(no subject)

[oblivium]

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!

Comments

[wrists]

I needed a bed. [ in truth, he'd slept very little during his campaign to the border, spending most of his nights poring over maps and trying, largely successfully, to acquire years of knowledge of large-scale tactical warfare from his slave. he was lucky if his bed saw an hour of use before it was time for the servants to dismantle it. ] Will I receive an invitation to your new home or is this it?

[ while sasuke considers his proposal, laurent sits on one of the roots, a pace or two from the bedroll, and sets the book on his knees. it's an old, heavy tome, the cover faded, the binding hanging on for dear life. the book creaks when he opens it, pale fingers carefully sifting through the brittle pages. ]

I thought you might swoop in and rescue me when the Elders come after me with their very large knives. [ unconcerned. ] I'll admit I was a little rude to Amun, so he might not be inclined to answer now that I have an actual question for him, but maybe he can be swayed. His allegiances seem caught, which is a very dangerous thing for him. It says in the book that all discord within the Hierarchy is quickly silenced. But someone within the Hierarchy once tried to kill Amun's father, Charin. He was the first Hierarch.

[ laurent looks up, expectant. ] There's more. But you'll have to pull your weight.

you didn't see that

[chokuto]

[The elicited expression is brief, there and gone again, an arched brow that dictates what he thinks of Laurent needing a bed as though his own bedroll isn't sufficient enough. Truthfully, the occasions he's slept in a proper bed are now rarer for him than not; so perhaps it's no wonder that he's found himself out here in the woods. It is safe, and comfortable, to know he can be gone in a moment.]

That depends. [A sincere answer. He has no ill will against Laurent, no matter the content of their discussions, and there is no one else in the Netherworld beyond Sakura and Naruto who knows as much about him as Laurent. Even if those truths were hard and ugly and scraped out with no small measure of reluctance.] The Elders wouldn't do that, but they may have security in parts of the library barred to visitors. [... He didn't get the joke.] By the sound of it you didn't encounter those guards during your thievery.

Charin. If the first Hierarch was only his father, then the position is young. That confirms what was told to me by Assana, the woman who posted publicly to apologize on Amun's behalf, if you saw. Defense and order are recent establishments in the Netherworld.

[Sasuke kneels in the grass, rifling one-handed through his pack to produce what appears to be a vial of clear fluid, a block of homemade soap, and a small, wooden washboard. Faced with that expectation, he responds in a low, drawling, matter-of-fact tone.]

... The link between soulmates is primarily emotional. Some have described the ability to sense the other across distances. An awareness that is innate, but not easy to sense unless their attention is focused upon it. If one side of the bond vanishes, the other will experience that loss. Another said that, when speaking with their soulmate in proximity, they heard each other's thoughts. It was confusing.

[wrists]

[ there could be a longsuffering sigh at the realization that sasuke has no grasp of certain conversational skills, but laurent can't be picky when this is the first conversation he's had in days. he shrugs lightly, brushing bark from his trousers. ]

I can be sneaky when I need to be. And libraries are not difficult to navigate. [ he's spent enough time hiding in them as a child to know his way around them. he doesn't yet confirm or deny these next statements, instead watching sasuke with a touch of surprise when he produces his own cleaning supplies, presumably for laurent's bloodied handkerchief. he hadn't actually intended to follow through with demanding its return. laurent himself has never washed a piece of fabric in his life — even here he's pilfered enough coin to get someone else to tend to his cleaning.

and then his thoughts shift. the soulmate bond is worse than he'd initially thought, entirely foreign in nature and mostly made of concepts he can only understand in theory. loss, he knows. but the rest, to sense someone across distances, to have such an intimate connection that he might know their thoughts, leaves him cold. he is not capable of forging such a bond, and if this is the only way to keep his shadow at bay, then there is only one truth for him.

his expression doesn't change as he stares down at the book, seeing but not reading, silent as his pulse quickens with tension. then he quietly files this information into a neat little box and seals it, moving on without comment. ]

Defense and order are recent establishments because we don't know how old the Netherworld is. It hasn't always existed. There are no known natives. For all we know, this place is as old as Charin is. Or was. Who knows if he still lives, though I'm sure Amun could be coerced into talking.

[ laurent rises then, standing before sasuke and holding the book open in front of his face to a faded passage inked in a harried scrawl. ]

long ago, ships came from a distant place now known as the far shores. the true origin of the people aboard remains unknown, as does their fate. some claim it's paradise, others hell. it's forbidden to travel there, and if one were to ask a ferryman for safe passage (in vain), they'd notice how their eyes widen and then dim a little forlorn. ferrymen, unfortunately, never speak.

What do you think is there? [ he looks down at the washboard. ] Are you really going to wash that right now? I don't want it back.

[chokuto]

[There is no missing the silence that befalls Laurent, but it isn't one he intends to disrupt, averting his own gaze to permit privacy. The comprehension of what a Soulmate involves is no relief; and in the wake of his own careful, impersonal words, he's suffering some dull resignation of his own. He had approached Naruto, and he was denied. The reason hardly matters, but it is one that upon reflection he can understand, and now he must sit in the painful aftermath of wondering why he'd broached it at all. And if these feelings are the vicious effect of what he's done and said, then...

It closes his throat, briefly, and makes it hard to breathe. Sasuke points his mind away. Only when Laurent appears in front of him with the open book does he lift his head — a wrinkle creasing his brows in confusion.]

You accused me of keeping it, then took offense when I dirtied your family colors. [To him, family is an equivalent concept to that of a royal household.] Washing and returning it to you is the simplest solution. I don't see why you have a problem now.

[With the washboard propped diagonally between his right foot and left knee, Sasuke spreads the sullied handkerchief across it, biting off the stopper for the vinegar-oil he'd found in the city specifically to remove bloodstains.]

... It's not easy to guess what could be there without knowing more. If people traveled from the Far Shores, then it's possible they meant to run away from something. Why else would they have left? That it might be 'paradise' instead is what anyone living here in Stygia would be desperate to believe, so that they might have hope of escaping this place.

[wrists]

My family colors. [ he smiles thinly, though it does nothing to warm the frosty look in his eyes. ] I said they're the colors of the prince's household. My colors. I didn't say anything about family. [ and because he takes pity on how confusing that might sound to someone with no experience on the complicated web of veretian politics, or because being in the middle of the forest trying to glean information from a falling-apart tome is causing him to take leave of his senses — ] My uncle flies his own colors. Red. I keep my household and my men separate from the Regent's dogs. They answer only to me.

[ anyway, he still doesn't want his handkerchief after he watched sasuke hack up his gay little flowers all over it. ]

Why are we barred from traveling there? Surely it's not for our protection, and if it was, why wouldn't they say as much? [ he flips the book back toward himself. ] If our emotions are a weapon against Oblivium, it's the sensible choice for the Hierarchy to keep us here. All of us. What a coincidence that the ferrymen can't speak.

[ he stalks back toward the tree and retakes his seat, arms crossed as he glares at the open pages across his lap. without looking up — ] Why haven't you forged a Soulmate bond with Naruto? It's the obvious choice for you both.

[chokuto]

[Somewhere in the process of scrubbing the stain out of the handkerchief, he studies that silken fabric beneath his fingers, the gleam of gold upon blue that is Laurent of Vere and not his family. Individualism apart from blood is foreign enough to earn a tight and puzzled frown, but the content of the continued conversation steers him astray.

And he would have more to say on the matter of Oblivium, the Far Shores, and the ferrymen — if not for the final question. Sasuke goes still, movements froze to brittle temperament. Laurent's intuition is like a blade at his neck in every encounter. He should have known not to let it close beneath his guard this time. The Shadow of his thoughts is boiling, dark and poisonous, and his voice is a low drawl when he finally replies.]

Is it? You aren't the first to suggest as much. [And Laurent does not even have the knowledge of their history as Sakura does.] Naruto is idealistic. He views the Soulmate bond as a special connection and refused when I asked. We have someone else here. He'll likely choose it with her once they speak.

[If he says it like he doesn't care then it can't hurt him. Yet, hand still immobile on the washboard, Sasuke coughs, a thick and burning rasp he keeps his mouth closed over. He has to clear his throat, swallowing the bitter taste of earth.]

You seem as though you'll refuse that bond to the end. Am I wrong?

[wrists]

[ there's no expectation of an answer behind his question, and yet sasuke provides him with one all the same. laurent's gaze flickers up as he processes the information, realizing that what had seemed simple between naruto and sasuke's relationship now sits outside of the perimeter of his comprehension. or perhaps, broken down, it is simple after all. there is another. sasuke is merely a second choice, or perhaps was never a choice at all. laurent is hardly one to know. ]

Maybe he thinks you can prevail against your Shadow for longer. [ it's the one thing he's counting on, and the only thing he's ever had to rely on since auguste's death — his own fortitude. there is no rescue coming, there is no help. there never has been — not back home, and certainly not here. ] That it all comes down to placing your life in the hands of another is absurd. I promise you, it's a naive concept and that's why we stand no chance against Oblivium.

[ he shuts the book, his pale brows drawn, and watches sasuke's shoulders shake with a cough, imagining the taste of blood in his mouth. something moves inside of him — anger, maybe, threaded with an old, familiar grief. he often wonders if there will ever come a day where he will wake and find it gone, the exhausting, ever-present weight lifted from his shoulders. ]

I won't have to refuse it. [ he swallows back the rage, the aching bitterness, arranging his features into cool impassivity once more — but he can't quite hide the fleeting throb of pain from his voice, nearly childlike. ] Who would ask me? I don't have anyone here.

[ standing, he sets the book gently aside and approaches sasuke, kneeling before him and studying the washboard arrayed with his handkerchief. it smells strongly of vinegar, damp now from the liquid in the clear vial. laurent picks up the soap without asking, rubbing the entire block fastidiously against the bloodstains. ]

Is this how you do it? I've never used one of these before.

[chokuto]

[A dark, measured look falls to Laurent at the confidence of Oblivium's inevitable end. He's encountered other Restless who feel similarly. Yet in the way it is said now, that hopelessness is frigid to the root, and he's compelled to believe it. Laurent's words have the conviction of the king he hasn't yet become. And he would believe it, if he hadn't seen what hope could do with his own eyes even confronted by the most impossible odds.

Loneliness cuts miles deeper, sore alongside the familiar seed of his own grief. Laurent has cut a grave around himself without any chance of another fate. For a moment, it feels as though he's facing a version of who he used to be — cold hurt lashing out at the rest of the world, alone in his own suffering. Could he watch Laurent devolve into those dark, twisted phantom beings he's struck down with his own blade? He wouldn't wish to. The boy before him doesn't deserve to become a mindless spectre.

Distracted by the approach, Sasuke lifts his hand so their fingers don't collide on the board. Surprise arches a brow.] Yes. But it'll need to be rinsed with water, once the solution and soap has soaked into the fabric. There's a river nearby. [He reaches to hold the washboard so Laurent can practice scrubbing.] As a prince, you must not have needed to wash your own clothes. You look clean right now, though. So you're surviving somehow.

[A dry sense of humor has been found.]

[wrists]

[ he doesn't wish to spend his time discussing his own inevitable end. it is a mere point of fact that he has not fostered closeness with anyone back home and will not be able to do so here. trust is no longer in his nature after he turned to his uncle for help and opened himself to a world of private agonies. the most sensible option is to discover as much as he can about the hierarchy and the way the netherworld works — he is not optimistic that he will stumble upon an answer, but maybe the truth will somehow aid the people here.

it's not so difficult to accept his death, perhaps because a part of him thought it would have ended this way regardless. he would have faced his uncle against impossible odds, with a good chance of being killed. laurent has never put much thought into life beyond twenty. he's always known his uncle would have never allowed him reach twenty-one and ascend to the throne if he had his way.

this, however, is new — sitting in the forest watching his bloodied handkerchief look somehow worse now that it's coated with soap. the water, it seems, is a necessary step. ]

I am clean, thank you. [ he grips the soap primly in his fingers and scrubs harder. ] I'm able to achieve this because there's a little boy in the Harbors I pay to launder my things. There are a lot of people in Mirth willing to give up their coin if you don't ask. Look.

[ he puts the soap down and wipes his hands in the grass, presenting his empty palms to sasuke. then he flicks his wrist and a coin appears between his fingertips. his eyes widen at the success of his own coin trick, a spark of pleasure appearing swiftly across his face. ]

I taught myself. Now I can steal from anyone. [ he wiggles his fingers and makes the coin disappear, but two more promptly fall from the lace cuff of his sleeve. he frowns. ] Well, I haven't quite gotten it yet, but almost. The other day I stole a roasted leg of some sort of animal, but it obviously wouldn't fit in my clothes so I just hit someone with it and left. My cleaning boy wanted food but I don't know how to cook.

[ he leans over and picks at the cloth on the washboard. ] I'll go to the river. You should sleep and see if that helps your affliction.

[chokuto]

[The admission — several of them, strung together with like beads of glass — form a clearer picture of the person Laurent is. Prim and tight-laced and dressed in frost, but lacking the cruelty of a knife in the way he admits to stealing for survival like a new and clever trick. The privileges of his life before never afforded the sort of self-sufficiency required to live in the Netherworld, but Laurent has managed, however relying on another is an abominable thought. He's said as much in the way he's so certain he'll never accept the soulmate bond. Or that no one will accept him.

Sasuke surrenders the cloth without comment, brow furrowed into a tight stitch at the clumsy demonstration.]

You don't need to resort to that if you would only ask for help. [A difficult endeavor for Laurent, he's sure. He knows because he was once the same, and he still can be; solitude is a comforting shroud. It's familiar.] Cleaning and cooking are small things. I taught myself when I was eight after my parents died.

[Looking down, he realizes it may be the first time he's ever said it aloud. He's never needed to. Everyone already knew the story.]

I'll teach you. [He places the washboard down, standing, part of him curious to see if Laurent won't just disappear with his recovered handkerchief once out of sight. Stepping over to the tree, Sasuke stoops to reorganize his supplies.] Come back here once you're done at the river. I won't sleep, but I can rest for a few minutes.

[wrists]

[ ask for help. he looks at sasuke with a blankly detached expression. if he only knew what happened the last time he asked for help. it's an impossible thing now, and utter lunacy to open himself to such a blow again.

but cooking and cleaning are not life-and-death situations, and he wavers at the thought of learning such a skill. his large gap of knowledge that makes up what happens after skillfully killing an animal has never been more painfully apparent since coming here. it would be helpful to at least know which end of the beast to begin skinning first. or how to skin something at all. ]

My parents are also dead. [ a perfunctory response, though he doesn't know what compels him to give it, and a part of him wishes to take it back. ] But I was — taken care of. Still, I didn't learn anything sensible beyond swordsmanship and complicated political strategy. I was only just beginning to learn large-scale tactical warfare before I woke up here. But I would like to know more than that.

[ an acceptance of help, it seems. he leaves before sasuke has the chance to respond, in part because he doesn't know how he feels that he agreed to this at all. it would require them to spend extensive time together, and sasuke is sick. perhaps nothing will come of it and that will be for the best. his condition will deteriorate because he has fallen into the trap of his own emotions, and with an imbecile besides, so laurent has little to worry about when sasuke's time is likely limited anyway.

laurent does consider leaving with the cloth once the bloodstains have washed themselves down the rushing waters of the river, but he returns against his better judgment, mostly because his book is still at sasuke's camp. he has every intention of retrieving it and making his way back to civilization shortly. this encounter has gone on long enough. ]

It's clean, but wet. [ meaning he will not take it. he drapes the cloth against a nearby branch, hanging like a miniature flag flying his own colors. ] Will you be alone here?

[chokuto]

[His eyes dart over in time to glimpse Laurent's slender back vanishing through the trees. It was a presumption he'd formed based on the uncle holding regency until Laurent is of age. If Sasuke's understanding of royalty is at all comparable to bloodline and clan responsibility, that interim would not be necessary. But here it is confirmed. A pair of dead parents between them.

More striking, then, is that Laurent hasn't outright refused to be taught these basic tools for survival. Meager compared to warfare and politics and swordsmanship, but still a considerable acceptance. Sasuke had never imagined himself a teacher; it surprises him to find that he wishes to help.

Minutes pass in the quiet solitude of the forest. When Laurent returns, he'll find Sasuke seated now at the base of the tree on the other side, eyes closed, resting. Yet he is alert at the sound of footsteps, and his head turns before Laurent has spoken.]

I'm usually alone. [Eyes open, pointing his frown at the handkerchief.] It won't take long to dry.