westwhere | out you go, shoo

out you go, shoo

READY TO ROLL OUT

That awkward moment when even a brothel won’t have you.

Characters will end their sojourn at the House of Dew early morning, helmed by Haltham (and his murderous goat, chomping on his prosthetic wooden hand for splinter nutrients). Courtesans and attendants will send the group away with parting gifts: a few sacs of grains, handfuls of spice, a small barrel of brew, several of water, thin blankets and four fat chickens.

The decrepit farm stands an hour’s walk east of Sa-Hareth, bordering the forest at the foot of the mountain.

...and it has not wanted for company. Monstrously overgrown wolves prowl the region, with some of the pack settled inside the farm. The wolves are halfway between dead and living, instantly aggressive, sharper, faster, smarter and blue-eyed beyond natural expectation.

The wolves are drawn to heat and fire-bearers. They can be slain, or pushed back into the forest. If the brawl drags on, the wolves may receive reinforcements.

Distantly, characters can observe silhouettes of pale-eyed, humanoid creatures in the forest, covered in animal skins. They seem to speak to the wolves, though it is unclear if they soothe or set them to attack.

Once an elaborate woodsmen’s station, the 'farm' is a generous, sprawling outpost built, home to now-barren inner garden.

The farm spreads across kitchens, bathing rooms, hefty storage barns, a handful of isolated rest halls and broader communal areas. A study room has been crammed with accountancy tomes, papers and other books, many torn alongside glass shards on the floor. A shakily furnished barn was coarsely repurposed for banquets.

Set up, inspect, repurpose. There’s enough dust and mildew to go around, and several walls and roof stretches will need reinforcements.

“Ah,” characters say innocently, “Surely the cold will keep away vermin —” You have rats. Large, uncuddly, distinctly violent, prone to swarming once the sun’s downed. Enjoy that first night.

Haltham will provide some base construction supplies over a few deliveries, along with a personal gift: a herding dog, to watch over two fluffy sheep.

Flex those green thumbs: many moons ago, enchantments were set in place to warm the garden to a tolerable level that will allow the expedited harvest of an arctic patch. These spells will need to be activated and periodically recharged every few days by characters donating recoverable amounts of magic or physical stamina, by touching a nearby rune. But, hey: potatoes, turnips, kale, mmmmmmmmm, a balanced diet.

“Never open your doors at night,” Haltham says on parting. Lend him an ear — and, once the moon rises, hear the forest whispers. Some voices will beg rescue from the cold, others will tease and taunt, a few will imitate enemies or kin. Some will even disrupt dreams.

The voices will seek to lure characters out of their shelter. Those who heed will find themselves compelled to walk into the forest, entranced and ignorant of the cold that slowly envelops them. They will be vulnerable to the elements, tundra predators and the woodland creatures, growing increasingly feral.

Those who survive the night in the forest will wake to find themselves floating in a chilled, but strangely not-yet frozen lake in the morning. They can have faint recollections, as if they themselves lived any of the following events: a friend taking a dark path, the loss of a dear skill, years in a coffin, a close friend parted, a beloved reunion, a lost brother, a tender romance and rare bliss in poverty.

At the bottom of the lake, they may spot the still corpse of an undead that feels too heavy for anyone to lift. His arm has a tattooed red sleeve.

During the day, characters who visit the forest will find it eerily silent, with some trees showing signs of scratches and lingering rope. The lake can still be found, but entering it during daytime will not allow characters to experience foreign memories.

Karsa will reconfigure everyone’s quartz pieces to translate outside of the House of Dew and communicate in a private channel. Still nothing like individual inboxes at this time!

Up to player discretion if Karsa had the time and humour to change their usernames, or stranded them to their House of Dew identities a little longer.

Characters will also be able to access a secondary local fishermen’s network and listen in on their schedules, local gossip and daily weather updates.

Woodsmen, tradesmen and miners will be surprised to see anyone inhabiting the farm, with some men pulling away, calling the place cursed.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It isn't a fight Eleven is taking terribly seriously beyond measuring skill; he enjoys the fight and flashes a smile with every successfully parried strike or narrowly evaded blow. Spars are a wonderful way to enjoy that thrill with low stakes, coming alive from his usual reserve and tempered shyness to put himself to the test. It speaks to trust beyond lending his own blade to someone that could have easily become an enemy.

He doesn't have any insight to Archeval's movements beyond his physical tells, but there's something about this fight that almost feels familiar, the way Archeval comes in closer, forced to fend him off. In dueling with real weapons, bloodshed is almost inevitable, and it comes as a shallow cut across his shoulder. Eleven winces, then laughs through the slight sting of it and fights harder to change the tide of their spar, to force Archeval back on defense. Content now that he understands the man's skill level as it compares to his own- a touch faster, more intuitive- so that he doesn't have to worry about holding back as much anymore himself.

"You fight like... someone I know."

He makes a lucky parry as El comes after him again, managing to just sidestep a powerful blow to slide it off his blade instead, instinctively twisting his body away from lightsaber sparks that don't come; and he looks toward Eleven with a raised brow at those words, starting to circle him a little restlessly once more.

"Oh? I only hope that's a compliment," he observes wryly over the top of his sword, his footwork indeed shifting back more defensively as he feels El winding up for something. 'Intuitive' is certainly one way to describe how he's been darting out to range and back in to strike with little rhyme or reason or pattern to his choice of forms; he seems to find it even harder than El not to instinctively reach for a ranged blow of lightning, but makes up for the occasional half-fumble by descending on his sparring partner in precisely those moments when El's intent attention has wavered a little. The influence of the Force, perhaps. Right now all his senses are trained on the other man as he braces for that next incoming blow.

"Of course," he grins through the ring of steel, shifting from swift footwork and matching lighter blows to more solid stances and powerful strikes. He isn't faster, but perhaps he can try to brute force through his defense instead. The strategy only sometimes worked on Erik, but Hendrik does it to him all the time. Granted, there isn't much defense against a Zwaardsrustian with an axe.

"My best friend," he elaborates, knowing he's easier to read for the slower strikes, but Archeval has already been reading him rather well, so he may as well fight to his own advantages. "Former thief. Slight. Very nimble."

Yes, Arche is clearly reading El's moves with quite literally supernatural precision, but the switch in tactics seems to have had its desired effect -- heavier blows from El are perfect for taking advantage of Arche's occasional fumble, beating him back a little and once nearly, nearly knocking the sword from his grip. A powerful slash from Eleven breaks Arche's defense to rip straight through his plain training garb, leaving a shallowly bleeding slice across the side of his upper chest; Archeval actually gives a little chuckle under his breath as he sidesteps to try to properly gain his feet again, by now starting to look a little tired.

"Well. I suppose you have my number indeed, then."

He watches the other man intently as he focuses his senses in the Force once again, looking for those feelings of possibility, the hints of Eleven's intentions. He's been at this for a while already, and against a proper opponent he can feel himself beginning to flag; the fresher and physically stronger Eleven has an excellent chance to prevail if he's not careful -- so it's time to try to finish this thing quickly.

"But the real question is -- will that save you?"

For just a second, there's a cocky little smile playing about his lips as he braces himself, reaches for the Force and -- then he's leaping up to do a midair flip forward over Eleven's head, turning rapidly as he lands to swing toward the other's blade from behind. If he can just confuse El enough to loosen that grip on his blade for a quick disarm--

Edited 2021-05-15 21:34 (UTC)

Eleven doesn't expect to find himself winning. He's a little winded himself, but Archeval is faltering. He takes quick stock of the injury he inflicts in the moment his opponent regains his feet, a touch guilty but knowing it couldn't be deep. He'll have to be a touch more careful not to push too hard for the risk of--

He mutters a quick curse under his breath, whirling to intercept the strike, but already knowing he's too slow to fully counter it. His wrist strains in the clumsy block and it's discomfort enough that Archeval's follow-up strikes successfully capitalize on the momentary weakness to wrest the blade from his grasp to scatter across the floor.

Eleven huffs a laugh and holds his hands up in surrender. "..Not this time, it looks like."

For just a second that smile flits over his lips again, satisfaction at a job well done, and then it's gone but he's letting his shoulders slump in a contented sort of tiredness as he just stands there, breathing hard. He straightens properly after a moment to raise the sword in a quick salute again, then flips it around to venture over and hand Eleven the hilt back, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow.

"Well, that's one way to beat the cold," he observes, light and enthused. "You are as formidable as I would've expected. Without the Force on my side, that might have been anyone's game."

He reaches up to clutch at that cut absently once Eleven accepts the blade back, doubtless intending to patch it up any moment now.

"'Might have been,'" Eleven parrots, accepting the sword with a tired grin. There was no way Archeval knew his movements well enough to anticipate them that well without extrasensory help. Still, he isn't bothered, and walks to bend and retrieve the other blade.

He sheathes both weapons, then sighs quiet satisfaction and brushes wayward strands of hair out of his face. "It was fun."

Archeval's injury reminds him quickly of the stinging, shallow cut of his own, and he raises green-tinged fingers to heal it. "That didn't go too deep, did it?"

"Might have been," he insists again, with a wry look in Eleven's direction, before starting to lift his ripped shirt away from the gash down his skin. He peers beneath with a speculative glance for a moment before automatically starting to pull his shirt up -- stopping abruptly, thinking better of it, and crossing to take a seat a few feet away. He doesn't meet El's eyes as he does it; only once his back is firmly turned out of Eleven's view and facing some sturdy wooden walls does he pull the tunic over his head, stopping to frown down at the torn fabric with almost more consternation than the long red line across his skin.

"Ah, it's fine. An easy fix." He too lays a hand against his wound, stirring the emotions within himself for a moment to touch the Force, mentally reaching for that cut to pull it back together. The faint trickle of darkness hanging in the air between them is perhaps becoming a familiar sensation by now.

A second later, he's hesitating as he glances up El's way again--

"......we could certainly... go again, though, some other day, if you would like? If it would suit you."

He hasn't said that he enjoyed himself or anything like that, but -- from the glance he's throwing El right now, he certainly looks as though he cares about the answer to his question.

Edited 2021-05-16 04:15 (UTC)

Eleven's heart stutters through the brief snap of dark energy, but he settles again with a breath. He catches Archeval's eyes though and brightens.

"Yes. Anytime you'd like. I'd enjoy sparring someone I have a chance against."

"Oh, that's how it is, is it? Perhaps I'll have to up the challenge next time. Fight you when I'm still fresh, for starters--"

Arche casts El an amused glance as he says it, though, shaking a couple stray droplets of blood off his hand to plop down against the dusty floorboards. He looks no worse for wear now that his healing is done, if just a tad messy; but he wastes no time pulling the torn shirt back over his head -- it's far too cold to sit around half-exposed out here for long, even after a workout like that.

"I suppose I should go see if we have anything lying around to mend this with," he sighs. "Been at this long enough, probably. I intend to get back to morning training a couple times a week now that we actually have room for such things, so... you are certainly welcome to drop in. Though Force meditations will probably be less entertaining to sit through than this," he muses wryly.

He chuckles, eyes dropping to the clean cut through Arche's garb and his smile turns apologetic. Perhaps he should work to fashion wooden substitute weapons.

"I'd be happy to." The idea holds a good bit of charm, with the possibility of becoming a somewhat regular routine. "I need to help tend the animals and the garden first thing anyway, so I think it should work out well. An enjoyable start to the day before work begins."

Chores, he means. Cleaning, repairs, collecting supplies and resources while those with jobs head out into town.

"I'll look forward to it."

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out you go, shoo

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