let's set d o w n some (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
groundrules) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
westwhere2021-08-20 07:55 pm
groundrules) wrote in westwhere2021-08-20 07:55 pm
feast and make merry
The following events should cover the span to 31 AUGUST. Feel free to make your own posts/logs, or use this one! Routes have been built based on previous plotting, but any last-minute questions can be asked here. Try to limit it to asking concrete outcomes for things you are definitely exploring in your tag-ins!
■ Don Macaluso has welcomed his suitors, including the party's very own Diego Hargreeves. And his wolves. He stretches Taravast's hospitality to a lavish masked fete, observed at the Palace of the Doxe. No expense spared, no opportunity to flaunt lost.
■ In attendance — sorcerers' schools, foreign dignitaries and suitors, prominent healers and academicians, artists and politicians, members of the Conclave and, somehow, the Merchant's hooligans. Good gossips, one and all. Show up or throw the gauntlet: those who do not come willing will be escorted in by guards.
■ Even Lady Vannozza and her supporters come to wish Macaluso well in his conjugal pursuit. She publicly gifts him a cryogenic rose, urging her cousin to award it to his intended. Macaluso calmly accepts the flower, then discards it on his table.
■ Out of respect for the nascent political contest, the supporters of Vannozza and Macaluso — yes, you — are seated at two different tables on each side of the fleetingly present Doxe Bonaccorso. The old man will appear in feeble health but firm dignity, excusing himself after a tremulous speech that ends, tenderly, "Citadels are for the living. They are for the gathering of means, of magic, for the making of families and legacies. They are not coin for commerce. I welcome you to my home."
■ For the grand finale, Macaluso's servants introduce a traditional fragile, sweet confection offered to his private guests. It can be refused. Those who consume the confection will find their strength and senses progressively deteriorate, threatening to kill them within five days.
■ A good showing by Fox, Mingyu, Wen Kexing, Zhou Zishu, Xie Lian and Alina earned the Lady Odile more of Macaluso's favour. In gratitude, her servants send word to these characters only that there is poison afoot, without mentioning which dish.
■ Within the hour, Macaluso calls the celebration to its end, pained to announce it has been stained by sabotage and poison. Macaluso's guests, including the characters in his employ are drawn into private quarters and examined by physicians, who name the cause of the sickness — winter lily mist — but offer no clear antidote.
■ Frustrated, two healers will list two superstitious cures: the elusive, shady 'fire water' of the necromantic district's underground
■ Characters assigned to Macaluso will spend the night huddled together, with healers. Fearing her people will be unfairly faulted for the poisoning, Vannozza will lock her attendants in her palace wing. The atmosphere is tense, with Vannozza's people accusing characters and each other. Overnight, some of Macaluso's drunk supporters will try to enter Vannozza's palace wing and cause a brawl. Defend the lady?
■ Come morning, the poisoning is blamed on the ringleader of one of the recent protests objecting to Macaluso's marriage to a foreigner. Characters may circulate freely.
■ The necromantic district is a... literally and metaphorically shady congregation of small, run-down houses and the city's 'finest': criminals, thieves, the mates of your horsecar friend Caspar, actual necromancers and sellers of flesh parts.
■ Those who ask for 'fire water' will face a few days of exploration until an old beggar finally takes pity on their cause and, in exchange for wine, offers them an introduction to a secretive
■ The Watch are an eerie group of grotesquely deformed necromancers, some of whom have clearly been stirred back from death a number of times themselves. They explain that the 'fire water' is a brew that can be obtained from two sources: the blood of either a man who has killed many innocents ruthlessly (such as the many murderers and slavers who travel the darker corners of the district) or of a...
■ ...harpy, not unlike those encountered in the Stairs of Sighs corridor: winged creatures dripping tar and harrowing sorcery, that crowd in flocks at the periphery of Taravast. The harpies of Taravast are ancient defenders of the city, who have forgotten their purpose and turned feral. Their claws run sharp, causing cuts that bleed without healing properly for hours.
■ The harpies are best faced in pairs, but beware: if you speak too long, they will learn your voice and imitate it to lure in your companions. They will also attune to emotions and mimic the voices of people characters remember.
■ Retrieve two blood vials from either man or creature to the necromancers, along with two vials of your own blood, and the Watch will prepare two batches of antidote. One cup for you, the other for their own purposes.
■ Wen Qing has brokered access to the hunting grounds, for an easy entrance point. Those who wish to find an alternative route can try to have their characters infiltrate Vannozza's quar ters and steal her keys — but only theft such offensive can be carried out, so unite forces.
■ The Spina hunting grounds are a few hours' ride away, and carriage drivers seem unwilling to make the journey. Help the local economy: steal a horse.
■ The forests are a magnificent spread of everything dark and haunted, drenched in mist and sporting minimal visibility. There is a pronounced air of death and the stench of decay, with perfect, eerie stillness during the scant sunlight and a torture of creaking sounds, whispers and ghostly chills at night.
■ In addition to the typical violent forest fare — wolves, foxes, bears — the grounds also host the first sign of true undead: less well composed than some characters might remember the men of Anurr, lacking true awareness. Their garb and occasional garbled talk will reveal them as former sorcerers and witches of Attaryl and Bessis, killed during the confrontation between the two schools. Their spirits have been bound to protect the grounds — and they give vicious chase, calling on fire magic and wooing animals to help their hunt of invaders.
■ Run. Run fast.
■ Only two antidote owls emerge at night, drawn to drink from the forest's (shallow, broad) lake water. They are a mated pair, highly sensitive to sound, likely to escape on the first few attempts of capture and indifferent to magic. Farmhouse lesson: careful with the lake waters. The hands of bound spirits might seek to pull innocents in.
■ Owl feathers, ground and thinned with water, can create a highly potent cure that will take days to return a patient to full health — their hearts, eaten whole, can give one person instant recovery. Up to you, if you want to be that asshole.
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For giving pieces of himself away thinking that no one would care if he were to disappear.
The Sect Master would be fine: while the strongest, it wasn't as if SiSheng Peak didn't have other elders. And the man was a friend of sorts but he also had his own family. His disciples...he felt he would have owed them more of his time but there are no shortages of teachers. Xue Meng was the sect leader's son and already mature enough to know right from wrong. Shi Mei was kind and soft-hearted, hard-working and gentle who wouldn't want a student like that? Madam Wang would surely take him under her wing.
And Mo Ran...Mo Ran hated him anyway.
He had a bad personality. He was disliked and feared. So he doesn't worry for those left behind. He owed them but he didn't feel like they'd care.
And so his pride was the only thing he could cling to in a moment like this and so the words only made his gaze icier.]
I do not need your pity.
[A small part of him thinks, if it were Xue Zhengyong he would laugh and try to reassure others here. Madam Wang would have gotten up to help with the healers and so would Shi Mei. He is glad that none of them are here, but he also feels the depth of his uselessness in this moment, only able to pick fights and, apparently, garnering pity.
Neither of which are acceptable.
He takes a shaky breath...then he stands. He's pale and he sways a little but manages to stay upright.]
I'm leaving.
[He says it in a tone that doesn't leave room for arguments. Then he turns to leave.
But, despite his ability to stand his vision is a little blurry and so when he turns it is not to the door leading out but towards a wall.]
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...sees the error before it's committed, blink of his eye owlish and strange, and the tip of his head lent to childishness that would not be begrudged in an infant disciple — the cat-like, strange curiosity attached to a creature compelled by erratic behaviour. Sees, before hearing the thud of collision, the moment when the man connects with his obstacle in a crass comedy of lace-frail, unravelling inevitabilities —
And raises himself, silent but swift, blitzing to rescue the hapless, weed-like thing, this stranger, from collapse. One of Wangji's arms alone steels over the man's shoulders, less proprietary than to serve a cautionary crutch and right him as he stands. ]
You left. [ Let the sleeping notes of humour seeded deep in Lan Wangji's voice lie very still. ] And now, master?
[ A world of opportunities, dressed sinister and sleek, alive and awaiting them. ]
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The wall, however, was rather unexpected. He walks into the wall a split second after he noticed he was about to walk into a wall, leaving him no time to actually...not walk into the wall.
The tips of his ears turn red. For a man as thin-faced as him this was absolutely unacceptable. He moves away from that arm at his shoulders...and bumps into the wall again...though this time shoulder first instead of face first.
He scowled.]
Don't touch me.
[He shies away from physical contact like someone unused to it. Then he straightens himself so he wasn't leaning so much on the wall.]
There is no such thing as a poison without a cure. I refuse to sit around just waiting for something to be done.
[He says it as if it were obvious, with the sort of defensive certainty of a man who would fight until his last breath for no other reason than stubbornness (and because he wanted to help).
He presses a hand to the wall and he squints a little because his vision is still blurry. He can't see where the door is but he's not about to admit it.]
no subject
Don't touch me.
Flinched, he withdraws, the only concession to caution the gentle release of Bichen from her sheath, only far enough enough to ease her of friction, should the full draw prove required. Better to steer the man, easy as cattle herding, past his obstacle — to nudge him with her length at the back of his knees, in mute indication. Left, forward. ]
We walk. [ In a harvest of people, each more riotous, voices blooming. Whatever ache lives in Lan Wangji, it has set down straw foundations, waits on spark and fire stoked. He will while it, tender. ] You gave no name.
[ Neither, incidentally, did Lan Wangji. ]
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Unrelated but this sentence sounded so filthy.But he quickly gets the idea. He still frowns in what he expected was the general direction of the person but decides to...let it be. As long as no one talks about it he's fine to pretend that this help wasn't happening.
It's only because this is easier on his pride than possibly walking into another walk.
But he's also frowning because he's...trying to figure out if this person is wearing colours of a sect he recognizes.
He's still wearing his mask but if this person were from the same place as him then he would know the name Chu Wanning...and he's never wanted to deal with such a thing less than he did right this moment (which was saying something given that he never wanted to deal with it even on a good day).
The only sect he knows that wore white as part of their colours was...]
Are you from Kunlun Taxue Palace?
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[ Crisp, clean — a correction in the spirit of disclosures unearned, of truths unasked. If Lan Wangji were to keep hounds, to Wei Ying's horror, it would start like this, with the faint-handed giving of morsels.
Let this man whom Wangji shepherds, patiently, at even step, past the threshold retain the advantage of his name, of receiving his answers first. Let him take the paltry comforts of knowledge shared like blessings of jade ornament. It will not keep, not with a world of gossip brewers among them, not with the stench of secrets fermenting beneath their wondered noses, not with incense shrouding shrill notes of metal, in blood fresh spilled. ]
Guard your secrets. [ But ask not, after, why no kinship stokes itself. It is the way of compromise, that short-term triumph should come at the commerce of future gains. ] In whose care do I entrust you?
[ Attendants, companions, their own confused, bizarre choice of travellers. There are... options, however scant. ]
no subject
Still, when he's pushed he's the sort of personality to resist and push back. But when given the choice to move at his own pace he's like a cat that's been given the room to approach on his own terms.
Which is why he relaxes minutely.]
SiSheng Peak, Chu Wanning.
[He says it without preamble, assuming that you remember that you had asked for a name.]
The exit.
[It's sort of a joke but also not because he doesn't think he needs to be entrusted to anyone and, besides, he was planning to search for a cure. How is a man who couldn't even find the door supposed to go out and do such a thing? Who knows.]
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And then, harder than the gainless gait of their ongoing journey, the pronouncement: the exit, as if it is a goal reachable, a matter known. Wherefore lies the threshold, the point of their departure? Master Chu, mercy.
He narrows his focus, his efforts to this: their transport, however ill-advised. ]
Do not make of me a killer of negligence. [ But perhaps it is not jest that humbles Chu Wanning's ambition. In this, he corrects himself: ] No man stewards your welfare here?
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[His tone is deadpan because it's true. But indeed, the comment was as much pride as a certain understanding he'd developed over the years: while he strives to be someone who protects others, to be the large tree that could shield and provide shelter, there will never be anyone who will protect him in turn.
But that's fine. It's not as if he needs it anyway.]
I don't need anyone to take care of me.
[He's not a child. But he also...may turn into a child physically if this keeps up? His spiritual energy feels drained and the way this issue of his crops up...it seems likely to happen.]
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He leads their travel down the corridors, between blinks of dying candle, and does not ask if (where Chu Wanning intends to break into his own path. They move like shadows, crumbled silhouettes — mementos of exiled dark. Instinct prevails among the servants: they are offered a wide berth, the lowest of nodded inclinations, trickles of signals that they can have this, the discretion and silence owed to the condemned. That, if they must waste breath map-making a palace, at least they do not suffer human interference. ]
Bear me.
[ Laughter nearly stains this. He abstains, at the last moment, recalling the irony of his presence — the honoured Hanguang-Jun, so often denied the scant pleasure of his own peace — being uncouthly banished.
In the end, he takes them past the corridors, the kitchens, the great entrances — through into the gardens, where air crisp may bite their lungs, where he feels the stretch of a swollen moon's whites upon him.
Breathe. Breathe. ]
Master, we stand united in plight. Let us find alliance.
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It was, as it turned out, just as hard. Still, he's able to tell they're outside because of the smells and air if nothing else.
He breathes a small breath of relief, something easily missed if they're not paying attention.]
No. [His refusal comes easily and quickly.] You need to go back to rest. If that room is no good then go to someone who will take care of you.
[He will refuse to acknowledge the hypocrisy of that request, that he would refuse rest then demand that someone else not push themselves too hard.]
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And the moon watches on, and he aches for the stare of her, rose thorns and the nearby debris of leaves, curling and darkened, coming in. A garden. He itches and strains, until his fingers tease the ends of flowers — rips one bloom, carelessly, and yearns for reprieve from his own negligence. ]
I am uninjured.
[ A truth, mirror-distorted: he has taken no wounding, does not bleed, suffered no puncture. Poison walks his body, but he is a sturdy bridge, standing. He will not fall for this, with this. He will not die, not while his son yet depends on a father to escort him through the turbulence of life. ]
As are you.
[ Let them be two crowned in pride, then.
1/3
2/3
...
3/3
...do what you want.
[He says and privately decides that the moment this person falters he absolutely will send him back to whoever is capable of looking after him.]
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It courses through him, like dead wind, extinguishes his patience. He had assumed — but this is no place for assumption, only a sequence, step by step, of small, frail misunderstandings. In the cold, he sits and stills and lets the wind rule him, and the hours drench down in porous midnight mold.
He aches to hurt something as deeply as he is harmed. To round his hands around Chu Wanning's throat at twist simply for the frustration of lacking an outlet for his anger. To feel himself in triumph over at least one controllable variable.
No harm in him, to share. No recourse. Only his eyes, scratching Chu Wanning's face, only the extended, sickly silence of knowing what was said. ]
If poisoned had seized me, I would wish discretion. [ He knows what Chu Wanning saw, how it betrays Wangji. ] I have a family.
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And Chu Wanning's first thought was, then what are you doing wasting time with me when you should be with them?
But in a way maybe he already understood. Why burden them? Why go see them now as if to see them for the last time instead of going to find a way to maybe make it so you could have more time?
He frowns, then he turns his head away.]
Who would I even tell? [He doesn't even know your name is he supposed to just ask who was the family of the man from Gusu Lan?
The words are almost irritated but it's only because he's never known how to offer comfort. It's also a strange, roundabout way of making a promise to not tell...though probably not many people would understand it as such.
So he focuses on what he could do instead. There is no poison without a cure. He'd stated as much earlier so it stands to reason, the only thing to do is to find the cure.
But he can barely see and that's a problem that would have to be addressed first.
Whatever is afflicting them is sapping him of his strength and his spiritual energy. He didn't have enough to do much except...
Jiuge was a divine weapon but it is a divine weapon that Huaizui had told him shared a special bond with him, a weapon he could summon with no spiritual energy using only his own soul's energy to call upon it.
Such a thing was never necessary: since little he's always had spiritual energy to spare, even more so because of his high cultivation.
But now, he didn't feel like he could form a spirit haitang let along summon Tianwen.
So, he held out his hand, thinking uncharitably that Huaizui better not have been lying about this all those years ago.]
Jiuge, come forth.
[A brief flash of blue light and a black guqin appeared. It was...a little strange looking, with one end curling into a branch spotted in blooming haitang blossoms. There's a prick of discomfort when he summoned it in his soul but it wasn't particularly bad. Though, clearly, summoning Jiuge this way is possibly more dangerous than doing it the normal way.
Regardless, it's not a problem (at the moment).
The guqin is brimming with spiritual energy as it sits weightlessly in Chu Wanning's arm and it's this energy he siphons away into himself when he touches its strings with his free hand. It wasn't a permanent solution that would help treat the symptoms but not the root of the problem...but it will do for now.
When he's done, he lets the guqin disappear again before holding out his hand to his companion.]
Give me your hand.
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To know himself only a murderer of opportunities, to have never studied sorcery past the sect's own, where Wei Ying dallied, touched and teased and let power lick at his joints, kiss his knuckles. A dark guqin — and more than the dyes of the aesthetic lives in him the certainty that this is an instrument crafted of differences, filling the negative space between his understanding and his intuition. Wangji resembles this — creature in form. And yet the hunger the shift of breeze and the heft of displaced strength this new beast unleashes spells the difference.
...what are you? Musical spells, perhaps past Lan Wangji's ken. In a night of follies, the shivers that cascades over him, assaults his back and his spine is not born, for once heartbeat, from the weaknesses of his body. Strange, to fear that which is not the prominent threat.
Chu Wanning makes his ask. Woken from stupour, Lan Wangji's hand stills, stays. Taut, fingers barely bite air, never drum it. ]
To what end?
[ Enough of games, his voice coarse, gaze dispersed. They have played and lost enough tonight already. ]
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So he can only offer the truth.]
I borrowed some spiritual energy from Jiuge. If we're going to work together it would make sense for me to share some of it with you. [And then, as if it'd be embarrassing if someone mistook the gesture for kindness.] It's just the logical choice.
[He was making some assumptions here. That what was afflicting them was sapping both their strengths--both physical and spiritual.]
no subject
You are poisoned, also.
They both hailed of the same healing rooms. Of the two, the man stuttered in step before Lan Wangji displayed the frailty coaxed by his sickness. There is need between them, like wisps of cloying incense, a brewing thing.
And it is not Lan Wangji's alone. ]
Retain it. [ And softer, with the bind of both of his hands behind his back, shoulders squaring. ] You require it more.
no subject
He frowns at the answer, mostly because he's not sure what to do with that softer tone or the...what? Concern?
It had been such a long time since anyone had been concerned about him that he can't help but think he must be misreading things.]
I'll manage even with a little less. [He had borrowed quite a bit from Jiuge, after all. He speaks in a tone of voice similar to how someone might have said, don't be so stubborn. Which, again, is probably hypocritical of him.
At least he doesn't try to physically force the issue.]