to retrieve ingredients for a cure will be available in december or january
by february, all characters should be cured

II. DO NOT PASS GO

cw: mention of blood, torture, branding, violence, forced captivity

Full-swing investigations concerning the Harvest's murders have begun, though the mysterious rider has yet to resurface. The day is young still, but no matter; the Hierarchy firmly believes that the creature was summoned by a group of renegades, fully intent on finding and dismembering the organization. Perhaps even literally.

If you've spilled blood not your own in the previous event, the Hierarchy finds you. Do they know? It doesn't really matter; they've targeted you for reasons they won't divulge, persuaded of your involvement -- and off to the Gallows you go. Each of you receives the same greeting when you arrive, held down by rough hands and branded upon the arm with the letter F. The mark signifies ‘forsaken’, and the painful scar is indelible proof that each of you has betrayed the Hierarchy's hospitality. Writhe and scream and glower as much as you want; next thing you know, something heavy hits you across the head, and you collapse.

When your vision slowly creeps back, your eyes adjust to a dimly lit stone cell. Your feet are secured by iron cuffs tethered by one long chain, and you lie in nothing but filthy, tattered rags. It's dark; the air is bloated and filled with agonizing shrieks. Dead vines scrap the walls of half-crumbled buildings, weather-worn stone pillars surrounded by withered clumps of grass. You may converse with your cellmates: the guards patrolling the Gallows couldn't care less, convinced that no one could possibly escape anyway.

► Ironically, a magical barrier around the Gallows prevents magical/spiritual abilities from functioning. However, characters who roam free still can absolutely sneak in! Be careful not to get caught, though!
► Loud disagreements might attract unwanted attention. A single guard will come, and if he finds nothing else amiss, will threaten them to be quiet. A second violation earns the offender a rap on their bare feet with a club. A third violation will cause the offender to be gagged. Note that in order to beat or gag the offender, the guard must first open the cell.
► If you share affinities with Gargoyles, incapacitating a guard in any way will draw the attention of one. It'll show you to the gates where you'll be able to escape, taking care of sentries on your way. You should probably keep a low-profile from then on, and avoid showing-off your brand.
► A secret passage may be found through a mausoleum nearby; an arrow of flaking red paint marks the entrance. Or is it blood? Inside, it's nearly pitch-black. Perhaps, if you're lucky, your vision extends as far as 30 feet in front of you, but occasionally, the darkness is broken by clinging phosphorescent fungi or crawling luminescent creatures, and from out of the silence echo sounds of dripping water. You're underground, and Abysmals can be encountered here if you're too loud. You should also watch out for cave-ins, but as you get farther away from the general region of the Gallows, your magical abilities gradually come back.
► Eventually, a long, broken staircase will lead you to Hale. If you're injured, you'll be sent to the main infirmary; characters with healing abilities or knowledge are super welcome to help!

Luckily for you, there are so many prisoners it's a difficult task for the Hierarchy to always keep track of all of them. Your brand, however, is a dead giveaway, so you might as well try and find a way to get rid of it; you might hear through the grapevines that the dead skin of Badaliscus can be used as bandages, and overtime, the brand will fully heal and disappear.

III. TO THE RESCUE

As you attempt to escape, or perhaps once you’ve successfully snuck in, you come across a terrifying spectacle: in front of you, impaled through the shoulder by a spear, a weary humanoid figure covered in blood. The body is being restrained by additional shackles on each arm and leg, which are linked to chains anchored within the walls. There's a guard nearby, armed to the teeth… and still you decide to free them.

The guard’s magic is just as useless as yours, and while impressive in size, dexterity definitely isn’t his main strength. He hits hard — with brass knuckles, a chain mace, and a sturdy shield — and his stamina almost seems endless, but it’s not. Keep evading, and he’ll eventually tire enough to topple over. It’s also possible to have him chase you around if you don’t go too far, which would allow someone else to grab the spear. Once he’s too exhausted to go on, you can either kill him or chain him to the wall. The keys are in his boots, and you’ll find a bottle of water as well as a small vial of ointment in a satchel on the ground, where he previously stood.

The prisoner is a young man, perhaps in his mid-20s. Once freed from his shackles, he immediately keels over, though he’s not unconscious. He thanks you with a deep and raw voice, begging for water. You can tend to his wounds if you’re able—the ointment quickly soothes—and when he finally stands again, he asks you a question: “I’m a stranger to you, and you could have died. Yet, you chose to free me, unaware of my past. Of my crimes. Of my virtues. Why?”

Regardless of your answer, he smiles, a private understanding that turns the stretch of his lips enigmatic. There’s a bubbling chuckle in his throat, very hoarse, and then he hisses, touching where you’ve helped him apply the ointment on his body. “You know what they say. If it stings...” He looks at you, deliberately pausing there and staring bold into your eyes. “... then it must be working.”

It might feel like there’s more to what he’s trying to say, though it’s pointless to ask: he bows, and then he slowly inches away from you. “Until we meet again.” White and thick tendrils of smoke envelop him, seemingly coming out of nowhere, and then just like that, he’s gone.

so you’ve chosen to free him, which in turn has generated a future plot point that’ll occur some time in february. some of you WILL see him again.
what he says to you is a clue.
you can answer his question OOCly right here. it’ll have some bearing on the way your character will be approached re: future plot point.
if you've voted no and would still like to participate, you could always allow your character to be convinced or reluctantly dragged by another!

ooc note

► As always, check out the Notice Board if you'd like additional prompts! Older quests from previous months are always available as well. You'll also find the Calendar right here.
► You'll find already answered questions just here, and if you'd like to ask new ones, ask them here!
► For fun's sake and similarly to the puck adventure, you may play it out in different groups or on your own, and still obtain the same results as everyone else whether your characters threaded together!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Hours have gone by, he thinks. It's impossible to tell time in the darkness, but it's been impossible to tell time since getting to this place; the sunlight comes and goes, night swings into day and back again, and here, in some musty, dirty jail cell, he thinks it's likely the middle of the night. His body aches, clenches and tightens with exhaustion, and despite it all, his arms remain locked against his chest, crossed to force the filthy fabric of the tattered shirt they'd slung onto him against the shape of his torso.

Rather than submit to the pain or discomfort of sitting, crouching, or even stretching out into some makeshift bed, he stays vigilant, a silent shape near one edge of the bars, tracing his eyes over the same corridor and the same stairs and the same images in the darkness. His legs, casual, cross at the ankle, shifting his weight from one to the other when he feels that pang of exhaustion.

Have to have a plan, he hears, a cheery, distant voice in the back of his head that he doesn't recognize. What's the plan, Cloud?

For a moment, his eyes squint, a jerk of pain through his head; and then, like a wave passing over the shore, his lashes lift again, and he continues to stare.

The easiest thing would be to get his hands on one of the guards, but they don't come by often, as though content to let their charges starve in their cells. They emerge when they bring fresh meat, and come barreling in when cellmates are quarreling; that's likely his ticket out, and if he can go, then the rest of the cell might be able to overrun the guards if he takes off first. That means, then: an accomplice, but who?

Slowly, his gaze shifts, ticking around the cell; the blue-green glow of the mako is almost eerie in the dark, and while the rest of the cellmates seem to have given themselves up to sleep, there's one particular stranger that doesn't seem keen on resting, either.

So he tries it. ]

...Need your help, if we're going to get ourselves out of here. [ --is how he breeches the silence, curt and clipped. ] You good at taking a fist to the face?

[ Eyebrows rise, maybe at the request or maybe in reaction to the sudden dissonance in sound, so starkly contrasted with the eerie silence of their cell block at night.

Wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten into a purposeful scuffle by way of distraction, and it appears that it won't be his last either. He's noticed the way fights in these cells have played out, the way the guards only open these doors to throw a newcomer in or to break up the violence.

It's a simple enough plan, but as no one else has tried it so far ... ]

Yeah. [ He rolls a shoulder, and straightens his spine, his interest piqued. He spares a glance towards the length of the hall, not a goddamned soul to be found aside from the ones rotting behind bars but he knows they ain't far off.

All it'll take is something to grab their attention. Maybe they oughta wake the rest of their cellmates up too while they're at it. Stir up a crowd. ] Reckon I could take a good hit or two.

[ At the very least, then, there's the two of them--if they make enough noise or scrounge up enough trouble, the rest of the cell might wake, and the cell next to them; it's hard to say how many people will realize they're making a show of it, but in the end, he knows he can't be too concerned about everyone else. He can make opportunities, maybe, but he's never been the type to go out looking to save the world; it's more been a begrudging sort of reluctance to do what his path has taken him down.

Slowly, he lifts his shoulder off the wall, taking a few steps away from the bars with one last fleeting glance. No one's around yet, but he knows that the sound will carry along the stone; that's good enough for him anyway.

Funnily enough, he can't remember ever looking for a fight before--his head aches at the thought of remembering his training, but he hadn't really had trouble getting along with anyone. (Right?) So it's a bit awkward, the way that he stretches out an arm into the space between them, enough to touch the stranger at the shoulder and then, stiffly, take him by the collar of his ratted shirt instead. ]

What's your name? [ He doesn't need to ask, but he figures it might make the argument--and subsequent fight--sound more believable. ] ...Mine's Cloud. If you need it.

[ His fingers loosen, slightly, and then tighten; his other hand closes into a fist. ]

...I can take anything you got, so don't hold back, yeah? Once they get in here, you take the guard down. I'll keep the door open.

[ Joel's immediate response is to tense up, his entire body suddenly shifting into a remembered pattern so automatic he could take a hit and offer one too, and all before his brain even has to take the time to parse what's just happened. Years of conditioning himself in a harsh post-outbreak world meant you had to 'endure and survive' or forfeit your life to something worse; everything was life or death. It was 'shoot first, ask questions later' and more often than not, 'shoot first and get the hell out while you still could'.

Now he consciously reworks his frame of mind, rechecks the balance of weight on his feet and in his arms to brace for the hit. His face is too close to the other man's now, the material of his shirt-collar gathering almost too tight around his neck, forcing him to lean in.

He can sense more eyes on them too, the sparks of an audience. Like Cloud, he hardly gives a goddamn whether their cellmates follow them or not once the door's been unlocked; they're welcome to join, but he ain't here for them. But the crowd's a good thing, it feeds the chaos in case they'll need the extra distraction to keep from getting caught — it's their safeguard to slip through the cracks.

He ain't coming back to this goddamned hell-hole. No way. ]

Name's Joel.

[ He gives the man — Cloud — a subtle nod of his head, an understanding of the plan and how this is gonna go. ]

Gimme your best shot.

[ Clenching and unclenching, his fist--hesitates, at first, because it feels like this is all wrong. It's not like he goes looking for fights, and more accurately, more like they tend to find him and drag him along; there's a difference between showing off for the sake of supporting his claims of being SOLDIER, and throwing punches for the hell of it. But their escape is on the line, and this stranger--Joel, he says, a name he's never heard before--seems to know exactly how to line himself up for it. A part of him appreciates it, even admires it, as he tries to steel himself for the inevitable fight.

There's a voice in his head, of course. Not the usual one, fluctuating between voices he knows, warm voices, friendly voices, and ones that he'd rather forget; this one is pointed, whispers bloodlust into his ear and fuels those feelings that, at times, he hardly has a grip on, tells him to go until there's nothing left, boils the pent-up rage and frustration in his body. Perhaps that's part of why he doesn't ever start fights: once he's in them, he takes them to the death. You're scaring me, he can hear, a memory of a friend; the guilt of that thought propels him forward, winding back to throw his punch.

His fist, solid and hard, connects knuckles to the soft curve of Joel's cheek--just to the side of his mouth, the sort of hit that might pinch the skin of his lips and split the corner there with a tiny spatter of blood. A blossom of something exhilarating sparks in his chest; already he's casting his arm back as though to pummel down again, but the movement leaves him wide open.

It's funny, really: training encourages him to duck and weave, to use the mako in his blood, the muscle on his slim frame, and work the situation to his advantage; the Shadow tells him to beat Joel to a bloody pulp; the small, bruised heart in his chest sets his mouth into a line and waits, wanting, instead, for that spark of pain to sing up at Joel's fist connecting with his face, standing his ground for it. ]

[ As expected, the blow hurts like a goddamned bitch. He stretches his jaw, hears it crack with the push-back, and feels the throbbing pain of it reverberating through his skull like a distant echo he can't hear from. He can taste the faintest hint of iron on a split lip and knows there'll be some mighty impressive bruising come the next day.

But things have really started now; the momentum is there. And Cloud packs a real goddamned decent punch, all right. It fucking hurts.

It ain't like he's never dealt one before or taken a real beating though. In his line of work, often entwined with the shady underbelly of the last survivors in Boston — thugs or smugglers or mercenaries, or some or all of the above — he's experienced a hell of a lot in the last twenty-some years. They never played nice, and they could get real creative, and only the best of them could keep up. Joel did what he had to, and he learned to compartmentalize, because it often amounted to the kinda stuff that eventually chased his little brother away, too horrifying and too soul-sucking to live with, even in the name of baseline survival. He doesn't think it'll get that way here but he'll brace himself for just about anything.

And whether he feels a secret thrill in it is neither here nor there. His own Shadow is silent.

Either way, in response, Joel pulls back a clenched fist and strikes in the other man's direction, making sure to miss the important bits and hit only where it'll superficially blossom the most impressive damage. He puts in loud yell for good measure, attracting the sound of footsteps from down the hall, rushing towards their cell. ]

[ It takes a lot more finesse to take a punch than to throw one--he learns that almost immediately, as soon as he sees Joel pull back. A part of him wants to flinch, but that's weakness there, the residuals of it left from his childhood, maybe; even his arm flexes, threatening to lift up to block the shot. But he holds his ground, and Joel strikes forward; his punch, gratefully, hits just below his cheek, into the soft, shallow skin there that will draw forth a beautiful purple bruise. It hurts like a bitch, and there's a curse that escapes, hissed behind his breath.

Anger wells up inside of him--not at Joel, not really, but at the pain of the hit, the pain in his knuckles, the way he jerks a shoulder in so that he can get closer to sock him in the face again. It's a little harder this time, but positioned better, and with Joel yelling, he joins in, despite feeling, well, ridiculous--a sort of snarled screw you, asshole that just makes him feel like a child instead of a tough guy. But it makes noise, angry noise, and that's all they really need.

By the time the guards get to the cell, he's clenched up the front of Joel's ragged shirt so hard that they're nearly nose to nose--his eyes, wild for a moment, search out Joel's features almost apologetically, and when the guard starts to fumble at the door to get it open, his head whips to it, like he's planning to take the fight outside. The guards are telling them to calm down and keep it civil and Cloud releases Joel's shirt, giving him a good shove to the collar, like he's livid, putting space between them.

His hands bend in together, clenching his fingers into the other palm like he's ready for another fight: in reality, he's creating the space needed for Joel to move around him and for the door, as it creaks open, one of the guards coming into the cell while the other two hover at the entryway, like they're too nervous to get real close. His gaze rests on Joel, cool and collected, a subtle nod of his chin as though encouraging him to go for it. It's more guards than expected, but that shouldn't be a big deal. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(no subject)

wildcarding a starter as promised, sorry for the delay!!

no worries!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject